by Dawn Brown
Need spiked inside him like a solar flare. With a low growl, he gripped her hips and pulled her slender form tight against his. He took her mouth harder this time, in a deep, hungry kiss.
She parted her lips, giving his tongue access. Blood rushed to his groin. The muscles low in his stomach pulled tight. He slid his arms around her, crushing her against him, but she turned her head, tearing her mouth from his.
“Don’t.” She spoke low, barely above a whisper, but the single word resounded through him like a door slamming shut.
His face burned. He released her and looked away. What in the hell had he been thinking? Just when he didn’t think he could cock things up with her anymore, he somehow succeeded. Good Christ, what next? “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wasn’t exactly pushing you away. I just think getting involved that way, while we’re both living under the same roof, could prove…problematic.”
“Ye’re right.” He knew she was. He just wished he could convince his body, or at least will it into a less obvious state.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Hillary moved first. She lifted her cup from the counter and sat at the table.
“How long do you expect the house to take?” she asked.
So, she planned to go the whole let’s-pretend-it didn’t-happen route. Sounded good to him.
“Forever,” he replied, sitting in the chair opposite her.
She dropped her gaze to her coffee and traced the edge of her cup with her finger. “I know the work can seem overwhelming, but just do one room at a time. It’ll come together.”
“Is that the voice of experience?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his tone.
She looked up. “Yes, actually it is. I renovated a nineteenth century farmhouse. Granted, it was nothing like this. Glendon House is far more…” She stopped, searching for the right word.
“Decrepit,” he offered.
She smirked. “No. Stately. This house is statelier than my house was. It has so much potential. That’s not to say that my own house didn’t have a cozy sort of charm.” She sounded wistful.
“Are you wee bit homesick?”
“Oh, it’s not my house anymore. Michael and I sold it when we divorced.”
“That’s a shame, you sound as though you miss it.”
She nodded and smiled gravely. “I do, but it belongs to a different time in my life.”
Sadness filled her eyes, despite her smile, and he wanted to do something to take it from her, but didn’t know what. He cleared his throat and changed the subject before he embarrassed himself again.
“I’ve an estate agent coming on the weekend.”
“You’re listing already? I thought you were going to renovate, first.”
He snorted. “I’ll be fifty before I’m finished.”
“It only feels like that.”
Her supportive words brought a faint smile. “I’ll keep working on the place until someone foolish enough to buy it stumbles along.”
“I wondered if you might change your mind about selling and live here.”
“Are you mad?”
“It needs some work, I agree, but when it’s done this house could be gorgeous, and despite the size there’s a real hominess.”
“Aye, for morticians.”
“You have no imagination.”
“I’m a bloody fiction writer. Ye’re just romanticizing the old mausoleum.”
“Think about it. This room, for instance, could be amazing.”
“I suppose, if you like a dungeon theme for the kitchen.”
She laughed. “No imagination.”
“Aye, maybe not when it comes to this house.”
He sipped from his cup, letting the warm, bitter liquid trickle down his throat. Hillary looked away. Her gaze slid from one end of the room to the other. Perhaps decorating the cold, dreary space in her head.
“Do your parents know you’re listing the house?” she asked, without meeting his eyes. Once more she looked into the half-empty depths of her cup.
He shrugged. “No, but I’m sure they willnae be surprised.”
She nodded. “Did your mother make you an offer?”
“Aye.” His whole body tensed. He hated talking about his parents.
“I probably shouldn’t have brought this up. Not after we’ve managed such civilized conversation for a whole twenty minutes. Why didn’t you accept? Not enough money?”
“I wasnae willing to jump through my parents’ hoops.”
“What kind of hoops?”
He drank from the mug again. The coffee had turned tepid and the bitterness stronger. He set the cup back on the table and pushed it away. “Ye’re prying.”
“Yes, I am.” She smiled a little but watched him intently.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I guess I’m interested.”
“My father willnae buy Glendon House from me outright. He believes it’s rightfully his, and he’ll no’ pay a thing for it. Nor would he accept the manor if I simply signed it over to him. Stubborn pride. Perhaps the only thing he and I have in common.”
“I don’t understand. What did he expect you to do?”
“My mother made an offer. We didnae speak of money, but I’m certain she’d have paid whatever I asked. The only stipulation being my father couldnae know of our arrangement.”
“I see two major flaws in her plan. First, wouldn’t your father notice such a large amount of money missing? And second, how would she suddenly explain the change in ownership?”
“Yer first flaw is very easily resolved. The money is hers. Oh, my father makes a comfortable living playing the intellect, but the bulk of their money came from my grandfather who owned coal mines in the east. My father has little interest in finances and, despite his pretensions, no head for investments. My mother has always managed financial matters. As for your second flaw, I was skeptical, myself.” He sounded angry even to his own ears, and he struggled for indifference.
“What did she want you to do?” Hillary asked. Concern softened her expression, leaving him humbled and embarrassed.
“Grovel.” He pushed back from the table. Why had he started to tell her this? “She wanted me to go my father and tell him that I couldnae manage the house and I needed him to take it from me.”
He snatched his mug from the table, crossed the room to the sink and dumped the contents down the drain. With his back to her, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. God, he was pathetic. A little concern and a teasing smile, and he’d spilled his guts.
The legs of her chair scraped the stone floor, then she was next to him at the counter, her powdery scent teasing his senses. “Maybe you like this place better than you’re willing to admit.”
“You’ve given my behavior much more depth than it deserves,” he said, turning to face her.
“You could be rid of the house, get whatever you want for it and, excluding the money your mother will be paying you, still be reasonably honest about why you want him to take the place.”
Her words pierced his skin like tiny darts. “That I’m a miserable failure? Is that the truth in yer eyes?”
“Did I say that?” she snapped. “Don’t put words in my mouth, thank you very much. What I meant was, you’re not interested in the house. That doesn’t make you a failure, it just means you don’t want the headaches involved with the renovations.”
She made it all sound simple, but she didn’t understand the lifelong battle of not being enough. “That’s no’ how he’d see it.”
“So what? He’s going to put whatever spin on the situation he wants to. I understand that what he thinks is important to you, but--”
“I dinnae give a shit what he thinks.”
“Yes, you do.”
Maybe he did, at that. And he hated that part of himself, the part that still craved the approval of a lying, pompous, adulterer. Still, he didn’t need Hillary speculating on his father-son issues. “Aye, well thank you for yer assessment. N
o doubt made easy by yer own perfect father-daughter relationship. I’m sure ye’re the apple of his eye.”
She cocked her head. “My father left when I was three and I never saw him again. My memories of him are vague at best. So, no, I have nothing from my own life to draw on.”
“Just you and your mum, then?” he asked, curious about her. He knew so little, and she rarely allowed him a glimpse.
“My mother remarried when I was twelve. George is a nice enough man, but I was her daughter and he was her husband. She worked very hard to make sure neither of us was burdened by the other.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She shrugged. “You were very forthcoming about your parents. I feel like I owe you. Anyway, George and I always maintained a sort of polite acquaintance. My mother didn’t want to need him, and she definitely didn’t want me to, either. It was important to her that I get by on my own and not rely on anyone else. ‘You’ll never know when they’ll let you down,’ she’d say. We both knew she was talking about my father.”
“What about poor George?”
“They have a reasonably solid marriage. Though, if he left her tomorrow, she’d be fine. It’s strange saying all this. He was the one I leaned on the most when everything fell apart.”
“Yer marriage, you mean?”
She nodded slowly, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Yeah. He was very supportive when Michael and I divorced. It’s getting late, I’m going to turn in.”
“Goodnight,” Caid said as she started toward the door.
“Goodnight,” she called without turning around, leaving him alone in the kitchen.
Chapter Thirteen
Hillary stood back from the old rug she’d been beating, blinked her watering eyes against the cloud of dust and coughed. The sun glared down on her, making her sweaty despite the chilly spring wind. Dirt and grime clung to her damp skin and all she wanted was a hot shower.
She took a swig from her bottle of water. What had she been thinking to start this? Obviously, she hadn’t been--that was the problem.
By the time she woke yesterday, Caid was gone. She’d been relieved. The memory of that kiss, the white-hot need that had streaked through her, leaving her insides tight and quivering, had kept her tossing and turning most of night. God, she’d wanted him. Pushing him away had been one of the most difficult things she’d ever done, but it had been the right thing. The smart thing.
After a cup of coffee, Hillary had tucked herself away in the attic with the journals and Roderick’s endless monologues describing his greatness. She supposed her brilliant plan to clean the kitchen had been born from a combination of boredom, wanting to see the room as she’d envisioned it before returning to Canada, and looking for something to distract from her carnal fantasies of Caid. Besides, if she showed him what could be done with the house, perhaps he wouldn’t find the whole experience so overwhelming.
By noon yesterday, she’d made remarkable progress cleaning the kitchen. She’d wiped out the cupboards, scoured the ancient stove and even cleaned beneath the huge metal beast--dust bunnies as large as her head making her cringe--then moved onto scrubbing the long expanse of stone floor. When she’d finished, her back and shoulders ached, but already the room looked brighter, larger.
The floor had taken over two hours and she’d had to race to the hardware store to buy paint before it closed. By the time she’d fallen into bed at two in the morning, she’d cleaned and primed the walls, scrubbed the fireplace, and wondered what in the hell had made her want to do this in the first place.
She’d slept like the dead, her eyes closing almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, unperturbed by bad dreams, fears of break-ins, or fantasies of Caid’s body moving in hers.
This morning she was back at it. She’d hoped for a less grueling day physically, but her search of the house for furnishings dashed any chance of that. She’d managed to find a suitable rug, settee and chairs, their fabric dull from dust and neglect.
After applying the first coat of paint to the walls, she’d dragged the rug into the back garden, draped the faded material over the cracked stone table and did her best to beat the dirt out. She’d searched the house from top to bottom, but couldn’t find a vacuum.
“Have the journals proved disappointing, then?”
Sarah’s voice startled Hillary from her thoughts, and she swung around quickly. The other woman stood behind her, an amused half smile curving her mouth.
Heat stole into Hillary’s cheeks. She must look like a madwoman, dirty and disheveled, wildly thrashing the rug. “I’m taking a break.”
“So I see. I hope I’m no’ interrupting.”
She was, actually. Caid would be home before dinner and Hillary still had a second coat of paint to do, and furniture to clean and move, but she didn’t want to be rude. Besides Joan, Bristol and sometimes Caid, Sarah was the only other person who had been friendly to her. “Not at all. Why don’t you come in and I’ll make some tea?”
Hillary rolled the carpet and started to lift.
“Let me help,” Sarah said, gripping one end.
“You’ll get filthy.”
Sarah shook her head and shrugged. “I dinnae mind a wee bit of dirt.”
The help was a relief. Hillary’s entire body ached from the work she’d done so far. Together, they spread the rug before the fireplace. It really needed a good steam clean, but this was the best she could do with such limited time and resources.
“You’ve been hard at work,” Sarah said, noting the freshly painted walls. “Does Douglas have you earning yer keep?”
Hillary smiled. “Not quite. I’m trying to prove a point.”
“Ye’re welcome to come to my house when ye’re done and prove a point to me. My kitchen needs painted.”
“Sorry, but I’m swearing off point-proving once I’m finished here.”
“Does he mind you doing this?”
A small chuckled escaped her lips. With his moods, who could say? “I guess I’ll find out when he gets back.”
“He’s away?”
Hillary nodded. “He left yesterday morning, but he should be back around dinner time.”
“You were on yer own last night?”
“Yes.”
“Are you no’ nervous in such a big old house like this by yerself?”
Hillary shrugged. “Not especially.”
“What about Caid?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’ve no time for visitors.”
Hillary started to protest, secretly relieved, but Sarah folded her arms over her chest. “Dinnae try to argue. However, I’ll help you and we can have a blether as we work.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Hillary said. “It’s really dirty work.”
“I told you, I dinnae mind.”
Sarah’s help could be a good thing. Hillary couldn’t move the furniture on her own. “If you’re sure?”
“Of course I am.”
Together, they carried the furniture she’d found into the kitchen. While she added a second coat of paint to the walls, Sarah scrubbed the stained fabric on the ancient sofa and chairs.
As they worked, they talked, an easy chatter that ranged from village legends to village gossip. Pleasant warmth fell over Hillary. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a laugh with a girl friend. After Randall, most of her friends had slipped from her life. Some believed the lies his parents had told about her, and others had obviously been uncomfortable in her presence, unsure what to say to a woman who’d killed a man.
Once the painting had been completed and the furniture cleaned, Hillary replaced the chipped and broken dishes with a set of white china trimmed with pretty green leaves she’d brought down from the attic the day before. Lord knew Agnes had enough sets.
With the room finished at last, Hillary started to lower herself onto the settee, but stopped, her backside mere inches from the cushion. The thing had just been cleaned, an
d she was a disaster.
“I need a shower,” she said, forcing herself to stand despite the screaming protest of her muscles.
“I should say so.” Sarah grinned amicably. “There’s paint in yer hair.”
Hillary eyed Sarah, who still looked annoyingly well groomed. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll only be a few minutes. Do you mind waiting?”
“No’ at all.” Sarah sank onto one of the chairs. “I’ll make myself comfortable.”
Something tickled the base of Hillary’s skull. A strange tension that left her with the urge to shove the other woman out the door before Caid came home.
Jealousy? Was that it? Did she feel jealousy for Caid? A perverse possessiveness?
For crying out loud, it had been one stupid kiss--well, two actually, if she counted the one at the inn--and it had been a mistake on both their parts. There was no reason to feel jealous.
Granted, Sarah’s wild tangle of strawberry blonde hair, snug blouse and blue jeans made Hillary look like an old frump in her dirty, paint-stained sweats.
She must be tired. She was tired. She’d been working like a dog for two days. A shower and clean clothes would no doubt have her back to her old self.
As soon as Caid stepped into the house, the faint odor of fresh paint stung his nostrils. He lowered the box in his arms to the floor and let the duffel bag strap slide off his shoulder. A sinking sort of dread crept over him. What had happened?
“Hillary?” he called.
“In here,” she replied, but she sounded strange.
He started down the hall. “Where?”
“The kitchen.” What had happened to her voice? Had she been in the country so long she’d lost her accent? That didn’t explain why her voice had risen two octaves since yesterday.
When he entered the kitchen, he froze. Was he in the right house? Of course he was, but it hadn’t looked like this when he’d left.
The walls had been painted a rich camel color and the cupboards a dark brownish olive. Even the hardware on the doors and drawers had been replaced with brushed silver. The stone floor and fireplace looked brighter. And set before the hearth, a settee and two heavy chairs facing each other.
