The Outcast Prince

was just a taste. The raw sensuality of the vision burned in his blood, rousing a hunger he’d pushed aside after Natalie’s betrayal.

He’d never told her he was psychometric, and she’d never told him she had a lover—he’d found out because she’d made the mistake of bringing him into their home. They’d both lied by omission and in the end they’d both had too many secrets.

He paused halfway up the sweeping staircase. He’d made a mistake. He couldn’t do this job. Not without losing himself in the lives of the women who’d lived here.

“These are the bedrooms, but most haven’t been used in years.” Lydia’s voice drifted back to him.

With his hands by his sides, Caspian walked up the last few stairs. Lydia was opening doors as she went down the hall. The walls were hung with paintings, and a sculpture of a seminude woman playing a harp overlooked the entrance below. Caspian glanced up at the chandelier hanging from the center of a very ornate ceiling rose. While it was in need of a serious dusting, it was also worth some serious money.

“The rose and decorative cornices are all original,” Lydia said as she came back to his side.

“I can see that.” He was beginning to think that there was going to be a whole lot of original in Callaway House. He’d expected most of it to have been sold off or destroyed. “It’s a beautiful home.”

She nodded, her lips twitching in a sad semblance of a smile. “It needs repairs.”

That was the problem with old houses. They were old and needed to be maintained. He made a couple more notes. In the silence he listened to the house creaking and for a moment he felt more than the history. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but even as he lifted his gaze and glanced casually around he knew there was nothing there. But he’d felt it. A Grey. The one he’d seen earlier or a different one? Neither option was appealing. He turned around and faced the row of doors as if nothing had happened. Lydia was watching him too closely for him to slip up. Maybe he was just being overly paranoid about fairies.

In the first room a wrought-iron bed covered in a frilly quilt took up the center. To the side was a matching dressing table and mirror. None of it looked cheap. Against his better judgment, he crossed the threshold and touched the wooden top of the dressing table.

A young woman cried as she packed away makeup. But there were other women before her. He skipped past those impressions without stopping, back to the piece’s creation at the turn of the century.

Slowly he drew his hand back. If Callaway House had antiques in every room, he was going to be here far longer than he’d expected. He looked more closely at the glass in the mirror, but nothing moved beyond the surface. What were the odds he’d find two fairy-touched mirrors in one day? One should be enough for anyone. And two Greys? Dylis hadn’t been joking when she’d mentioned the increase in fairy activity in the area because of the hunt for the Window.

“Is all the furniture original?”

“It may not all be totally original, but most if it’s quite old. We haven’t altered anything since closing to the public.”

“That was nearly thirty years ago.” His eyebrows drew together but only for a moment. Probably around the same time Lydia was born.

“My grandmother didn’t use these rooms and saw no reason to change them.”

He looked at Lydia again, this time seeing the expensive suit and the careful grooming. She looked like a businesswoman—but not any businesswoman; she looked like one at the top of her game who’d eat for breakfast anyone who flinched in her presence. Madam Callaway would’ve been the same, he was sure. She’d taken serious risks to keep the house. A widowed woman opening her house to other men’s mistresses? While he could almost hear the scandalous conversation that would happen in town, the house didn’t give off that vibe at all. It seemed empty when it wanted to be full, hanging on the memories of when it was in use and the parties were in full swing.

“What do you do for a living?”

She glanced at him. “Public relations.”

He smiled, seeing the connection immediately. “You learned from your grandmother.”

“It’s all about presentation. Callaway House was always spoken about as the place to party. Everyone knew what really happened, but it was the guests and the entertainment that kept people coming back for more. Once the mistresses left, people still came. Musicians and poets, artists—it was always a gathering place for… interesting people.”

“You’re very open about it.”

“I can’t really hide that I’m a Callaway.” She glared at him as if daring him to challenge her. Her dark brown eyes weren’t nearly as fierce as she thought. He could see the sadness and the many hours spent fighting to prove herself respectable.

He knew because he fought those same battles, only he could never talk about his family secret. Fairies didn’t exist. It was much, much safer for the average person to believe that instead of the truth.

He walked past the other open doors, glancing in and making a quick assessment. He knew he’d have to spend more time up here to assess properly. Time would have dulled many of the everyday impressions, but the stronger emotional ones would linger. They were all around him. He let the back of his hand touch the wall experimentally.

She wrapped her legs around his hips as he lifted her against the wall. Her back arched as her lover pressed closer, unable to wait until they reached her bedroom.

Caspian drew his hand away, but the memory of lust was hot in his blood. The house groaned around him as if reluctant to let him forget. He drew in a slow breath and tried to clear his head before moving on.

Lydia led him up the next flight of stairs. When she glanced over her shoulder at him, for a moment he was seeing someone else, someone younger, but no less aware of what she was doing as she led him upstairs. He blinked and Lydia was back, one eyebrow raised—but she wasn’t leading him up the stairs for an illicit liaison. He swallowed hard as the idea took hold with far too much ease. The house was sliding under his defenses and blurring reality with the impossible.

He wasn’t going to be sleeping with anyone in Callaway House. But it was just another reminder of everything he’d been missing since his divorce. Of course, if it weren’t for the fairy blood in his veins, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’d be able to have a nice, normal relationship. Yet when he glanced at Lydia’s back, he couldn’t shake the image of exploring these rooms in a far more intimate fashion. His fingers curled, and he pressed them against the still tender iron-burn to help tamp down any further visions.

On the third floor the grandeur disappeared and was replaced with a homier feel. She opened two doors. One room looked lived in. This must have been Madam Callaway’s bedroom. But instead of talking, Lydia just stood back, her face a little paler. As with the other bedrooms, it was beautifully furnished in a matching suite. He turned and faced the other room, unwilling to ask anything when Lydia’s loss was so fresh.

The other bedroom was different. He crossed the corridor and went in. This one only had a single bed. The white suite looked much more recent than the rest of the house. He touched the bed for half a heartbeat.

“This was your room.” His words were little more than a whisper. Lydia had grown up here.

“Until I went to college. After my mother left me here, Gran stopped the parties.”

“How old were you?”

“Three months.”

He opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like his childhood had been conventional, but at least his had been private. People had thought he was imaginative when he’d mention seeing fairies, but Lydia had grown up in the shadow of her grandmother’s business and without a mother. That couldn’t have been easy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t remember her. She had me at seventeen and took off. I had a nanny and Gran and that was all I knew until I went to school. Then I realized how different my family was.” She crossed her arms as if shielding herself from the cruel barbs kids made. But there was no defense.

He knew he shouldn’t pry—he was here to assess the estate, not chat up its owner—but he couldn’t help wanting to know more about her, wanting to melt her cool facade. “And your father?”

“No idea. I think Gran blamed herself and that’s why she shut down the parties. Helen had started joining in, but Gran didn’t realize until she was pregnant and then it all fell apart.” Lydia leaned against the door as if she