“I’m afraid, Mr. Morgan can be a somewhat, er… difficult man,” she admitted.
Indeed, Sibyl thought but did not say nor did she bring up the fact that just the evening before Mrs. Byrne painted an entirely different picture of the man of the house.
And “difficult” she felt, was not exactly the word she would use.
Studying the older woman, Sibyl got the impression that Mrs. Byrne genuinely wanted the opportunity to let tempers cool so they could sort things out in the morning. In fact, it seemed for some reason this was very important to Mrs. Byrne. The woman volunteered for the National Trust and she had, regrettably, if unwittingly, caused this bizarre fiasco. Undoubtedly, she wanted the chance to smooth things over so she wouldn’t get into trouble.
As was Sibyl’s wont (which always got her into trouble and she knew it but had never been able to control it), Sibyl didn’t have the heart to deny the older woman this opportunity.
And anyway, Mr. Morgan may be a raving lunatic but he didn’t seem to be a violent one just a loud and angry one.
So she settled in for the long haul the night would mostly likely be and thought that her mother had never been very good at reading dreams and Sibyl herself had read the dream entirely incorrectly. Last night’s dream had not meant she needed a lover (especially not this lover) and it was not leading her to her dream man. It meant she should not, under any circumstances, go to Lacybourne because its owner was certifiably insane.
As Mrs. Byrne molly-coddled her, Sibyl tried to insist she was well enough to sit up even though she was definitely feeling a bit woozy and, she had to admit, she was not at all certain she could safely take herself and her beloved animals home without assistance even if that opportunity had presented itself when Lady Ice, again, interrupted their tête-à-tête by bringing in two plates of food.
“Colin thought you might want something to eat so I prepared this for you,” she announced, as if preparing food was akin to cleaning toilets at a roadside stopover in the depths of the jungles of Venezuela.
Mrs. Byrne took the food and the other woman walked out of the room again without another word. Sibyl was left stunned that “Colin” considered their hunger at all but then, even though she’d never read the document (and didn’t really wish to), she was still relatively certain that under the Geneva Convention, prisoners were entitled to sustenance.
Each small plate held a single sandwich, if they could be called sandwiches considering they were two pieces of bread which held only a wafer thin slice of ham, no condiments, no butter, nothing. They weren’t even cut in half.
So much for the Ivana of the North’s hostessing skills.
Sibyl set hers aside and when Mrs. Byrne noticed it (she herself tucking into the food like it was the finest delicacy) she encouraged Sibyl, “You must have something. Keep your strength up.”
Sibyl shook her head, slightly alarmed that Mrs. Byrne seemed to be keen on preparing her for battle. “I don’t eat ham. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Bryne muttered then her eyes brightened. “Well, I’ll just have to go see if Mr. Morgan has anything else in the house.”
“No!” Sibyl cried, yes, cried, desperate and everything.
And she did this because she didn’t want Mr. Morgan to remember her existence at all. He seemed ludicrously averse to it. She had to get through the next twelve hours through most of which she hoped she’d be sleeping and she did not want to rock the boat.
Mrs. Byrne smiled at Sibyl, a twinkle in her eye, and ignored her, setting aside her plate to go off in search of different food.
Sibyl sat back on the couch with a weary sigh and placed the ice on her temple. Bran reappeared, completely unfazed by the dramatic events, curled up on Sibyl’s belly and Sibyl idly stroked his soft, fluffy fur.
Sibyl had no idea why the appallingly-attractive-but-clearly-possessed-by-Satan Mr. Morgan had reacted so horribly to her presence at Lacybourne. It was distressing and utterly bizarre. Anyone could see that Mrs. Byrne had made a simple mistake, it wasn’t worth confiscating Sibyl’s license (which he had done, he did not give it back and he also took her handbag with him when he left) and holding them both prisoner. It was almost as if he expected the old woman and Sibyl to be conniving to steal the family silver out from under his nose.
Sibyl could, of course, get up and walk out (albeit unsteadily). However, that would mean leaving Mrs. Byrne behind to face the towering-inferno-also-known-as-Mr. Morgan and that she would not do.
She did have the unusual feeling, however, that Mrs. Byrne seemed somehow pleased at these events and not simply because Sibyl staying meant Mrs. Byrne might have the chance get things straight with Mr. Morgan and not lose her obviously beloved role at Lacybourne. But, instead, she was pleased for other reasons entirely.
Sibyl put that strange idea down to her mild concussion.
Mrs. Byrne arrived back in the room with Mr. Morgan arrogantly striding in on her heels.
Although Sibyl did not know him very well (and what she did know of him, she didn’t want to know), she could tell he was still furious. She could tell this by the muscle leaping convulsively in his rock hard jaw.
“Is there anything else we can do for you here at Lacybourne Manor, Miss Godwin?” His tone was impeccably polite but he said her name like it tasted foul.
For the sake of her sanity, and her head, Sibyl ignored him.
His strange antipathy to her was only eclipsed by his extreme dislike of her name.
“A bite of cheese and some crackers,” Mrs. Byrne explained, proffering a plate on which rested some rather unsavoury-looking slices of cheese and crackers. Then Mrs. Byrne sat in a comfortably worn leather chair by the invitingly worn leather couch on which Sibyl was reclining.
Mrs. Byrne appeared, to Sibyl’s continued incredulity, to be having the time of her life.
“Thank you, Mrs. Byrne,” Sibyl replied, taking the plate.
“You’re more than welcome, my dear.”
Realising that the two women were not going to address him, Mr. Morgan turned to walk away but then Mrs. Byrne, who clearly had a death wish, called out, “Oh, Mr. Morgan!”
He looked first over his shoulder and then turned his entire body back towards them slowly, his eyes blazing, and Sibyl held her breath.
“We could use a drink, perhaps a bit of wine?” Her eyes slid to Sibyl. “Or, in your state, do you think you should have wine, dear?”
He didn’t wait for Sibyl’s reply, however, he simply left the room.
The Goddess of the Antarctic slid into the room not five minutes later with an opened bottle of red wine and two exquisite, full-bodied, crystal wine glasses. After plonking them down on a table, without another word, she slid out again.
“Never mind,” Mrs. Byrne said to the other woman’s parting back. Then, enthusiastically, she turned to Sibyl, completely dismissing the other two beings who currently inhabited the house with them and were likely plotting their bloody demise, she asked conversationally, “Tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything.”
Sibyl, needing an excuse not to think about the freakish evening, did as Mrs. Byrne asked. As she talked, Mrs. Byrne would interrupt with strange comments such as, “Of course, your father is English,” and, “Brightrose Cottage, now that’s most interesting.”
When Sibyl was finished relating her life story, drinking a glass of wine and eating her meagre portion of cheese, she poured more wine (rather clumsily as she was still holding the ice pack to her head).
“Now, Mrs. Byrne,” she invited, “tell me about you.”
Over their second glass, Mrs. Byrne told her about her dead husband, Arthur, her two children, her five grandchildren, her three cats, her life as a librarian, her retirement ten years ago and her seven year tenure at Lacybourne Manor.
“Alas, I fear that is over,” she shrugged eloquently, giving Sibyl another bright-eyed look, her blithe comment making Sibyl want to laugh at the same time it made her want to g
rab Mrs. Byrne’s hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.
Sibyl had to admit, talking to the older woman was quite relaxing. She liked her immensely. Mrs. Byrne obviously adored her family and had a great sense of humour and, under any other circumstances, Sibyl would have enjoyed their conversation greatly.
Then, Princess Glacier glided into the room again and told them it was time for bed.
Mrs. Byrne saw to letting Mallory and Bran out for a last minute comfort break (and Sibyl just stopped herself from encouraging the older woman to make a break for it) while the black-haired woman took Sibyl up a back stairwell to the upper floor of the house.
Sibyl would not have been surprised if she put them in the servants’ quarters but instead she was shown into an enormous, beautifully appointed room filled with priceless antique furniture and a colossal four-poster bed with exquisite muted gold and sage green drapes, coverlet and a massive quantity of fluffy pillows.
The only problem was that the room was freezing cold.
Sibyl decided she would freeze to death before she would utter one, single word.
“Mrs. Byrne will be in the room across the hall.” With that, Mistress Frosty took her leave and shortly after, Mrs. Byrne let Mallory and Bran into Sibyl’s room.
“You rest, dear, I’ll come in and check on you every half an hour.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mrs. Byrne. I’m sure I’m fine.”
And if she wasn’t, it would be Mr. Morgan’s just desserts to have to explain her dead body to Albert and Marguerite Godwin. Her Dad and Mom might look like a mad scientist and stereotypical archetype of Mother Nature but they both had tempers that could rival… well… Sibyl’s when it was riled and that was a mighty feat.
“Please, call me Marian,” Mrs. Byrne broke into Sibyl’s vindictive reverie.
When the older woman left, Sibyl took a look around her at the beautiful room and decided her best bet was not to disturb anything at all.
With some pleading and a good deal of stern words, she managed to keep Mallory off the bed. The big dog sighed his displeasure and settled on the floor. Bran, however, never followed orders and curled happily at the foot of the bed.
Sibyl took off her boots and her jacket and set her jewellery on the bedside table. Laying on top of the covers in the wintry cold room, she tucked her feet under her long skirt and positioned her coat on top of her, feeling about as warm as Captain Scott must have during the Race to the South Pole.
Not thirty minutes later, Mrs. Byrne came in the room.
Still awake and trying not to think of her dream of last night, the events of that evening and how they all fit together (or, spectacularly, did not) Sibyl assured the woman quietly, “I’m fine.”
“You must sleep. I have a feeling you have a long road ahead of you,” Mrs. Byrne whispered as she laid a comforting hand on Sibyl’s shoulder.
Sibyl didn’t know what to make of this latest comment that came in her current occupancy in the World of Lunacy. But she smiled, mentally promising herself to check in on the old woman after this debacle was complete to make certain Marian Byrne wasn’t suffering from a mild form of dementia. Then, obligingly, she nestled her head into the soft pillows.
This happened twice more, the second time, Mrs. Byrne actually woke her and Sibyl was surprised she could get to sleep at all.
It seemed only moments after Mrs. Byrne left the room when she heard the door open again. She pretended to ignore the older lady, hoping she would cease her kind, but overly earnest, ministrations and get some sleep herself.
But this time, Mrs. Byrne entered the room and stopped and Sibyl could almost feel the lady’s eyes on her. Obviously deciding Sibyl needed her rest, she left again, only to come back not five minutes later.
After she heard some rustling across the room, unceremoniously, Sibyl’s jacket was pulled off of her.
She twirled around in bed to look up, not at Mrs. Byrne, but at a tall, looming male standing imposingly beside the bed.
“Get up,” Colin Morgan commanded in a deep, angry voice.
“What are you…?” Sibyl started.
He reached forward and pulled her roughly out of the bed and the only way she could respond to this stunning action was to yelp.
“Did it occur to you to turn on the radiator?” His tone was caustic.
Sibyl blinked in the direction of one of several radiators in the room.
No, it actually didn’t occur to her and she wondered why it hadn’t, but then she’d always been a bit flighty and absentminded. However, she would never impart this information on him.
He didn’t wait for an answer and demanded, “Put this on.”
He tossed a garment to her and she had no choice but to catch it and shake it out. In the light coming in from the hall she realised it was the top of a pair of men’s pyjamas.
Most likely his pyjamas.
“I can’t wear this!” she snapped, ready to toss it back to him.
“Nothing Tamara has will fit you, for obvious reasons.” She saw his eyes run the length of her body and she thought from the look in them that perhaps this ended up being not the cutting insult he meant to be.
Tamara must be Mother Winter’s name.
“I’ll sleep in my clothes,” Sibyl told him.
“You’ll put that on,” he parried.
She glared at him and he glared right back.
He, of course, was better at it.
“Miss Godwin, you can either put it on or I’ll put it on you, you choose.”
His command was shocking and it was said in a voice that was dangerous and chock full of meaning. Sibyl knew in an instant, understood it somehow to her very core, that he was ruthless enough to do it.
Strangely, and distressingly, she felt like she’d been in this exact position before, facing off against him.
And losing.
This feeling was not a little familiar, but a lot, like it didn’t happen once but repeatedly.
And it was bizarre, frightening and, lastly, bizarrely, frighteningly reassuring.
Her energy was draining away, her head hurt like the devil and she was ready to do just about anything to make this night go a hell of a lot more smoothly until she reached its joyful conclusion.
“Fine,” she bit out between clenched teeth, thinking agreement would make him go and then she could ignore his order and try to get some sleep. “I’ll put it on, now you can go.”
He crossed his arms on his chest as if he was settling in for a show.
Then he demanded, “Put it on now.”
Sibyl’s breath caught and her eyes bugged out before she breathed, “What?”
“Now,” he clipped.
“You’re joking.”
He didn’t answer but he also didn’t look like he was joking.
She started trembling, she had absolutely no idea what this entire night was all about. She was the wounded party here, if you counted her head, literally. All she wanted to do was see his house. If he didn’t want her to, he could have simply told her to go on her way. Not held her hostage. Not confiscated her purse. Not treated her like she was a criminal. Not barked at Mrs. Byrne.
She thought, somewhat hysterically, that he was supposed to be the fierce, glorious lover from her dream. The man who, when his throat was slit and she knew his life was pouring out of him, she felt such an utter sense of loss that she would have begged for the knife to slice her own throat as well rather than to live without him.
This whole scene was entirely wrong.
In fact, it felt cataclysmically wrong.
She glared at him and saw the set line of his jaw, thinking that there was a possibility, if she defied him, this would get physical.
She felt a burning shame creeping up at her total loss of power. She wanted to scream at him, rail at him, claw at his eyes.
And, unbelievably, she also wanted to throw herself in his arms.
She just stood there staring at him.
He could over
power her in a second. She was not a small woman but he was clearly fit, definitely tall and obviously far, far stronger than she. Lacybourne was just on the outskirts of town and surrounded by forest therefore no one would hear her if she shouted. Ice Princess Tamara, she doubted, would come to her aid and Mrs. Byrne would be no help at all but would undoubtedly try, and maybe get herself harmed in the process.
And therefore Sibyl had no choice and she hated that.
“Okay,” she gave in, feeling deep embarrassment that her voice sounded shaky. “Turn around.”
He again didn’t speak, he also didn’t turn.
She waited a moment, realising that his manners did not extend to allowing her a modicum of privacy and, with a strangled sound, she turned herself, presenting her back to him.
She’d never been so humiliated in her entire life. She felt hot, shameful tears spring to her eyes and could do nothing to stop them, though she used every bit of her willpower not to make a sound.
As quickly as she could, she whipped off her t-shirt and pulled the pyjama top over her head, not bothering to take off her bra. She undid the zip on her skirt in the back and pulled it down, hooking her fingers in her tights as she did so (careful to leave her panties in place), stepping out of both pieces of clothing at the same time and dropping them on her t-shirt.
She whirled around again.
“Happy now?” she asked, but didn’t look at him, hiding behind a curtain of hair because she didn’t want him to see the tears on her cheeks.
His answer was to lean forward and whip back the covers of the bed.
Bran lifted his head in ill humour, his yellow eyes indicating his unhappiness at having his slumber disturbed.
Mallory, exhausted from the evening’s escapades, was lying on his side on the floor, his arms and legs sprawled out in front of him, completely unperturbed by this new horror.
Sibyl thought with dismay that her mother had been wrong about the cat.