Behind her mother struggling with a fair amount of duty free shopping bags was Scarlett.
At the sight of her sister, Sibyl’s heart plummeted just as it sang with happiness.
Sibyl loved her sister, loved her to death. But her parents were one thing. Scarlett, being Scarlett, was going to be a problem. She read men like books, dissected them with her mind like a psychological biologist. She was good at it because she’d had a lot of practice. Sibyl would not be able to hide what she was to Colin from Scarlett.
There was plenty of room for them in the huge Mercedes sedan that Colin sent for her to use, a sedan that came complete with driver. Sibyl had, that morning at nine o’clock when she’d first clapped eyes on it, considered this an act of extreme thoughtfulness. Her parents could ride to Clevedon in complete luxury after a trying plane trip.
Now she wished she could send the driver home and troop her family into a bus just to be contrary.
Obviously, she could not.
Although her family seemed surprised at their chauffer driven transport, they took one look at her set face and knowingly let the matter slide.
Luckily the sedan had a huge trunk for all of her family’s luggage and Scarlett’s shopping. Scarlett sat in front with the driver and Mags, Bertie and Sibyl sat in the back. As usual, conversation was tangled and loving as they caught up. When they were nearly to Clevedon, Sibyl was forced to break the news.
And pretend to be happy about it.
And, considering her poor talents at prevarication, she was surprised she got away with it.
“We have plans for dinner tomorrow night,” she announced, trying desperately to sound cheerful and she must have succeeded because her mother and sister pounced on this right away.
Mags turned to Sibyl, her eyes bright.
“Really?” She drew this word out dramatically, her dancing green eyes alight with excitement (yet Sibyl had the strange sensation Mags was hiding something).
She had no time to assess this sensation for Scarlett twisted in her seat to stare at Sibyl, her blue eyes not bright with excitement but as usual teasing. “Well then, does this mean we’ll finally learn this mystery man’s name?”
Sibyl asked the goddess silently for patience but said with forced levity, “His name is Colin Morgan and he’d like us all to come to his house for dinner.”
“How delightful,” Bertie murmured, trying not to look too pleased all the while watching his daughter carefully.
“Where does he live? Does he live in Clevedon?” Scarlett asked.
“Yes.” Sibyl hated this whole thing but she knew she hated what she was going to say next the most. “Dad,” she called and her father turned kind eyes to her, “he’s the new owner of Lacybourne Manor.”
Her father, usually rather staid and mellow, gasped and his cheek went pink with pleasure.
“Lacybourne Manor? What’s Lacybourne Manor?” Mags asked.
“Sounds like a house in a Daphne du Maurier book,” Scarlett commented.
“It’s a great manor house, built in medieval times…” Bertie started to explain, breathless with excitement but as usual the rest of the women tuned him out the minute the word “medieval” passed his lips. The Godwin Girls always tuned Bertie out when he started instructing them on medieval history. For her part, Sibyl, who was usually the only one who listened to him (sometimes), found she’d rather spend her time seething, which she did.
Shortly after, when her family were ensconced in their rooms at the cottage all of them having naps to fend off jetlag, Sibyl searched through her bag and took out the business card Colin had given her weeks ago.
She grabbed her phone and went into the garden with Mallory and Bran close on her heels. She sat on one of her sun loungers and Bran jumped into her lap, pressing against her and purring. Mallory collapsed beside the lounger, exhausted from his amble which consisted of the great and taxing distance from living room to garden.
For the life of her (and she wasn’t actually going to ask) she could not fathom why Colin had done this. He had said he wanted to see her while her parents were in England but he’d never said he wanted to meet her parents.
She would never have agreed to that.
Never.
Sibyl turned her face to the sun and let her thoughts wander in an attempt at procrastination.
She’d called him without thinking after she couldn’t wake Mallory the night of the break-in and he’d done exactly what she needed him to do. He took control and handled things while she coped with the bizarre and frightening situation.
But he’d gone beyond that, being possessively, even fiercely protective. When he’d crouched by Mallory and gently stroked him muttering a curse in a tone that exactly matched Sibyl’s mood, she’d nearly come undone. She wanted to hurl herself in his arms, promise to pay him back every penny if they could go back to the beginning and start new.
But she couldn’t do that. They couldn’t do that. That time had long since passed.
She simply had to take what she had for as long as was left and be happy with it.
The morning after the break-in, she’d stood in his bathroom brushing her teeth and thinking how different it was this time at Lacybourne. It was normal, he was normal (not even a hint of a personality disorder). It felt safe. It felt right. It felt pleasantly, weirdly and wonderfully like she was home.
Helping it to be more pleasant and wonderful, Colin had come up behind her, kissed her shoulder and turned her into his arms.
“I like you in my bathroom,” he’d whispered in a voice so hot, his eyes blazing with intensity; she instantly relaxed in his loose embrace.
As if this wasn’t enough, he went on. “And in my kitchen,” already reduced to goo in his arms, those arms tightened and his face came close before he finished, “And in my bed.”
He then gave her a hard, closed-mouthed kiss (even though her mouth was filled with toothpaste foam) and he’d walked away, carelessly wiping the back of his hand across his lips to swipe away her foam.
It took her at least five minutes of holding the sink basin to recover from this heated yet tender barrage and every bit of self-control she possessed not to rush into the bedroom and pounce on him like a demented wanton.
Her teeth had gone a whole shade whiter.
The day after the cottage break-in, Colin sent a locksmith to put new locks on the front door and the backdoor. Not happy with this, he also sent out an alarm specialist to see to putting in an alarm. However, as the cottage was a listed building, everything would need to be approved by the heritage council before it was installed. Since Colin knew seventeen North Somerset Councillors (he reminded her rather arrogantly, as was, she’d learned, his way) this would not be a difficult proposition.
“But Colin, I can’t pay for an alarm system,” she informed him at the time.
“I’m hardly going to allow you to live at Brightrose when there’s a lunatic running around with a tranquilliser gun,” he replied like it was as simple as that.
“But Colin, I can’t afford an alarm system,” she somewhat repeated, thinking the different word might permeate his dictatorial brain.
“You aren’t paying for it, I am.”
“But Colin –”
“It’s either that or live at Lacybourne with me.”
At that alarming juncture in the conversation, she’d given in though not gracefully.
He’d also, to her surprise (and hidden delight) had a survey done of the Community Centre and had some builder “pop ‘round” to look at building an office extension for her.
The oldies were beside themselves with delight and Kyle couldn’t believe his luck at the possibility of no more patched wire jobs and blocked toilets.
When she approached Colin about this he’d said, “The place is a health hazard. If something isn’t done, it’ll crumble down on your head and I happen to like your head as it is.”
Well. How could she respond to that?
She didn’t know
so she didn’t respond at all and couldn’t, really, since he’d brushed his lips to hers, turned from her and walked into the kitchen.
Furthermore, a rubbish truck arrived last Friday and carted away the old, ratty chairs and couches that littered the Day Centre (and nearly every stick of furniture in Sibyl’s office). It was replaced within a half an hour with new, plush easy chairs and a three piece suite. There were brand new, sturdy yet attractive tables on which the oldies could lunch with far more comfortable, not to mention safe chairs all around the tables. Sibyl herself had a new desk, a swivel chair that could only be described as luxurious and a lovely, comfortable couch in her office.
“I’m definitely writing your mother about this,” Mrs. Griffith proclaimed, settling contentedly in a new, plump, mauve chair covered in soft velour.
Sibyl had been so beside herself with glee, she didn’t know what to say or do. When she saw Colin again after the new furniture was delivered, he passed it off like it was nothing even though she knew it had to be worth thousands of pounds.
She thought he’d demand his pound of flesh, another month, maybe two, but he didn’t say a word.
Not a single word.
Instead, the whole time, he treated her like she was, well… his girlfriend. The very idea of him having a girlfriend was ridiculous. Men like Colin didn’t have girlfriends; they had arm candy, glorious, sunken-cheeked, catwalk-model-type lovers. When he’d described himself as her boyfriend the night Mallory was shot, she’d been stunned but she thought it was simply his way of describing the indescribable. He couldn’t say what she really was to him.
However, for the rest of the week, although he was constantly authoritarian (as per usual), his usual politeness and gallantry had melted to something that was far more tender.
Sibyl didn’t know what to make of this, how to handle herself with this new Colin or who she was to him anymore. She was confused and felt vulnerable and he pressed this advantage aggressively, asking her questions about her life, her work, her friends. She couldn’t bear up against it, telling him things she never meant him to know, inviting him into her life where she never meant him to be.
She’d even told him about the incident with the animal shelter, something she promised her father she’d never speak of again, in her whole life, under threat of death or certain torture or, at the very least, being disowned.
She was on dangerous ground for this Colin, who she thought of as Royce/Colin, was something new and different and entirely wonderful.
And she feared that she was making him thus simply because she wanted it. Simply because she had decided that she was going to make the most of the time she had with him and she, as an untapped, untrained witch, was turning him into something he was not, using a power she could not control.
Of course, she could never tell him this. She could not tell him of her dreams of Royce (dreams she still had, every night) or the beautiful kiss they shared. Colin would call in the men with the straight jacket and have her carted off immediately.
Or, worse, turn away and walk out of her life forever.
But that was then and this was now and Colin was no longer Royce/Colin of the possessive, protective, tender, loving variety. He was back to Colin of the annoying, imperious, crazy variety.
Sibyl phoned his office, not his mobile, meaning only to leave him a message because she did not want to speak to him at all. She’d never phoned his office before and didn’t relish the thought. As she dialled, she even entertained the notion (quite contentedly) of spending the next four months sleeping with him but never speaking to him again.
A woman answered, “Colin Morgan’s office.”
Something about this greeting made her seethe more.
“Hello, this is Sibyl Godwin. I’d like to leave Mr. Morgan a message.”
“Oh, hi Miss Godwin. I’m Mandy, Mr. Morgan’s assistant. He told me to put you through immediately if you called. One moment.”
Then before she could get a word in edgewise, Sibyl was put on hold. This gave her the golden opportunity to seethe even more and she took it. She did not spend one second (well, maybe one second) thinking what it meant that he’d instructed his secretary to put her through the minute she phoned.
Faster than she expected, she heard his rich, attractive voice saying, “Sibyl.”
She tried not to react to the sound of his voice and without preamble she began, “Colin, you should know, for dinner tomorrow night –”
“Sibyl, I don’t –”
She interrupted him as he interrupted her. “I’m just calling to tell you that my sister is here too.”
He was silent.
“It was a surprise,” she explained wishing she could be more excited about her sister’s surprise visit and blaming Colin for that too.
“I’ll inform Mrs. Manning of the addition,” he replied, though he sounded strangely pleased.
Sibyl seethed even more.
“Mrs. Manning?” Sibyl queried, her voice curt.
“My housekeeper,” he answered calmly.
“Oh.” Of course, Mrs. Manning, the housekeeper.
“I’ll send a car to collect you,” he added.
“Fine,” she bit out, knowing it was an order and not feeling she had a tight enough reign on her temper to fight him on it.
“Sibyl –”
“I’ve got to go,” and with a great deal of courage, she hung up on him.
Luckily and unfortunately, he did not call her back. Luckily, because she didn’t wish to speak to him. Unfortunately, because him not calling her back meant she had to worry if he was angry with her for hanging up on him.
Her family’s first evening in England was spent, to Bertie’s despair (although he quickly found himself listening to a comedy programme on BBC’s Radio 4), in Sibyl’s bedroom with Scarlett and Mags inventorying Sibyl’s wardrobe. Apparently, after Sibyl’s phone call several weeks before, Scarlett became alarmed at the state of her older sister’s apparel and decided it was high time for a fashion overhaul.
With clothes and shoes everywhere, Scarlett turned from the wardrobe to Sibyl, who was lying on the bed, and proclaimed, “Girl, you really need a little black dress.”
“And some of those peasant shirts. They’re very ‘in’ right now,” Mags added helpfully, sitting on the floor and sifting through piles of clothes.
“The dress is priority,” Scarlett decreed, her face contorting in hilarious distaste at the thought of a peasant shirt.
“And maybe some of those flowing gypsy skirts,” Mags ignored her younger daughter.
With the state of Sibyl’s wardrobe declared at a level Scarlett told her was called “dire”, the next day, while Bertie took the MG and went to Clevedon Library to research Lacybourne and do the other things professors did when they lost themselves for hours in libraries, the women took a taxi to the train station and went to Bath in search of a little black dress. They found three, as well as four new pairs of shoes (for Sibyl, Scarlett bought herself two). Scarlett relentlessly added two skirts, three pairs of trousers, a pair of jeans, several expensive, designer t-shirts, four blouses and a good deal of lingerie and sleepwear to Sibyl’s massive shopping take of the day.
Which meant Sibyl (and Scarlett) were both wearing little black dresses to Lacybourne.
Sibyl would have liked to have been wearing a potato sack to make her feelings about the evening perfectly clear but instead her dress was halter necked, the narrow, deep V showing more than a hint of cleavage (indeed, it went nearly to her midriff) and the hem of the skirt hit her two inches above the knee ending in a short, perky ruffle. The ruffle, Sibyl found, was the most annoying part of her outfit as she felt anything but perky. Her legs were bare and shone with some kind of lotion-slash-oil that Scarlett forced her to try (and, Sibyl thought, with professional detachment, she should add it to her spa inventory). Her feet were encased in a pair of beautiful, yet painful and extremely expensive, spike-heeled, elaborately strapped sandals.
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nbsp; Scarlett and Sibyl had nearly come to blows when Scarlett demanded Sibyl wear her hair up and Sibyl dug her heels in and wore it down. This was done in order to irritate the now-despised (Sibyl was telling herself) Colin. Once he found out the weight of her hair gave her headaches, he had begun the habit of bunching her hair in his fist and lifting its weight while kissing her, holding her and, once, just plain old standing close to her. She had thought this lovely. Now, since she fully intended to wear a pained expression the entire evening, she’d aggravate his conscience at the same time.
And now they were in the car driving through the slowly darkening night to Sibyl’s doom.
Lacybourne.
Bertie was going on about some star-crossed lovers who used to live at Lacybourne but Sibyl wasn’t paying attention even though Mags and Scarlett were listening to this dramatic story with unusually rapt attention. Sibyl was too busy with her new favourite pastime of controlling her temper and trying very hard not to cry.
The driver of the sleek, black limousine turned into the gates of Lacybourne and Sibyl held her breath.
She felt, inexplicably, that her life was about to change (yet again) and she convinced herself that it was not for the better (yet again).
The weather was holding out even though a storm was, for the first time in weeks, threatening and luckily, this time, there was no rain, thunder, lightning or misbehaved pets. As the car halted, Sibyl touched the place at her temple, just under her hairline, where a small, only slightly still pink scar was the physical souvenir of her first visit to Lacybourne.
The driver let out Mags and Scarlett on one side. Sibyl exited the other side with her father’s assistance. Once they’d alighted, Mags and Scarlett stood staring in wonder at the dramatically grand and beautiful manor house that lay before them.
Sibyl didn’t notice it and started toward the front door but her father stopped her by not releasing her hand and not moving.
When she turned to her father, he got close.
“Sibyl, my love, is there something not right between you and this Colin?” Bertie was studying her intently and she realised he was very tuned into her mood, as per normal. She and her father had a close bond; they always had for as long as she could remember.
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