Free The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall by Lauren Smith Page B

she climbed the stairs to the second floor, Bastian trailing behind her. She pulled out the thick brass key and slid it into the door lock. He leaned against the wall only a foot away, waiting for her to open it. When she raised her head, she found his heated stare fixed upon her. For a second, neither of them moved, and the tension between them was an almost tangible force. Then the lock clicked, and she was jolted into awareness of herself again.
    Once she was inside, she threw everything into her suitcases as fast as she could. There would be time to organize it all later. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Bastian standing by the window. The fading light of the sunset created a haunting silhouette. He could have passed for his ancestor with the striking profile he presented. Not that she had ever seen Richard, except for a faded color photograph of the only portrait Richard had ever commissioned of himself. But it had been enough. Bastian possessed many of the same features. One of his hands was pressed against the glass, fingers spread as though he was straining to reach through the window for something far beyond his reach. An echo of the wrenching sadness she had experienced when she glimpsed the woman in white came back to her. What was Bastian longing for?
    “Hey.” She broke the spell with that single word, and he looked over his shoulder at her. For a brief moment, his face was open, every emotion laid for her to see. The sheer vulnerability and fear-tinged melancholy ghosted behind his eyes, and it made her drift toward him. Then he twisted his lips into a cold, mocking smile—whether at himself or her, she wasn’t sure.
    “Finished packing?” He gestured to the toiletry bag she’d tossed on the bed.
    “Oh, yes.” She snatched the bag, tucked it into her suitcase, and zipped it up. She was eager to leave the inn now that she knew its dark and sad history. It felt too personal to be here. Funny, she felt more comfortable at Stormclyffe.
    “Then let’s be gone. Randolph will have dinner ready soon.”
    He bent to grab her suitcase at the same time she reached for it. Their heads collided in a painful crack.
    “Ouch!” She stumbled, and the back of her knees collided with the bed behind. She fell onto the soft, quilted comforter, and as Bastian tried to catch her, he tripped over the rolling suitcase and collapsed right on top of her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she sucked in a desperate gasp of air. Their bodies pressed together perfectly, her breasts against his chest, their noses close enough to brush. His eyes were warm and dark and her insides twisted a little as desire awakened within her.
    Ever since Tim had left her six months ago, she’d felt closed off. Yet, as their bodies melded on the bed by sheer accident, it felt right. Her hands cupped his shoulders, and his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. He wasn’t built like a body builder, but he had that perfect lithe figure that was all strength and lean lines of perfect muscle. What would he look like with his clothes off? She cursed herself for wanting to know.
    “My apologies.” His groan escaped through gritted teeth, and he rolled off her and onto his back beside her.
    “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sorry we knocked heads.”
    He chuckled, even though it sounded pained. “It would be more fun to…what do you Americans call it…knock boots?”
    She put a hand to her chest and breathed out. “Just when I think you might actually be one of those English gentlemen I keep hearing about…”
    She left the rest unsaid, as he sniggered like a misbehaving schoolboy.
    “I’m not a gentleman. I’m cursed. At least according to the townspeople.” His tone changed, his anger thickening the words, as though his curse was something he’d brought about, not something thrust upon him by his ancestors. It frightened her, not that she thought he would hurt her, but she wondered whether he might be right. Her notes