Penmort Castle (Ghosts and Reincarnation #1)(35)

Abby’s anxious demand had brought those long-dead feelings of safety and nurture back and they were far from unpleasant.

On the other hand, there were three things he did not like.

At all.

First, he didn’t like the feeling behind her outburst. It was embedded in pain and Cash didn’t like the thought of Abby experiencing pain.

Second, he didn’t like what her pain meant. It meant she’d once had a man in her life that she deeply cared for and Cash found he disliked that idea intensely. Further to this second point, Cash found the concept of being jealous of a dead man both ridiculous and abhorrent. Nevertheless, he couldn’t deny he was.

Third, he didn’t want her to form an attachment to him.

What they had, even though they hadn’t known each other long, Cash knew was good. And if the kisses they’d shared were anything to go by, it was going to get better, much better.

But it wasn’t going to last.

He liked coming home to her. He liked being home knowing she was going to come to him (although he did not like waiting for her).

He liked her energy. He liked her company. He liked all that she embodied.

Abby was the kind of woman that Cash Fraser, forgotten and denied bastard son of an aristocrat, lived his life knowing he was neither entitled to nor could he expect to be by his side.

Like everything else in Cash’s life, he’d had to earn such an opportunity.

After Alistair Beaumaris had won his court battles, regained the family fortune Anthony Beaumaris bequeathed on Myra Fraser and, in so doing, bankrupted Cash’s mentally unstable mother, Alistair had left Cash and Myra with very little. When Cash’s grandfather died, there was even less. When Myra slit her wrists, there was even less.

Cash had fought his way out of poverty and into Oxford and spent many years shaping himself into a man on whose arm a woman like Abby belonged.

Even if he had to pay for her.

Perhaps especially since he had to pay for her, considering the astronomical amount he’d paid.

But he wasn’t going to get used to Abby being in his life and he certainly couldn’t allow her to do it.

He liked her company but he’d been alone a long time. He preferred to be alone and there wasn’t a woman in the world, not even Abby with all of her beauty and humour and contradictions, who could change that.

On that thought, Cash turned into Abby’s street and saw her lights on.

He was half an hour early but he wanted time with her before going to dinner at her neighbour’s. With his work and her being late the night before, they hadn’t had a lot of time to get to know one another and Cash intended to rectify that.

As Cash parked in the drive behind her BMW he decided he’d take her away somewhere after he’d claimed Penmort. Somewhere they could be alone, no curious neighbours, no traffic delays and no work. Somewhere warm, where all she needed was a bathing suit.

He was considering his options (and leaning toward an island in Greece) when he turned the bell on her door.

It clanked discordantly.

He looked at it and noted it had to be as old as the house and, by the sound of it, desperately in need of servicing.

He waited impatiently for her to open the door. She had to be home, her car was in the drive and the lights were on in the front room and upstairs.

He turned the bell again.

He waited again.

When he was about to knock or more to the point, hammer on her door, he saw the light in the vestibule switch on and the door opened.

Abby stood there wearing an old, faded-blue, flannel man’s dressing gown that was far too big on her. Her hair was held back in a wide, pale pink band, her feet were bare and her eyes were surprised.

He watched as the surprise disappeared and the shutters came down.

“You’re early,” she told him, not moving from the door.

At her non-greeting Cash’s good mood disappeared instantly. Firstly, because she appeared to be barring him from the house. Secondly, because she didn’t seem happy to see him. And lastly, and most importantly, because she was wearing another man’s clothes.

“I finished early,” he replied.

“You work until the wee hours, how did you finish early tonight?”

Having lost his patience, with artificial politeness Cash enquired, “Are we going to hold this conversation on the doorstep?”

She gave a start then her eyes darted away and she seemed to hesitate. For a moment Cash thought she wasn’t going to let him inside. Then she stepped back, opening the door.

“I’m sorry. Come in,” she murmured.

He stepped in and was immediately surprised.

It was as if stepping over her threshold took him a step back one hundred and fifty years in time.

The vestibule was large, in fact it was huge. It, and the hall leading off of it, had black and white tiled floors that seemed to stretch on forever. Both rooms were cavernous with tall ceilings. Heavy pieces of antique furniture, all of which were well-kept and high-quality, were positioned here and there in the vestibule and hall. The furniture indicated either Abby’s grandmother had good taste or Abby had given him a significant discount on the first quote for her fees.

“I’ll take your coat,” he heard her say.

He shrugged it off and ignored her outstretched hands, hanging it on the mirrored coat stand in the vestibule himself.

She watched him do this then her eyes moved to him before saying, “Come into the living room. I’m not ready yet. I’ll get you a drink and then I’ll finish upstairs.”