Lacybourne Manor Page 10

  She hid her discomfort and tried valiantly to end the night on a good note.

  “Thank you for the ride,” she paused, “And the rescue.”

  “You’re welcome.” Simple, softly said in his deep voice, and unbelievably effective, Sibyl felt the shockwaves of his tone all the way to her toes.

  A shiver slid through her and she shook it off.

  “Mallory!” she called, turning toward the dark night. When she glanced back to say goodnight to Colin, he spoke.

  “Tell me something,” he requested quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Your dog’s name is unusual. How did he get it?”

  She shrugged feeling somehow this question seemed too personal because something in his tone made it so.

  She decided to give him the short version. “My Dad names my pets. I’m hopeless at it. My Dad is kind of…” she hesitated, not wishing to share too much. It was easy when it was banter and it wasn’t dangerous. Colin Morgan knowing personal things about her and her family, she, for some reason, felt the need to be guarded. “A mythology buff. Thomas Malory wrote Le Morte D’Arthur and my father loves Arthurian Legend. So, he named him Mallory.”

  “I see.” This, obviously, was a highly acceptable answer because he stepped toward her and she read the meaning to his advance loud and clear. She began speaking in a rush to stop his progress.

  “Bran, my cat, is named for Bran the Blessed, of Welsh Mythology.”

  Her ploy didn’t work, though he stopped, he did it close enough to her that she could feel him even though he wasn’t touching her.

  “Can I see you again?” he asked, he was using his soft, effective voice and her toes curled.

  Sibyl was stunned to her core at his request. She would never have expected after that night at Lacybourne that he’d want to see her again.

  Tonight, however, he was different. Completely different.

  She used every bit of willpower she had to say what was logical and right for her peace of mind. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

  She saw the flash of his smile and noted with a thrill of fear that he was entirely unaffected by her refusal.

  “Why isn’t it wise?”

  “Because I think you might be a little insane,” she blurted more bluntly than she would have done if she wasn’t trying very, very hard not to throw herself at him.

  This could be her dream man. He was certainly acting like her dream man.

  The problem was, the other Colin was most certainly not.

  “I’m not insane,” he assured her, his voice made even more effective by the addition of a teasing note.

  Then he came even closer.

  Sibyl stepped back.

  “Mr. Morgan –”

  “Colin.”

  “You scare me a little bit,” she admitted softly.

  At this pronouncement, he stopped moving toward her.

  “This is a far better ending than the one we had before,” she offered, her voice somewhat breathless and definitely rushed because if she didn’t say it, she wouldn’t. Instead she’d do something insane, like invite him inside then offer him a drink then, maybe, totally lose it and rip his clothes off. “I think we should stick with this,” she finished.

  Mallory came loping out of the darkness and instead of immediately entering the house after his business was concluded, as he usually did, he sat next to Colin and leaned his big body against Colin’s legs.

  Sibyl stared in shock at her dog.

  “Mallory, get inside,” she commanded and Mallory leaned forward, licked her hand and then decided that, even though he liked Colin Morgan, he liked his sleep better. So he ambled into the house and disappeared.

  Sibyl looked back at Colin. “Thank you again, you’ve been very nice tonight.”

  Colin didn’t respond.

  There was light but it was dim and she couldn’t see his eyes all that well. What she did see was his hand coming up and, before she could react, he traced a finger in a whisper-soft caress from her temple, along her cheek, to the corner of her lip. Then, all the while Colin watching his finger’s movements, it dipped and slowly traced the bottom edge of her lower lip ending on her chin. The whole manoeuvre, in real time, probably lasted five seconds, but it felt like it took a blissful, beautiful, dreamy eternity and that was why Sibyl stood silent and unmoving as he did it.

  It was not a goodnight kiss but, somehow, seemed far more intimate.

  Then, his eyes coming back to hers, he murmured, “Goodnight, Sibyl.”

  And with that, he left.

  Chapter Seven

  Bargain

  Sibyl woke up the next day, her limbs hopelessly entangled with the covers of her bed.

  She saw distractedly that Mallory stood beside her bed, looking curiously at her, not in his usual loopy manner, but as if he was standing at attention, awaiting her command.

  She was sweating, she was panting and she remembered every vivid detail of the dream she’d just had.

  “I’m going insane,” she told the dog and he melted out of his unusual stance and moved toward her, his tail wagging, his body shaking, his cold nose snuffling at her hand.

  She lay back on the bed and absently pet her dog.

  Last night, after Colin left, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about him, the night or his desire to see her again (and hers to see him). She had definitely not thought about his light caress. She figured it was simply bad luck that she’d run into him. She had managed to live a year in England without ever seeing him and she hoped she could continue with her life and never see him again (or, at least, this was what she told herself).

  Unfortunately, that did not include seeing him in her dreams.

  The real man was clearly unbalanced, or perhaps not, but she was not going to allow herself to discover the truth.

  The dream man was anything but.

  Last night, in her dream though, he had been blond. His hair the exact colour of hers, golden and thick. He’d been wearing some sort of tunic, hose and high, soft leather boots with a gold, intricately linked chain settled low on his narrow waist. She had been wearing a gown of soft, pale blue wool, she also had a belt made of delicate silver filigree inlaid with roughly cut aquamarines tied low on her waist.

  Sibyl blamed her father for her dream’s medieval wardrobe.

  They were riding a midnight black steed, the horse’s muscled power beneath her, her lover’s same power emanating into her back as he held her close to his chest atop the horse. One of his arms was wrapped protectively and possessively about her waist.

  This moment was a stolen one, her lover wending his expert way through a heavy wooded area until he found the place for which he was looking. They were not supposed to be out there alone together some foreign part of her knew and felt the illicit excitement of it.

  He alighted from the horse then dragged her off, sliding her tantalisingly down the length of his hard body.

  Then he bent his head to kiss her and it was sweet and wild and beautiful and absolutely everything a kiss should be.

  When he lifted his head, his eyes hooded and sexy as they had been in the entryway to his house a week before, she’d whispered, “Colin.”

  This made him grin a very devilish grin.

  “Are you trying to make me jealous, wench? ‘Colin’ indeed. Say my name when I kiss you.” Then, his lips on hers, he whispered, “Say it, Beatrice… Royce.”

  Confused and not knowing what to do, not knowing why he was calling her Beatrice, and wanting another of those kisses, she did as he commanded and murmured the name, “Royce”.

  The instant she did, he kissed her again and it was all the things before but now also hot with need. She felt desire flood through her as she slid her hands into his hair. He lay her down on the forest floor right next to the horse, his body settled on top of her and she gloried in his heavy weight.

  The horse shifted and she felt the unsettling feeling they were being watched.

  It was th
en she awoke, the limbs that had been entangled with his were simply wound through the sheets of her bed.

  “I am going insane,” she told the dog and Mallory whined.

  She pulled the covers off the bed and grabbed some jeans and sweater to wear to take her dog for a walk. She resolutely shoved the dream aside (it was only a dream, just a dream, Colin Morgan was forever out of her life, forever and ever, she vowed).

  So it was a lovely dream.

  So it was a particularly delicious and lovely dream.

  It was just a dream.

  She went through her morning regime, thinking only of the things she needed to think about.

  Walk the dog, feed her pets, brush her teeth, wash her face, take a shower and so on.She sat at her dressing table, lightly applied her makeup and attempted to do something with her hair.

  Sibyl loved her bedroom, it was (as was the whole of Brightrose Cottage, but especially her bedroom) her sanctuary, perfectly, splendidly her.

  It had a lovely fireplace with a black, wrought iron grate surrounded by tile in a rich jade colour. It had gleaming, wide-planked floors scattered with thick, pastel-coloured throw rugs. The walls were painted a very pale green. She and her father had found and restored an ornate iron bed and they’d painted it white. It was covered with very feminine, soft sheets and comforter scattered with dainty, pastel flowers with big, fluffy pillows at the head. It had window seats in the diamond-paned windows covered with plump pillows and cushions. The bed was flanked with lovely French provincial bed stands and there was a matching dressing table with an oval mirror.

  It was all girl, fresh and inviting and lovely.

  If Colin Morgan stood in this room, his immensely masculine presence would be so out of place, the very thought made her laugh out loud. She took comfort in that thought and in her room that morning. She needed as much comfort as she could get after the fiasco at Lacybourne, the conflicting events of last night and her glorious dream.

  Later that morning she walked into the Community Centre with a cheerful wave to Tina who was cooking lunch for fifty pensioners in the enormous kitchen.

  Sibyl went straight to work on a grant to get their own minibus. Social Services could help Annie, of course, but even after another visit from Sibyl, they remained firm that they couldn’t do much about the minibus driver.

  So Sibyl had priced the cost of buying the bus and training Kyle to drive it. They also needed enough money for petrol, insurance, maintenance and a cushion in case of repairs for several years.

  As she created the budget, she saw the rising amount with even more rising alarm.

  They’d need a heck of a lot of money but, as ever, Sibyl was determined to find it.

  And she would, somehow.

  It turned out Annie had no children even though she said she did. Sibyl thought that everyone had to look out for their neighbours and the best people that did that were the volunteers and staff at the Centre. Certainly, the minibus driver did not.

  Kyle walked into her shabby, corner office with its makeshift tables she used as desks and the hand-me-down (most likely handed down two or three times) couch shoved against the wall. Detritus from talent shows, fayres, Easter parades and all sorts of Community Centre events crowded every corner and available surface.

  His droopy moustache twitched and she found herself grinning at him after witnessing this endearing habit.

  “You want me to make those deliveries for you today, luv?” he asked.

  Kyle helped her deliver her girlie goods to the various stores that stocked them.

  “Please. The shops in Clevedon and Clifton are out of product, they’ve ordered huge and the boxes won’t fit in the MG.”

  “Great car but a death trap,” Kyle commented darkly and he’d said this before, about half a million times.

  Day-after-day, Kyle was assuming more and more of a position as Father Figure in Absence of Bertie and Sibyl appreciated his gruff, but loving, concern.

  Before she could reply, Jemma ran in, her dark hair bouncing around on the crown of her head, her face panicked.

  “I’ve got to call 999, Meg just fell out of the minibus.”

  At these words Sibyl’s heart squeezed painfully and her stomach lurched.

  Her friend grabbed the phone while both Kyle and Sibyl flew out of the office, through the Day Centre and out to the street.

  Sibyl wanted to burst into tears at what she saw.

  Instead, she ran forward and skidded to a halt next to the heavy, prone body of Meg.

  “Meg, honey, are you okay?” Sibyl asked, dropping to her knees and grabbing the woman’s hand, a hand which closed around her own in a painful grip, expressing her acute discomfort.

  “I think I’ve broken a hip,” Meg answered on a tortured whisper and Sibyl knew Meg was trying to be strong but at this pronouncement, her voice betrayed a steady whine of hurt.

  “Jem is calling the medics, we’ll get you to hospital in no time at all,” Sibyl tried to reassure her.

  “Don’t leave me, Sibyl,” Meg begged, her hand clutching Sibyl’s desperately and Sibyl nodded her head fervently. Then Meg pleaded, “Can someone please call my son?”

  “I’ll call her son,” Tina was standing over them, wringing her apron in concern. She stopped wringing her hands and ran off awkwardly on mangled feet to do her task as Jemma rushed toward them.

  “They’re on their way,” Jem announced when she was close.

  Hours later, the doctors reported to Sibyl, Jemma and Meg’s son (who had left straight from work to see to his mother) that Meg had broken her hip.

  Sibyl waited until she and Jemma were outside the doors of the hospital before she let her formidable temper explode.

  “That bloody, bloody minibus driver. He knows Meg needs help with transfers. He knows Kyle or I have to be there when Meg gets out of the bus. How could he let her fall?”

  “Her son is with her now, she’s a strong lady, she’ll be okay,” Jemma assured her, her chocolate eyes melting as she watched Sibyl in full, heartfelt, outrage.

  “She’s my responsibility when she comes to that Centre, Jem,” Sibyl replied, her voice rising. “And she’s my friend! How am I going to face her after this?”

  And as she spoke, Sibyl felt the same hated reminder that no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, things went very, very badly for people who mattered.

  Jem got closer and put a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm, saying softly, “You can’t save everyone from every little hurt, Sibyl. You couldn’t have prevented what happened today.”

  “I’m going to damn well try,” Sibyl snapped and Jemma shook her head gently.

  “Oh Billie, mate,” Jem whispered, using Sibyl’s not-oft-used nickname in an effort to settle her. “You break my heart.”

  “I’m going to break something and it isn’t your heart. It’s that minibus driver’s head!” Sibyl promised dramatically, hanging onto her anger in order not to feel her pain and definitely not to feel the nagging sense of guilt that she’d been the cause of today’s tragedy. Her and her big mouth.

  Jemma laughed, giving Sibyl’s shoulder a friendly shove and breaking the intensity of the moment. She then hugged Sibyl, an uncommon action from her reserved friend.

  “She’ll be okay,” Jem whispered in her ear.

  Sibyl let out a shuddering sigh. “I hope so.”

  But she didn’t hope so.

  Sibyl would do everything she could to make it so.

  The end was nigh for the likes of Meg and Annie’s anguish.

  Sibyl would see to it.

  * * * * *

  Colin drove down the attractive lane that led to Sibyl’s cottage and as he did he saw dotted in the woods sprinkles of late-blooming snowdrops, crocuses and opening daffodils. As he approached the picturesque, rambling, sparkling white cottage, he saw Sibyl’s MG and a Ford Fiesta parked in the widened drive at the front. Without room to park out front, he drove around the house and found a parking spot by th
e side.

  As he got out and walked to the front door, he noted that all the windows had window boxes and they’d already been planted with early spring flowers that tangled with dangling ivy.

  Colin was there because of last week but mostly because of last night.

  Last week, after sending Tamara away, Colin had ordered an investigation into the woman who called herself Sibyl Godwin.

  “I’ll need to go to America if I’m going to find out everything about her,” his investigator, Robert Fitzwilliam, told him. “Obviously, that will significantly increase my expenses.”

  “Do it,” was all Colin said. He was happy to pay to find out everything about Sibyl Godwin’s past and personally intended to find out who she was now.

  Arriving home early, Colin had sent Tamara home Wednesday afternoon.

  Things were very much finished with Tamara Adams, for a variety of reasons.

  The idiot woman had attempted to seduce him while Sibyl and Mrs. Byrne were in the house. He could barely think with Beatrice Godwin’s double lying in a bed (stubbornly freezing herself to death) two doors down from his own room, much less bear another woman’s hands on him. Then she’d had the temerity to act affronted when he told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had no interest. Making matters worse, she’d flown into a jealous rage after Sibyl and Mrs. Byrne had both left the next day.

  “I heard what you said to her!” Tamara ranted. “You were tempted by her. You said it, right in front of me!”

  He’d simply stared at her beautiful face, not so beautiful as it was distorted with rage.

  “How dare you!” she screeched when he’d made no response.

  “It’s my house, my life, my bed, I choose who I take to it,” Colin replied calmly.

  At this point, she’d flown at him in a fury.

  That was a big mistake.

  He’d pushed her off, ordered her out of his house and walked away.

  That, he knew, was the end of Tamara Adams.

  Colin would not put up with jealous rages and feminine pouts. With his usual ruthlessness, he made an instant decision. He didn’t care if it took years to find a suitable replacement, Tamara would never have his ring on her finger.