Free The Witch's Stone by Dawn Brown Page A

hearing impaired?”
    So much for soft vulnerability. “What are you talking about?”
    “When I was upstairs, I heard someone walking around down here. At first, I thought it was you, but when I looked out the window, mine was the only car parked out there.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Just a few minutes.” 
    “Right then, let’s have a look.”
    He took her hand and was surprised when she linked her fingers with his. A tiny jolt leaped from his palm up his arm.
    Together they searched each room, flipping light switches as they went. Some worked, most didn’t, and the ones that did offered such a low wattage they barely lit the space, casting more shadows than anything else. Not that it mattered. He doubted that anyone had actually been in the house. Old houses made noises.
    “You know,” Hillary said, keeping her voice low. “This house is huge. We could check each room individually, but who’s to say that whoever’s here won’t just keep moving around as we search, eventually working their way into a room we’ve already checked? We’ll never be one hundred per cent sure we’re alone.”
    “Are you suggesting we separate?”
    Her grip on his hand tightened. Did she even realize she’d done that?
    “It would probably make more sense to split up. If we worked from opposite ends and met in the middle, it would reduce the chance of an intruder slipping away. But as I said, this place is huge and we’re only two people.  The odds of our mystery person eluding us are still pretty good. Not to mention the confusion.”
    “Confusion?” He tried to suppress his grin.
    “If we separated, we could easily wind up tracking each other. At least together, if we hear or see anything out of the ordinary, we know that it has to be someone else.”
    “What an astounding rationalization.”
    “I think I made some very good points.”
    “Aye, you did. I’m sure you’ve convinced yerself quite nicely. Did you bring the subject up simply because you were concerned I might think you liked holding my hand?” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, especially when she struggled to untangle her fingers from his.
    As they entered the kitchen, he tightened his grip. "Dinnae be like that. I’m just having a wee bit of fun with you."
    She ceased struggling and her delicately shaped brows drew together in a frown. "That wasn't here earlier."
    "What?" He turned to the direction she pointed. A brass fireplace poker lay dead center on the battered harvest table. On the floor, a series of watery footprints stretched between the back door to the table.
    Christ’s sakes, Hillary hadn't just been frightened alone in an old house, there had been someone else here. But who? And why?
    She released his hand and moved closer to the table, bending slightly to inspect the poker. He strode to the back door and slid the bolt into place. When he turned, Hillary was staring at him, her eyes wide.
    "I think there's blood on this. And maybe hair."
    A strange lightheadedness gripped Hillary.  Her stomach turned and she could no longer look at the tiny rust-colored marks dotting the length of the brass poker. Or the single white hair fluttering near the tip. She took a step back as Caid moved closer, his expression impassive.
    "Ye’re positive this wasnae here earlier?" he asked.
    "I would have noticed a bloody fireplace poker in the middle of the table.”
    "It's no’ blood," Caid said, turning toward her.
    "How do you know that it isn't?" 
    "How do you know that it is?"
    She remembered the brass candlesticks in her old dining room. She hadn't noticed them right away, not for nearly a week after the police had let her and Michael back into the house. At first glance, she thought they'd simply been dirty--then the realization of what those dots really were had hit her and sent her flying upstairs to the bathroom.
    The marks on the candlesticks had been remarkably similar to the ones dotting the poker.
    "Instinct," she told him. "I think we