It was a fanciful notion and a man like Royce did not waste time on fanciful notions.
He lifted his hand to her neck, setting his thumb on the soft skin under her chin.
“Do you fear this night? Our night?” he asked gently.
Her eyes rounded. “Yes… no… yes, but I think… no.”
He shook his head but still grinned at her.
“You have nothing to fear, beloved.”
Her eyes melted to liquid.
And, at that familiar sight, Royce had no choice.
He bent his head to kiss her.
* * * * *
Esmeralda Crane rushed out of her cottage on her way to Lacybourne and was nearly so attuned to her task of saving the doomed lovers that she missed the change in the atmosphere.
Then she saw it.
It was not just golden but thick as stew.
She felt a timid hope spring into her heart and she quickened her step, clutching the potion to her.
* * * * *
In the present time, in the library, at Lacybourne…
* * * * *
Idly, Marian pulled the volume out of the shelf as she heard Phoebe ask distractedly, “What could have happened to them?”
Marian thought about what she hoped had happened to Colin and Sibyl, that they were breaking the curse. Which, considering Colin’s reputation, might take awhile. She turned the pages, leafing through the book as the guests chattered and the children played.
“I cannot imagine,” Mags answered Phoebe, enunciating every word playfully.
Marian’s eyes skimmed down the book. She hadn’t seen it in years and she had no idea what drew her to pulling it from the shelf. She had mostly memorised it, of course, but…
Her eyes stopped dead on some words on the page and her body got tight.
A date.
A date nearly five hundred years before.
How could she have forgotten?
And then her eyes widened when she saw all the words after the date had become misty and unreadable. As if, even though they were meant to tell the story of long-dead lovers, they had not yet been written. As if they were waiting to form, waiting for the story to unfold, a story that should have been forged with time.
A story that clearly was not.
A thrill ran up her spine, her head jerked up and she asked a question to which she already knew the answer. “What’s today’s date?”
She said it too loudly and with too much alarm. Several pairs of eyes swivelled to her and several mouths gave her the information she sought.
Marian snapped the book shut and strode purposefully toward Mags.
And when she made it to the other woman, she announced gravely, “Marguerite. It’s time.”
* * * * *
In the wood, the man shifted through the leaves, trying to be quiet and definitely being watchful.
No matter how quiet or watchful he was, he would never have heard or seen the spectre drifting behind him.
However, he did feel, for a brief, painful moment, the blow that struck him on the head.
The man collapsed, unconscious, to the ground.
The spectre drifted away.
Light work, it thought.
Resurrected by the dark soul mere moments previously, the spectre had only one gruesome mission this night. His reviver had tried to use beings in this time but they had failed. Thus, it had been called forward to do again what it had done many years before.
Once the task was complete, it could drift back to its oblivion, a dark oblivion it had occupied for nearly five hundred years.
A dark, wicked oblivion.
The spectre was happy for its task. It needed a break from that place.
* * * * *
In the bedroom, Colin lifted Sibyl up in his arms and he kissed her as he walked toward the bed. Her arms slid around his shoulders, one hand drifting into the hair at the back of his head as she kissed him back.
He stopped at the side of the bed and dropped her legs, allowing her feet to fall slowly toward the floor, all the while her body skimming against his.
“I take it you like the nightie,” she breathed, her eyes liquid.
In answer, his hands glided down her sides and he felt her delicious shiver.
“I’ll count that as a yes,” she whispered.
His hands came forward and he watched them as they moved across her ribcage, up under her breasts where they stopped.
Oh yes, Colin most definitely liked the nightie.
“Someone told me once,” Sibyl was saying, although he wasn’t listening to her, he was pleasantly contemplating where to put his hands next. Thinking maybe he’d tug the hem up to get a better look at the satin panties of which he could now only see a tantalising glimpse. Or, perhaps, he’d run his palms against her nipples to see how they looked hardened under that exquisite lace.
She kept talking. “That you should never commit to a man unless you’ve been with him through all four seasons.”
“Mm?” he mumbled as he decided on her nipples.
Then he heard her breath catch as he carried out his plan.
Her voice continued doggedly (although it was now quivering a little). “We’ve only been through one season and we’re not even through that.”
He decided that, as God saw fit to grant him two hands, he could use them for two splendidly different purposes. He ran one down her side, shifting it to slide down the small of her back to her ass. The other, he kept at her breast and again lightly ran his thumb over her nipple.
That earned him another catch of her breath.
But she kept speaking.
“Colin? Are you listening to me? Maybe we’re being a bit hasty.”
With great reluctance, he lifted his eyes from his fascinated study of what his thumb was doing to her breast. He looked at her face just as his thumb, joined by his finger, became a little more relentless. As she was talking, indeed carrying on what seemed a weighty conversation, he decided he wasn’t doing his job very well.
As his fingers tugged at her, his hand cupped her bottom and pressed it to his rigid groin.
Her eyes grew dazed, her mouth parted and a soft breath escaped.
“Sibyl?” he called.
She nodded. “Unh hunh?”
“Shut up.”
* * * * *
In the gatehouse, another spectre dispatched the watchful guard at the same time the last was felled at the edge of the third terrace of the back garden.
The plan was coming together.
* * * * *
Robert Fitzwilliam looked at the clock on the dashboard of his car and then out at the rolling hills. He deduced he was, at most, fifteen minutes from Lacybourne Manor.
He did not like the look in the eye of his employer that morning and he never wanted that look directed at him again.
He was just going to make a quick stop to check on his team.
* * * * *
At the same time, but many years earlier, in the wood a fifteen minute horseback ride away from Lacybourne…
* * * * *
Royce lifted his head; his body was, as usual after he kissed Beatrice, on fire for her.
He yanked at the chain that held his cloak together at his neck, pulled it from his shoulders and whirled it out to lie it on the ground beside them.
“What… what are you doing?” Beatrice gasped, her eyes dazed, her lips swollen from his kiss.
“I cannot wait.” His voice was gruff. He no sooner wanted to bed her their first time on the forest floor in the threatening rain than he wanted the world to come to an abrupt end.
But he told no lie. He simply couldn’t wait. Something was driving him and at that moment, with his new bride’s eyes hazy with passion, her cheeks flushed, his body burning, he had no desire to question it.
She gulped and turned her beautiful eyes to his before she admitted quietly, “Nor I.”
At her words, he snatched her to him and he was not in any mood for romance
and gentleness. His mouth devoured hers and she moaned against his lips, against his tongue in her mouth and he swept her up and dropped to one knee, laying her on his cloak.
The horse (neither of them noticed) shifted slightly closer, its ears up and alert.
He stretched out beside her, his hands roving her body, his groin pressed demandingly against her hip.
Lightning streaked the sky as his mouth took possession of hers and he roughly pulled up her skirts, his hand finding the smooth skin of her thigh and gliding across it, touching it for the first time and the silken feel of it made him wild.
“God’s teeth,” he cursed, burying his face in her neck as thunder rent the air. If he didn’t have her soon, he’d spend himself before they were skin against skin.
“What do I do?” she whispered, her voice half timid, half filled with desire.
“Touch me,” he replied without hesitation.
“But… where?”
“Anywhere.”
And she did.
* * * * *
The dark soul stood, hidden behind the copse of the trees.
The air had gone golden even as the clouds rolled in and lightning lit the sky. It made no sense and, further, strangely, it was hard to breath.
“They should be here now,” an accomplice hissed.
The others shifted, uncomfortable, uneasy with the golden air, the delayed carnage.
Something was wrong. The dark soul felt that it should have been done by now.
That somehow, it had been done by now.
And yet, it wasn’t.
* * * * *
Jumping forward in time, at Lacybourne…
* * * * *
Rick strode into the library.
He motioned to Kyle with a quick jerk of his head.
Kyle read the gesture and without word or delay he followed him into the Great Hall.
They had words.
Rick went out the front.
Kyle went out the back.
* * * * *
The (other) plan was in motion.
Phoebe wheeled Meg into the lounge with the children.
Meg had her orders, she had a key to the door and she had the cordless phone.
The children had their DVD.
Annie joined them.
The children decided to take turns shouting to Annie about what was on the screen.
Phoebe carefully locked them in.
And just as carefully, Marian sprinkled a protection charm on the threshold.
* * * * *
Mags ran to the kitchen. She found the huge pot hidden in the butler’s pantry and with an unladylike grunt she tugged it out, brought it to the kitchen proper and hefted it onto the burner. She lit the gas underneath it to the highest heat and pulled the lid off the pot.
Then she peeled the aluminium foil off the top.
Then she removed the plastic wrap that had been underneath the foil.
It did have a very foul odour, one that needed to be hidden for a variety of reasons.
Marian bustled in sprinkling something from a glass vile onto the floor and whispering under her breath. This she had done all through the house where Colin and Sibyl’s guests would be.
Jemma and Tina bustled in and Phoebe followed them.
Mrs. Griffith (a little slow anyway) brought up the rear.
“Mrs. Griffith,” Jemma said, trying to sound stern, “you should be in the lounge.”
“If you think I’m going to miss this, you’re mad,” Mrs. Griffith returned, a highly unusual smile cracking her face.
Before anyone could say anything else, Marian seemed to come to herself and noticed the pot.
“That will not do at all,” she said to no one and then snapped her fingers.
The flames flew up on all sides of the pot, licking it and crackling in the air.
Everyone jumped back a step.
“Let’s go, ladies. We have work to do,” Marian commanded.
Without hesitation, as they had been instructed earlier at the barbeque, they formed a semi-circle around the pot, trying not to breathe the putrid fumes.
And they started to chant the words Marian had taught them over vegetable shish kebabs.
* * * * *
Sibyl was on her back on the bed, Colin on top of her, Colin all over her. His mouth was at one breast and he’d pulled down the other cup of the nightie and there his fingers were teasing her. Unlike normally, when the spirals of hot desire went from her breasts, her stomach, tingling up from her toes and zooming toward the space between her legs, instead, the spirals were zooming out from between her legs and going everywhere.
She’d torn his sweater off, nearly ripped it off over his head before he pushed her back on the bed. Now he was only in jeans, she in her nightie and she could stand it no more. She wanted his skin against her skin, she wanted him inside her.
She put her hands in his hair, tugged his head up to hers and kissed him with every bit of love (which was a lot) and every bit of arousal (which was a lot, a lot) she felt.
He tore his mouth away and gazed at her with eyes blazing so intensely, she was sure she’d melt.
She whispered, “Now.”
Without hesitation, he left her. As she absently heard thunder fill the air, she watched with fascination as he removed his jeans and then leaned forward and in one, quick, luscious jerk, he pulled her panties down her legs. He smoothed the lace up over her hips as she reached for him to bring him to her.
He spread her thighs and surged over her and with one, fierce, beautiful, fluid movement he filled her.
“Yes,” she breathed.
* * * * *
“Yes,” Beatrice breathed.
They were finally naked on the cloak, skin against skin. Royce had taken pains to make her ready for him, he’d tasted her, tempted her, teased her. He couldn’t believe the beauty of her body, could not believe she was all his, to touch with his hands, his lips, his mouth.
He was certainly going to enjoy a lifetime of this. Very, very much.
Now with his head bent to her breast, he pulled her nipple sharply in his mouth, rolling his tongue around it and listening to her soft, exquisite moans.
His fingers had found resistance earlier but he had loosened it using her unwavering trust in him against her instincts, as well as his talented fingers, and they were now, finally inside her.
And she was dripping wet.
She was ready for him.
He spread her legs and rolled between them while his mouth took hers in a sweet kiss, his hands moving to frame her face.
“This will hurt, my love,” he murmured against her lips as he found her with the tip of his shaft and, controlling his hips with an immense effort of will, he slid inside her just an inch.
Her eyes grew wide as she felt his invasion.
“Royce,” she breathed.
He slid in more, mere centimetres and gritted his teeth. He had avoided death in countless gory battles on countless blood-drenched battlefields but the exquisite torture of her lush tightness was finally going to kill him.
“I can’t stop the pain, but I shall try and make it…” He had to stop speaking and again grit his teeth so he wouldn’t drive into her with the wild abandon his body was demanding but only press in less than an inch more.
“I can’t…” she whispered.
“You can, my sweet.” He slid in further. “Trust me.”
“I can’t…” It was softer this time and her head moved to the side as he slowly inched in and let her adjust to his further intrusion.
“Trust me,” he repeated.
“I can’t…” she said and then with a glorious jerk, she slammed her hips down towards his. She emitted a soft cry of pain that was drowned out with his low growl as she embedded him fully inside her.
Her eyes opened and they were clear and trusting when she finished, “Wait.”
* * * * *
In both times, the golden air sparkled brightly with white-hot flashes
, some of them nearly blue. They tingled skin, the glittered through hair, they brightened the air and they flashed everywhere like fireworks close to the ground.
* * * * *
In the kitchen at Lacybourne…
“Oh my…” Mags muttered, staring at the air.
“Don’t stop chanting,” Marian ordered, staring in the pot.
* * * * *
Close to a copse of trees outside Lacybourne…
“Dear goddess…” Esmeralda breathed as the sparks tingled her skin.
The dark soul cursed under its breath.
* * * * *
Royce drove in further, deeper, hearing her soft panting and feeling it throughout his body as Beatrice’s hands moved, restless and demanding, all over him.
“Royce, something… is happening… to me.” She couldn’t control her voice.
“Let go, my sweet, let it happen,” he urged
Trusting him, her head tilted back, her neck arched, she lifted her knees and he drove into her deeper as he buried his face in her neck and listened with profound satisfaction to the glorious sound of the pleasure overwhelming his sweet, beautiful new bride.
* * * * *
Colin felt Sibyl lift her knees and he buried his face in her neck, her movements allowing him to thrust his cock even deeper inside her and she quietly panted.
“Colin, I think I’m going to…”
And then he listened with profound satisfaction to the glorious sound of his sweet, beautiful new fiancée’s orgasm.
* * * * *
Royce Morgan found his own release moments later and after he did, the rain came.
* * * * *
Colin Morgan came back to himself after his intense climax and vaguely heard the rain against the windows.
* * * * *
Then, magic shafting through time, the two worlds collided.
And for a brief moment, all time stopped.
Chapter Thirty
History Shifts
Royce lifted his head. With great reluctance, he had slid out of Beatrice but he did this with utmost care, not wishing to cause her pain after her pleasure. At the same time he lifted his head, he moved his hand to smooth her lustrous, dark hair.
But his hand arrested for her hair was not dark.
It was blonde. It was the same colour as his own.
Lacybourne Manor Page 47