Dawn Brown - The Witch Of Stonecliff

Shadowy forces gather an unholy harvest

Malicious whispers have long swirled around Stonecliff, Eleri James’s family estate—especially the eerie bog called The Devil’s Eye. But the bodies recently discovered on the property are no rumor. Twelve men pulled from the ooze, their throats slit, their flesh corrupted. Suspicion has perched on Eleri’s shoulder with the croak of a single syllable: witch. Now her only hope of evading prison is a man who could destroy her, body and soul.

Kyle Peirs is a survivor. Two years ago, he awoke in the inky night on the shore of The Devil’s Eye, bleeding from his throat and barely alive. He’s returned to Stonecliff to learn the truth about his ordeal and lay his own demons to rest. He never expected to find an ally—and a lover—in the woman he branded a killer.

Unless Kyle and Eleri can penetrate the evil surrounding The Devil’s Eye, they, too, will fall to the reaping….

The Witch of Stonecliff

Dawn Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Mom and Dad. Thank you for everything.

Table of Contents

I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

II

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

III

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

IV

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

I

Red agony burned across his throat—his first coherent thought as he emerged from unconsciousness.

And someone was touching his hand.

Fear spiked inside him. Memories, fuzzy and terrifying, played out behind his closed eyes.

Fingers tangled in his hair.

Blade pressed to his neck.

Hot blood dribbling down his bare chest.

They’d come for him, to finish what they’d started, and he was too weak to fight.

He tried to shift back, to disentangle his fingers from the big hand holding on to him. The grip tightened. A groan crept up his torn throat, but no sound came and a fresh wave of heat burned across his neck.

The hand grasping his fingers squeezed. “It’s alright, son. You’re safe.”

His father’s rough voice penetrated the mind-numbing panic. He opened his eyes, meeting his father’s light blue gaze. Relief rolled over him and warm moisture sprang to his eyes.

He never thought he’d see his father again.

He blinked away the tears and shifted his gaze while he struggled for control. He was in a hospital room, the walls pale yellow, bits of furniture cheap and utilitarian. Through the window, the sky was dark. How much time had passed since he’d woken next to the bog? Hours? Days? Weeks?

He met his father’s worried gaze and opened his mouth to speak, but the sound lodged in his burning throat. He squeezed his eyes closed, willing the agony to ease.

“Jack?” Fear laced his dad’s voice. “I’ll have a nurse bring you something for the pain.”

Sweat soaked his skin and he forced his eyes open. He wanted to nod his thanks, but he was afraid even the slightest movement would worsen the fire engulfing his neck.

“Bloody hell,” his father muttered, pressing the call button next to his bed repeatedly. “It’ll be faster if I fetch someone.”

Slippery fear swelled inside him, and he tightened his grasp on his father’s hand. He didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Maybe not ever. What if they were waiting?

Nodding, his father slowly lowered himself back into the chair next to the bed. “I’m here, Jack. Not going anywhere.”

His father spoke in the same even tones he used for the animals that came to him injured, frightened and broken. At one time, it would have driven him mad to hear his father speak to him like one of his strays, but right then he hung on every word. Christ, was that who he was now? Injured? Frightened? Broken?

“The nurse will come in a moment.” His father dropped his gaze to their joined hands, thumb gently stroking the back of his. “The police were here earlier. Now that you’re awake, they’ll want to speak to you.”

Panic squeezed his chest and for the first time the damage blazing his throat seemed like a blessing. He tried to lift his free hand to gesture to his neck, but the IV in the crook of his arm and tangle of thin tubes connected to the machines beside him made his movements stiff and awkward.

His father lifted his gaze and frowned. “Lie still. I know you can’t speak, but maybe you could write something down while the details are still fresh, before you forget anything.”

A perverse part of him wanted to laugh. He closed his eyes instead. As if he could ever forget the things that had been done to him. Even now, the memories pressed against his skull—blood soaked and riddled with fear and pain.

“You’ve been through a lot, but you must tell them what you remember so they find whoever did this to you.” Dad’s calm voice took on a slight edge.

He opened his eyes. His father’s face was sallow, haggard. Guilt twisted low in his gut. He’d been a terrible son. Funny how clearly he saw that now.

Maybe because he was dead.

It may not have looked that way to anyone else, but the man who’d gone into those woods hadn’t come out.

When the police came, he would write down everything he could remember. He only hoped it would be enough for them to finally arrest The Witch of Stonecliff.

Chapter One

Murderer.

Die Witch.

Eleri stood transfixed, unable to tear her gaze from the slashing red strokes of paint almost glowing against the pale stone wall. Sweat slicked her skin despite the chilly spring wind slapping at her face.

She did her best to squash the dread mushrooming inside her. Most of her life she’d been called those names. She really should have been used to them by now. But since the bodies of a dozen men had been pulled from the bog on her property four weeks ago, the name-calling seemed far more sinister—especially with the looming possibility of prison.

“I’m sorry to be the one to show you this.”

The housekeeper’s voice jerked Eleri from her reverie. She’d nearly forgotten Mrs. Voyle was standing next to her. The woman’s beady eyes gleamed in her narrow face, belying her words.

Of course Iola Voyle wasn’t sorry. She was probably elated. The only thing that would please the woman more would be if the police turned up with handcuffs and dragged Eleri away right now. Or better still, if an angry mob of pitchfork toting villagers hung her from the nearest tree.

“There’s more farther down. To be expected, I suppose, given the situation,” Mrs. Voyle added, with a sidelong glance. Her thin mouth pressed in a tight line, she turned away following the old stone wall, lumbering through the overly long grass. The combination of her ankle-length skirt and rubber boots made her gait slow and awkward. Periodically, she glanced back as if she feared an attack from behind. With any luck, she’d fall flat on her face.