The Witch's Stone by Dawn Brown Page A

must have been sharper than he intended. A hint of wariness filled her eyes.
    “I’m sorry, I never thought to ask if you minded.”
    “I dinnae.” He felt like an ass. “I just wondered why you wound up here instead of with the journals.”
    “I haven’t found them yet. I tore apart that study.” She hesitated, as if uncertain. “I hope that was all right?”
    “I promise you, I’ve no emotional attachment to anything here.”
    She nodded. “Anyway, the journals aren’t in the study. But they were special to Agnes, so I thought maybe she’d bring them up here. Keep them close to her.”
    “A reasonable assumption. Any luck?”
    “Not yet, but there are plenty of places to look. I did wonder if your father might have taken them with him?”
    “He might have had he been on his own, but there’s no chance Alex would have let him. Besides, he didnae know about our arrangement.”
    She nodded and stood, stretching as she did. “When I went through the study, I found some papers you might be interested in. I put them in the top drawer of the desk. And I piled stuff that I thought you’d throw out near the door. You might want to go through it again, though.  Maybe you’ll want some of those things, after all.”
    “Thank you.” Bossy and controlling, she was just trying to hide it beneath layers of helpful and nice, but he wouldn’t be fooled. “I think I’ll fix myself something to eat. Are you hungry?”
    “No, I ate something just before you got back. I saved some of the stuff Joan sent over. The basket’s in the fridge.”
    “Ta.” Oh, she was a clever one.
     
     
    She dreamed of Randall again. Or at least the nightmare started off about him. But this time, when she came down the stairs, instead of finding Randall lying dead on the dining room floor, she found the fireplace poker gleaming bright and hard in a growing puddle of red.
    “Hillary.” The whispered voice woke her abruptly, dragging her from the dream, leaving her disoriented in the nearly pitch black room.
    “Wake up Hillary, yer dreaming, love.” A gentle hand stroked her hair.
    Caid.
    “I’m awake,” she murmured. Heat stole into her face. Thank God for the dark. “Did I wake you?”
    “No, I couldnae sleep. Then I heard you crying.”
    “I had a nightmare.” Her eyes started to adjust to the dark and she could make out the shadowy outline of his profile.
    “Aye, you did.” His voice was so smooth, so gentle. Part of her wanted to run and hide with embarrassment, but another part of her wanted to curl against him, absorb some of his warmth and strength.
    She sat up, forcing him to move back, and fought the tremors rippling through her body. She reached for the lamp next to her bed and flicked the switch, filling the room with weak light. A cold, damp sweat slicked her skin and her thin cotton tank-top and striped pajama bottoms clung to her as she kicked herself free of the blankets tangled around her legs.
    “I’m sorry I bothered you,” she muttered without meeting his eyes.
    “You didnae. Are you all right?”
    She nodded and Caid thought she was anything but. She still shook badly and her eyes were a little wild and glassy. He wanted to reach for her, but feared she would break if he did.
    “What was the dream about?” he asked.
    She shook her head and knelt next to her suitcase. “I don’t remember.”
    He frowned and she looked away, searching through her neatly folded clothes. She pulled a faded red sweatshirt over her head before leaving the room.
    With a sigh, Caid fell back onto the bed. Her sweet feminine scent drifted up from her still-warm blankets. Something coiled tight inside him.
    He should sell this heap as it was, take what he could get for it and run. Hillary could have the journals, then he’d send her packing, too.
    But that was a stupid knee-jerk decision, and he didn’t make those anymore.
    No, he’d stick with his plan, and in the meantime, he would just stay away from Hillary. Avoid