“I’ve called 999, they’re sending someone straight away,” Tamara said as she rushed into the room.
Colin didn’t look at Tamara, he continued to stare at the woman on the couch.
All the years he’d waited and now here she was.
And she was blonde.
And suddenly and very strangely, he felt his body react, every muscle tightening instantaneously as he continued to drink in the sight of her. His gut clenched and his heart felt clutched in an iron fist.
“Colin?” Tamara called, her hand lightly touching his tense arm but her light touch felt like pinpricks of icicles sinking into his flesh and he experienced the strange desire to shrug her off and eject her forcibly from the house.
Before he could wonder at this reaction, he heard, “I’ve got a wet flannel. She’ll need some ice.” Mrs. Byrne was walking quickly into the room. She pushed past Colin and sat next to the woman, leaning forward to press the flannel gently against the bloodied area of the woman’s head.
Not even close to coming to terms with his shock at seeing the vision of Beatrice (but blonde), Colin stared at the older woman as she ministered to her charge in a way that Colin thought distractedly was rather familiar. Mrs. Byrne had said the woman was just an American who wanted to view the house and now the older woman was caring for her as if she was her own granddaughter.
Furthermore, Colin thought, his mind clearing quickly as he watched the scene, Mrs. Byrne had been working in Lacybourne for years. She had to have seen the uncanny, even otherworldly, resemblance of this woman to the portrait that had hung in the Great Hall for nearly five hundred years.
Colin felt a feeling recognised very well slicing quickly through his fogged brain.
No, not this, not her, he thought.
“Who is she?” Colin asked the older woman, Tamara’s hand had not left his arm and her grip was becoming less and less light with each passing moment.
The older woman didn’t appear to realise he was addressing her. Colin ignored Tamara’s insistent hand and knew that instinctive, familiar feeling in his gut was something he did not very much like.
It was the feeling that he was being played.
Colin’s mind fully cleared and he felt a slow burn begin.
He may be ruthless, but he was (most of the time) fair. He was normally quite controlled. Cynical, of course, but aloof. Resigned to the often annoying foibles of lower mortals (a league to which he relegated most everyone but his sacred circle). He could have, and normally would have, calmly waited for an explanation.
But now, this instant, with the unconscious woman on his couch looking exactly like Beatrice Morgan, the woman he’d waited for all his life, and Mrs. Byrne, who had, perhaps with the help of the American, staged this entire event, he felt an irrational, nearly uncontrollable fury begin to build.
“Mrs. Byrne, who is she?” Colin repeated.
Mrs. Byrne turned remarkably innocent-looking eyes to his. “I’ve no idea, Mr. Morgan. She came around yesterday afternoon –”
He didn’t believe her for a second.
“How long have you been docent in this house for National Trust?” Colin interrupted, his voice was calm, so calm it was dangerous.
“Seven years, but I don’t see –”
In that instant, he’d suddenly had enough.
“Look at her face!” Colin thundered, losing his nearly legendary patience. In fact, it seemed his increasing rage was born of something else entirely, something he couldn’t control, so he didn’t. “God damn it, you’ve seen that portrait thousands of times! Who is she?”
Mrs. Byrne jumped, the hand not compressing the flannel on the woman’s head rising to her throat. Then she stared at him with a curious intensity as if she was a scientist marking her reaction to an experiment.
At this point, the eyes of the woman on the couch fluttered open and then darted around in a passable interpretation of panic. She reared up into a sitting position, dislodging Mrs. Byrne’s hand and the cat on her chest who then went flying out of the room.
“Ow!” Her hand flew to her temple and then, encountering wetness, it came away and she stared in disbelief at the blood.
“Who the hell are you?” Colin stormed, not believing her performance for one bloody, fucking second.
Her hazel eyes, a perfectly familiar hazel, lifted to his and blinked at him in bemusement. With one look from those eyes, he nearly forgot himself. He nearly forgot the decades of betrayal that hardened him against these schemes.
But then he remembered and it was as if she embodied every deceitful bitch he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter.
“I said,” he roared, “who the fuck are you?”
Tamara jumped away in shock.
Mrs. Byrne stood, her hand coming up in a placating gesture.
“Mr. Morgan, I don’t think –” Mrs. Byrne began.
“Who the fuck are you?” the woman on the couch asked him, her own voice vibrating with anger.
And Colin could not believe his ears. He saw his vision explode in a white-hot fury he had not felt in years, maybe never felt in his lifetime.
He knew, without any doubt, that this woman and her old friend had set this up. She looked exactly like Beatrice Godwin and Mrs. Byrne would have noticed that in an instant. The fact that Mrs. Byrne had not mentioned it, not once during the telephone conversation or her explanation this evening, showed she was hiding something. They would have, of course, wanted the element of surprise.
Who, in their right mind, viewed a heritage property and brought their dog and cat for God’s sake?
Therefore, Colin was not going to stand in his own damned house and be cursed at by a blatant con artist.
“I own Lacybourne Manor and you were trespassing,” he answered.
Her eyes flew to Mrs. Byrne (tellingly, he thought), then she winced and put her hand up to her temple again.
“Save the dramatics and just tell me who you are.” His voice had gone from biting anger to extreme annoyance and this obvious lowering in the level of fury caused her remarkable eyes to move back to him.
“I’m Sibyl Godwin.”
At that ridiculous pronouncement, first Colin Morgan blinked at her then he threw his head back and laughed.
In his angry amusement, he missed the confusion that flashed across her face but did catch her rising to her full height and his laughter faded as he noted belatedly she was definitely not petite.
She was not a lot of things.
She was not slim. She had a full, lush body that seemed absolutely built, even divinely created, for a man’s hands. She did not have blemishless alabaster skin but had freckles on her goddamned nose. And she did not have sleek, shining, dark hair but had the most remarkably dramatic, leonine mane he’d ever seen in his life.
“I’d ask what’s so funny about my name but I think there’s been some misunderstanding here –” she started.
“There has been no misunderstanding,” he assured her scathingly. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
He noticed she was swaying and felt he should, out loud, give her points for her performance, she was very close to scoring a perfect ten.
Or, at the very least, he felt he should applaud.
Her dog had stood with her and was pressing his nose against her hand and Colin watched in passing fascination as she gently and distractedly stroked the dog’s muzzle.
“Driver’s license?” She was back to feigning confusion.
“Yes, Miss Godwin. I’m assuming it’s ‘Miss’?” His voice was like ice.
She stared at him as if he was a being from another planet.
“It’s ‘Ms.’ if you must know and yes, I have a driver’s license. Why on earth –?”
“Let me see it,” he demanded.
“Mr. Morgan, I don’t think –” Mrs. Byrne attempted to intervene.
“That’s enough out of you,” he snapped at the older woman.
“Colin!” Even Tamara, who had been comp
letely silent throughout this scene, had enough manners to object to his behaviour to the older woman.
“This is… you are… I don’t believe…” The woman who called herself Godwin was stuttering, staring at him now with eyes narrowed and flashing a brilliant green with anger.
Rather fetchingly too, he thought with some detachment.
And she was still swaying precariously.
“You need to sit down, dear,” Mrs. Byrne was saying, ignoring Colin, she gently pushed the woman down to a sitting position on the couch.
“Where’s your bloody license?” Colin roared.
The dog barked, angry and fierce, three times in a row.
Colin ignored him but the woman turned to the animal and commanded, “Mallory, be quiet!”
The dog stopped barking but the name of her pet being uttered was just too much.
The same name as the dead Royce Morgan’s legendary steed.
“Priceless,” he hissed, the ferocity back in his voice.
Her eyes jerked to his, the depth of green was now a hard, glittering emerald.
“If you need my license, it’s in my bag, which is in my car, which is –”
Colin didn’t listen to another word.
He turned on his heel and left the room, heading straight to her car.
* * * * *
“I need to go home.” Sibyl looked at Mrs. Byrne, who seemed the only sane person in the room. “There’s been a terrible mistake and furthermore, that man is a raving lunatic.”
There was a low, indistinct noise made by the other woman in the room and Sibyl looked into the cool blue eyes of the stunning woman who was standing five feet away from her. The woman looked amused by this debacle.
Amused.
There was absolutely nothing funny about one damned minute of what had just occurred.
Not… one… thing.
She couldn’t stay in this madhouse a second longer.
It was the man from her dream, come alive, breathing, walking, talking, shouting.
And he was stark raving mad.
She couldn’t believe it.
It was just her luck. The moment she found who she thought was the man of her dreams, her one true love, the man she’d been waiting her for entire life, he was screaming maniac.
Sibyl started to stand in order to escape when Mrs. Byrne pressed her back with surprising strength.
“There’s medical assistance coming, you’ve had a nasty bang on the head, you need to rest.”
“Rest?” Sibyl asked, her voice dripping with incredulity. “I’m sorry but I’m going home.”
They heard the sirens when the crazy man from her dream strode angrily back into the room. He was holding her sleek, red leather handbag (a Christmas gift from her sister) and he fairly threw it at her when he arrived at their deranged quartet (quintet, if you counted Mallory).
“Your license,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
She had no idea why he needed her license. She’d never shown her license while viewing a National Trust or English Heritage site and she’d seen dozens of them.
Feeling she’d never been so humiliated in her whole life, noting that Mrs. Byrne was moving to her other side to wipe a drip of blood that Sibyl could feel sliding down her face, she tore through her bag and pulled out her wallet. The other woman had disappeared.
She found her license and tossed it to him. He caught it without any effort and she wished (unusually waspishly) that he’d fumbled it.
He stared at it then lifted his angry clay-coloured eyes to hers.
“Where’s your passport?” he demanded.
“You have got to be kidding,” she breathed.
She could not believe her ears.
She just wanted to see his house; it was a heritage estate for goddess’s sake, not the Pentagon. It hardly required two forms of identification.
“She’s right here. She’s hit her head.” The other woman was walking into the room leading two men in green jumpsuits and the men approached Sibyl, carrying medical boxes.
Sibyl felt like the cavalry had just arrived.
“What’s happened here, then?” one man asked in a kindly tone and it took everything Sibyl had not to burst into tears.
She would not let the tall, good-looking madman see her cry. She didn’t care if he was the man in her dream, he was not a dream man by any stretch of the imagination.
“I fell, outside, hit my head,” Sibyl explained.
“What were you doing outside in this storm?” the paramedic asked, gently touching her head.
She turned imploringly towards him. “My dog… it doesn’t matter. I need to go home.”
“What year is it?” he enquired.
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience and counting to ten. She knew this drill, her sister was in the final years of her residency to be a neurologist and had spent hours regaling the family with information and stories filled with medical jargon, interesting case studies and detailed (and boring) explanations of testing and procedures.
Sibyl told him the year, the month, the day, the president’s name, the prime minister’s name, her name, her address and what she ate for breakfast (granola and fat-free, organic, vanilla yogurt).
“Did you lose consciousness?” he asked with an admiring (albeit slightly flirtatious) smile at her recitation.
Sibyl chanced a look at the man Mrs. Byrne called Mr. Morgan. He was looking now at the paramedic with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched so hard Sibyl could see a muscle jump.
“Five minutes, at least,” Mrs. Byrne replied helpfully. She’d moved away to let the medic get to Sibyl and now she stood wringing the bloodied cloth in her hands and looking…
Sibyl peered closely at her…
Guilty.
“It’s concerning, you’ll have to be watched.” The paramedic was cleaning the wound. “Put some ice on this immediately and keep it on for as long as you can bear it.” He turned toward the maniac owner of Lacybourne. “I don’t see any reason to admit her to hospital, she seems lucid and hasn’t lost any memory. You’ll have to observe her, make sure to wake her several times in the night –”
“What!” Sibyl shouted. “No! I’m going home.”
“This isn’t home?” The paramedic looked from her to the crazy man and went on bizarrely, “That picture in the hall –”
“This is not her home,” Mr. Morgan’s baritone voice noted drily.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs. Byrne waded in courageously. “Or, my dear, I know we don’t know each other very well but perhaps you should stay with me tonight. We’ll come collect your car tomorrow. My cats won’t mind a little company.”
“She really should rest,” the other medic was saying while the first one put a bandage on the side of Sibyl’s forehead.
“I’m leaving,” Sibyl insisted.
“You’re staying,” the lunatic put in smoothly.
“She’s what?” the cool brunette snapped, finally losing her arctic composure.
“No I most certainly am not!” Sibyl shouted, making her head pound.
“I’ll not have you leave this house and die in the night from a concussion and open myself up to your American family suing me for every penny I’ve got,” Mr. Morgan noted in a calm, even voice.
“I’m not going to die,” Sibyl snapped.
“You’re not going to leave,” he returned.
“My parents will not sue,” she felt the need to add.
“You’re still not going to leave,” he retorted.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Byrne said.
“You’re staying too,” the lord of the manor stated.
“I thought that,” Mrs. Byrne noted resignedly. She grabbed Sibyl’s hand and patted it kindly. “I’ll look after you.”
Sibyl turned her eyes to the older woman and she saw the woman staring at her with a bizarre intensity.
“I want to go home, Mrs. Byrne,” Sibyl told her, her tone fervent.
�
�Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll all have a good rest and we’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“Not likely.” This, of course, was noted by the tall, impossibly handsome but utterly mad man who owned this (from what she could tell from the one room she’d actually seen) beautiful home.
Sibyl turned beseeching eyes to the kindly paramedic, thinking maybe even Mrs. Byrne had only a tentative hold on reality.
“I just want to go home,” she informed who she hoped would be her saviour.
He seemed to hesitate, clearly reading the mood in the room, when a radio squawked.
“Got another one,” his colleague said, pulling the radio from his leg.
“Sorry,” the kindly paramedic muttered. “Call me tomorrow, my name is Steve. Let me know how you’re getting on.” Then he winked (definitely flirtatiously which, of course, was nice and all but didn’t do her any good at the present moment and further was a bit inappropriate), pressed a card in her hand and followed his colleague out the door.
Sibyl looked from the small, dark woman who was staring at her with polar icecaps as eyes. Then she moved her eyes to Mrs. Byrne who was smiling at her… could she believe it... encouragingly.
Then finally to her dream man, who was looking like he couldn’t decide whether to beat her to a bloody pulp or carry her up to his bedroom for something else altogether.
And that was no joke; honestly, she could read that right in his eyes.
That last thought made her breath flood out of her in a rush and she glared at him with mutinous eyes.
If she couldn’t find a way to escape, Sibyl thought hysterically, it was going to be a long night.
Chapter Five
Tempted
It was the longest night in Sibyl’s life.
Once the paramedics left, Mr. Morgan, the raving lunatic who most definitely needed psychiatric counselling or at the very least, anger management classes, left her and Mrs. Byrne alone. He took the unnamed Ice Queen with him.
The Polar Sorceress came back shortly after with an ice pack and handed it rather ungraciously to Mrs. Byrne, completely avoiding looking at Sibyl at all.
Then she left again.
After Sibyl attempted to talk Mrs. Byrne into making a break for it (that maniac couldn’t actually imprison them in his medieval manor house, for goodness sakes), Mrs. Byrne explained the misunderstanding and how she felt that it was a good idea to let tempers cool and talk about everything in the morning.
Lacybourne Manor Page 5