The Outcast Prince (10 page)

“I’m sure it’s nothing.” But as something else went bang she jumped. “I’ll wait here.”

She watched him walk out of the kitchen. As soon as he was out of the room, she made sure the outside door was locked. Then she peeked out the window, but in the dark garden she couldn’t be sure what was shrubs and shadows and what was her imagination getting the better of her. This behavior wasn’t normal for the ghost.

A few minutes later Caspian came back. “I didn’t see anyone, and I didn’t find anything broken.”

That should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. The house was still making odd sounds that couldn’t be blamed on the approaching storm or the age of the house.

“Good.” She tried to look relieved but suspected she failed when Caspian didn’t immediately go. “I’m sure it was just the ghost acting up.”

“Yeah.” Now he didn’t look convinced.

“I might go check all the locks.”

“Did you want me to come with you?”

“You just said you didn’t see anything.” The more they talked about the strange noises the more she was sure she heard. Never had being in the house rattled her so much.

“I didn’t.”

Scuffling footsteps on the second floor made her look up. That sounded more like the ghost.

Caspian pointed to the ceiling. “I’ll go check upstairs.”

“Okay… I’ll check those locks. Call out if you see the ghost or something.” It was the or something that was making her stomach tight and her heart bounce high in her chest.

She waited a moment until he’d gone upstairs. Then she walked around and checked all the locks, making sure that the house was closed up properly. She saw nothing out of place and yet she’d never felt so uneasy. She was glad she wasn’t going to be staying here alone.

The house creaked and groaned as if complaining of an ache no one could understand. And while nothing seemed amiss, she jumped with every shudder and bump. For a moment she stood in the entrance looking up at the stairs and the landing that overlooked and then led to the bedrooms where Caspian would be. How easy would it be to just turn off the lights and join him?

She pressed her lips together and forced herself to go back to the kitchen. She would not run upstairs because she was afraid of the noises an old house made. Instead she threw herself into looking through the trunks and seeing what she could learn from the diaries.

While she was curious about Gran’s life and about the details of Callaway House, it felt wrong to be looking. But then if Gran hadn’t wanted them read why keep them? Why write them in the first place?

She skipped over the recent ones but paused at the diaries from twenty-eight years ago. Her teeth worried her lip. What had been written about her birth? She’d always been told that her mother had left soon after because she was scared of the responsibility of looking after a baby… but she’d never come back, never sent a card or a birthday present. As Lydia had gotten older she’d thought it was to escape the Callaway name. Maybe it was both.

Either way she’d stopped worrying about it years ago. If her mother didn’t want to know her, that was fine. She’d had plenty of love from Gran and her aunts. She put the diaries aside and went back a bit further to Callaway House at its peak in the fifties and sixties. Then she took a breath and opened to a random page.

A shopping trip to buy new gloves with a couple of the other women.

That wasn’t what Lydia was expecting. She flicked a few more pages, but there was just more chat about life, including that one of the women was expecting and they didn’t think the man would want her for much longer. He didn’t want a second family, just fun.

Something upstairs crashed.

Lydia jumped up and dropped the diary.
Caspian?

Her heart pounded hard while the rest of her was frozen in position. She strained her ears listening for footsteps but heard nothing. And he didn’t call out. The lights flickered twice then settled. In that moment of fear she wished Caspian was down here with her. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, but when she looked there was nothing there.

Get
a
grip.

But she couldn’t; panic had taken hold and was ruling her body. Something very odd was going on tonight.

On the floor above something rolled, the sound filled the house, and the hair along her arms spiked. Lydia snatched up the half-dozen books that were on the floor and shoved them back into the trunk, then she slammed the lid closed and turned the key. She grabbed her handbag off the kitchen counter and forced herself to calmly turn off the lights and walk upstairs even though she wanted to run. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Had Caspian heard the noises? Was he not concerned?

Of course not; it was an old house, making old house noises. It might have been him dropping something. Halfway up the stairs she began to feel more than a little silly.

Then Caspian appeared on the landing. “I was coming down to check on you.”

“I was…” Coming to check on him? Running and hiding? “Just packing away.”

A rumble reverberated through the house. The storm was about to start. She heard the first few drops of rain hit, then it just became a steady drumming.

She walked up the last few stairs. “How’d you get on?”

“Good.” He gave no indication of seeing or hearing anything odd.

“You still up for sleeping in a haunted house?” She tried to make light of it, but part of her wanted to jump in her car and drive to her nice modern apartment.

He grinned. “Ghosts don’t scare me.”

“What does?”

“Fairies.”

She glanced at him, but he looked deadly serious. Okay, no weirder than people who were afraid of clowns, although probably less common. “The ghost never used to worry me, just, I don’t know. It feels strange being here.”

“We don’t have to stay.”

“You’re supposed to tell me everything is fine and to tell me you’ve picked a room.”

“Would you believe me?”

“No. You can feel it, right?”
I’m not going crazy.

He nodded, then looked at her and smiled. “The room with the blue and white floral quilt,” he said as he walked past and went downstairs to pick up his overnight bag.

She turned to watch as he walked away. He had picked a room. Her lips curved. Well, what else was he going to be thinking about while going through the bedrooms? She remembered the way he’d stood with one hand on the bed, thinking. Thinking of the auction like he’d said, or thinking of something else?

The room he’d suggested wasn’t the one she’d seen him in. She turned on the light and tried to work out why he’d picked this room. The bed was just a plain wrought-iron four-post bed that didn’t even look antique. She was a little disappointed. She’d thought he’d go for the obvious antique. The big old bed that still had sheer curtains hanging from the top—it’s what she would’ve picked. For a moment she considered suggesting somewhere else, but when she turned he was in the doorway with his bag in his hand. His eyes shimmered with desire. She glanced back at the bed. Heat crept up her cheeks and down her throat. Was she really going to do this?

Yes.

Without breaking eye contact she flicked the quilt back.

He would not give himself the chance to walk away. Not this time. Lydia was different; her family was just as screwed up as his. She’d understand. He was sure he was telling himself lies to cover the fact that he was lying to her by not telling her what he was. Maybe afterwards, maybe in the morning over coffee. He’d find the right time to tell her what he was. Would there ever be a right time? He knew there was a wrong time and that was now when all he wanted to do was feel human in her arms and forget about fairies.

Rain hammered against the roof, dulling the sounds of Greys scampering through the house. He’d picked this room because of the iron, but Lydia made it inviting. A surge of desire raced through his body. Was it Lydia or the room? Or was the house making them both crazy?

He walked in and closed the door behind him, then dropped his bag at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t deny he’d been thinking about the possibility of having her all day. Maybe he’d forgotten how awkward the first time with someone new could be. It was like a game where neither side was entirely sure of the rules even though they both wanted to play.

Her teeth raked her lip as she watched him. He needed to make a move or this was going to get weird and uncomfortable. He took off his shoes and socks and walked toward her. Beneath his feet the carpet was soft and worn and had been used by couples who’d never made it to the bed or just preferred it. His shaft ached to be touched. He had to get the memories of other people out of his head and focus on Lydia.

He cupped her cheek and placed a soft kiss on her lips, still half-expecting her to change her mind at any moment, or for a fairy to burst in and interrupt. Dylis had muttered something about his last days in the mortal world before standing guard. If it was true he was going to die because of Shea, he wanted to enjoy what was left of his life.

Lydia’s hands slid up his chest. Her touch burned away all other thought. Her tongue flicked against his, inviting him to take more as she pressed herself against him. His fingers splayed over her butt and drew her closer. In a step the backs of his legs were against the bed and he was pulling her with him; he braced for the flood of impressions, but the sheets had nothing more than laundry day imprinted on them.

She pushed herself up to straddle his hips, her hair free so it hung loose around her shoulders, the ends curling on the swell of her breasts. He caught a tendril and used it to bring her close. Her lips were a whisper away from his, but she didn’t kiss him.

“I just want you to know I don’t usually do this.”

He knew exactly what she meant. “Neither do I.”

He leaned up and sealed her lips before she could say anything else. He didn’t want to think because if he did he might stop and realize what a bad idea this was.

Her fingers opened his shirt buttons, then glided over his chest. He was glad he made the effort to run around the block a few times a week. He was in good shape—though that may also be because of his unnatural parentage. The touch of her hands sent shivers of heat running through his skin. No one since his ex-wife had touched him this intimately.

But the pain Natalie had caused him was vanquished by Lydia’s caress. Her hips moved over his. There was far too much denim between them. Through her shirt he cupped her breast, felt the weight in his palm as his thumbs circled her nipples. They peaked, pressing against the fabric. She gave a little moan and rolled her hips in a way that made his shaft harden further.

With a few flicks of his fingers he opened her shirt and pushed it off her shoulders, she sat up and shrugged out of it, then went to undo her bra. Her gaze locked with his for a heartbeat, then she was taking off the flesh-colored scrap and letting it fall on the floor. Her pale pink nipples were tight and hard. He sat up and like a man in dream took what he wanted before he could wake.

His tongue circled one nipple before taking it into his mouth. She gasped as his teeth raked the surface, but her back arched, offering him more. He switched to the other side, taking his time to taste her skin and draw the little sighs from her. With his free hand he opened the top of her jeans and traced the line of her panties.

He twisted and lay her down on her back, unzipping and pulling off her jeans. She lifted her legs, kicking free of the fabric. His fingers hooked around her floral print panties, then he hesitated. He was going too fast. But she lifted her hips and pushed them down, not waiting for him. He drew them down her legs and tossed them on the floor with the rest of the clothing.

She was perfect. All curves and creamy skin. At the junction of her thighs her curls had been trimmed enough to offer a glimpse and tease.

He kissed her ankle. She watched. He kissed the inside of her knee. His hand slid up her inner thigh stopping short of her pussy. The tips of his fingers grazed the curls, her legs moved farther apart in silent invitation, her gaze never leaving him as if she was daring him to go further. Would he? But his hand was already moving, his fingers sliding over her slick skin, teasing her clit before dipping into her core.

Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t close. “You have too many clothes on.” The last word was more of a groan as he stroked her sensitive flesh.

Caspian smiled. He stood and shrugged out of his shirt, then undid his jeans, acutely aware she was watching, propped up on her elbow. It was her turn to look and assess. His pushed his jeans and underwear down in one move—much better to get these things over with than drag them out. Her gaze skimmed down his body. His cock twitched in response.

The impressions held by the carpet of lovers decades ago swelled around him until he could almost hear the sound of skin on skin. He could get lost in the memories. He wanted to give the room new memories to hold on to.

Lydia beckoned him back to bed. There was nothing coy in her gestures, so he responded in kind. He moved over her, one knee dropping between her thighs, his lips taking a kiss. Her tongue sought his before he broke away and kissed down her neck, tasting the sweetness of her skin. Feeling the heat between them. He didn’t usually get impressions off people, but with Lydia he felt her lust as if it were his own. Strong like a riptide waiting to drag him under. And he didn’t care. If he was going to get hurt in the end, he might as well enjoy the beginning. She pushed him back before he could reach her breast. She glanced over at the bedside table and grasped the foil packet that had been next to her handbag. He expected her to hand it to him. She didn’t.

Instead she sat up and opened the packet. Then took his shaft in her hand. The touch was a jolt like electricity coursing through him. Her fingers feathered over his hard flesh, taking her time as she traced the ridge and circled the head. She glanced up, her dark eyes full of molten heat. And he wanted to sink and drown. With a couple of deft movements she rolled the rubber on and as she lay back down she drew him with her, one leg hooking over his hip as if to stop him from pulling away.

Like he would.

He shifted his hips and used his hand to guide his shaft to her entrance, but didn’t enter, not yet. He moved, teasing her and himself. She rolled her hips and arched her back as if that would bring him closer.

“Come on,” she whispered against his lips.

“There’s no rush.” It nearly killed him to say that when all he wanted to do was thrust in.

“I want to feel you.” Her nails trailed over his ribs.

He hissed in a breath, then pushed in a little more. This time when she moved he slid in deeper. He gave up the illusion of control. She didn’t want it. She met him thrust for thrust, not afraid to grip his hips and adjust for what she wanted. Tension tightened in his balls. He wanted to spill. With a wrench of will he slowed and slid his hand between their bodies, finding and caressing her clit. She covered his hand with hers, changing the movement ever so slightly. It was so much easier to be shown rather than guessing. Her breathing shortened to gasps and her eyes closed. Her sheath tightened around him as she came.

Her half-silenced moans and the grip of her core were too much for him to take. He gave another couple of strokes before giving in and letting the release flood him.

Lydia’s hands smoothed down his back. Her eyes remained closed as if she were concentrating on slowing down her breathing or holding on to the moment. He wasn’t sure which, but he was trying to do both. He placed a soft kiss on her mouth, which she responded to, but the urgency was gone and it was more of a last caress.

He eased away and dealt with the rubbish. He glanced back at her laying sprawled on the bed as if she were too boneless to move. That was a good thing; it meant he hadn’t forgotten how to please a woman—even if she knew what she needed. He padded over to the light switch and turned it off, then joined her in bed, but he was sure he wouldn’t be sleeping much as she curled up against him.

Strange beds always harbored too many details of the previous occupants. And while the sheets offered a little protection there was still enough history to give a restless sleep as it filtered into his dreams.

When he woke it was dark, and for a moment he had no idea who he was or where he was. It took a couple of heartbeats for the confusion to fade and for him to realize he was alone and the house was silent. He eased out of bed and pulled on his jeans and went downstairs.

***

Lydia drew her legs up on the loveseat in the parlor. She couldn’t use the front room without thinking of Gran. The muscles on her inner thighs twinged and the memory brought a flush to her cheeks. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and Caspian hadn’t said no. What man would? He was spending a night at Callaway House. And enjoying the hospitality the way rich, married men once would have.

Except Caspian was neither rich, nor married.

She turned the page of the diary and scanned the pages, reading without absorbing the details, hoping she’d get sleepy again. She’d woken up and after lying awake and listening to him sleep had gotten up even though she’d wanted to remain in bed. His body was warm, and firm, and when he looped his arm over her waist it had seemed so natural. There was a grace to his movements that she’d noticed even when he was working. The way he touched, the way he moved. But it was his eyes, the green ice had been burning when he’d looked at her.

And like the gentleman he was he’d made sure she came first. Too perfect. Yet there was still the morning after to get through, and that would decide if it had been a one-time thing or something that might last a little longer—she didn’t expect forever. But she wouldn’t mind a few more weeks, or months, of having him in her bed before he learned how hard the Callaway name was to be around.

She hoped he wouldn’t care; after all, it wasn’t as if his family name could be tainted by association. To stop herself thinking of the end before they’d really begun she made herself concentrate on the diary. Gran had been writing about a singer with the voice of an angel and the looks to match—the too pretty man in the photo? He was very popular apparently and also cash poor.

He
gave
me
a
gift
tonight, said I’d been most kind but that it was time to move on. I didn’t open it until after closing. For a man who never had a dollar on him he gave me a silver compact. Pretty little thing.

Lydia stopped and re-read. She’d seen that silver makeup mirror in Gran’s personal things. It had been wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper and tucked in the drawer with her makeup. It was now at her apartment in a box in the spare room. Had she and the singer been lovers? Is that why Gran had kept it safe for so long? Then she shook her head; Gran hadn’t thrown anything out. No doubt she’d kept it because it was pretty. She should get Caspian to take a look at it; she’d drop into his shop—plus it would be an excuse to see him again, outside of the house.

“You couldn’t sleep?”

She yelped and dropped the diary she’d been reading. Caspian stood in the doorway, half-dressed in jeans.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She picked up the book and tried not to glance over, but her memory filled in the details. Fit without being muscle-bound, just enough hair on his chest to make him a man. A narrow line of hair led from his naval and dipped into his jeans.

“I’m not used to sharing a bed.” That was the truth, but she could get used to seeing Caspian in hers. “Did I wake you?”

He was leaning in the doorway, looking far too attractive for the middle of the night—or was this that morning after talk? “No, I never sleep well in strange beds.”

She raised her eyebrows—how many strange beds did he sleep in?

“When I travel, for work. I don’t…” He looked away, his gaze falling on his left hand resting on the door frame. An unconscious gesture, but she was sure he was thinking of his ex-wife.

This was the awkwardness she hadn’t wanted in the morning. Too late now, they were both up. She patted the cushion next to her. “Want to join me?”

He didn’t answer; he just sat, without touching her. It took a moment for her to realize that she wanted him to put his hand on her leg or at least acknowledge what they’d done. But they weren’t together. It had been an itch that needed scratching. If this didn’t go well, maybe she wouldn’t bother showing him Gran’s mirror. Just cut ties and walk away. One little mirror wouldn’t matter to the estate; besides, Gran had never put it on the insurance, or even spoken about it, so it probably wasn’t worth much money.

She turned to face him and asked the obvious. “Why don’t you sleep well in strange beds?”

She expected a response like too soft or too hard, or fear of bedbugs or something else innocuous. He looked at his laced fingers as if thinking hard. Too hard for the question. A chill brushed over her skin and drew the fine hairs on her arm up in gooseflesh. Around her the house was silent. It was then she realized that was what had woken her. She’d gone to sleep listening to the noise of the storm and the creaking and rattling of the house. Now it was deathly still. As if the ghost was waiting for something.