She clambered into the bed, doing her best to keep her back to him and, when she lay down, he whipped the covers over her. She curled into a little ball, pressed her face into the pillows and it didn’t dawn on her as she did this that he was actually pulling the covers high up her shoulder and then tucking them tight around her.
She hoped he would go now that he had his way but he didn’t. Instead, she felt his warm hand heavy at her neck and her entire body got tight.
Then slowly, even gently, he pulled her hair away.
Then his mouth was at her ear. “You should know that tears don’t work with me.” His voice was as smooth as velvet and completely cold.
She shivered.
She had no idea why he was informing her of this fact but it sounded like he was instructing her. Instructing her in a way that it seemed he felt she needed this information for their future relationship to go much smoother.
Like they had a future relationship!
Not on her life!
(Or his.)
She pressed her head deeper into the pillows, her humiliation complete, wondering in which of her former lives she did something so terrible that her karma included this awful night. She must have been a serial killer in a past life.
“I thought you might like to know, I have the keys to your car as well.” His voice was still at her ear, still quiet, but it seemed to vibrate throughout her system.
“You’re a pig,” she whispered and this comment caused him to laugh softly.
He had, she thought with extreme annoyance, a very handsome laugh.
If she was a violent woman, she would have lashed out. Instead, more tears came up the back of her throat and she choked them down with effort.
Finally, he left the room and the minute the door closed she threw back the covers with such fury that even Mallory woke from his exhausted doggie slumber.
She alighted from the bed and ignored the dizzy feeling her quick movements caused.
She was going to put her clothes back on, she was going to go get Mrs. Byrne, she was going to explain that no volunteer role was worth this and she was damn well going to walk home (if she had to, he didn’t say he took Mrs. Byrne’s keys).
But when she looked she found her clothes were gone.
Colin Morgan had taken them.
She collapsed back into the bed, wondering if she could press charges when this was all over, and holding onto her rage because it was the only thing that stopped her from crying.
And it was the only thing that stopped her from thinking, however dictatorially it came about, she was far more comfortable in his pyjama top, under the covers and in the soft sheets of the bed.
And the room was infinitely warmer.
* * * * *
She finally slept but woke early. The days were still short, the sun not yet fully up in the sky.
She woke because Mallory desperately needed a comfort break and was telling her so by shoving his cold, wet nose in her face.
She had no moment of panic at her unfamiliar surroundings then the events of the night before that were burned into her memory surfaced but she still touched her hand to her aching head in hopes that it was all a very bad dream.
It wasn’t.
She had to take her dog outside. She certainly didn’t want to explain a doggie accident to Colin Morgan and likely the rugs on the floor were irreplaceable.
Sibyl got out of bed and then she and Mallory, with Bran at their heels (the cat probably thinking that breakfast would soon be coming) carefully wended their way through the house.
Sibyl was making more of an effort to be quiet and find her way than attempting to look at the house she once so desperately wanted to see. She visited National Trust properties as a pastime, it was a hobby she enjoyed with her father during their many visits to England, a hobby that she normally loved. At that moment, the first (and, she hoped, last) time she would ever be a “guest” at such a magnificent estate, she was not filled with wonder and awe. She was filled with terror and tried to avoid looking at anything that would eventually make this memory more painful.
She made it to the front door and realised she couldn’t exactly walk outside in a man’s pyjama top and bare feet.
Searching around her, she saw the almost hidden handle to a door in the carved wood panelling in the wall of the entry. Her luck changing when she pulled it open with hopes of finding outdoor gear she could borrow, she discovered a very small room filled with a bunch of National Trust brochures and other paraphernalia, some coats and, as with nearly every English hall closet she’d encountered, a mess of Wellingtons. She grabbed the warmest looking coat in the closet and a matching pair of Wellingtons and pushed her feet into them. Then she wrapped the enormous cashmere overcoat tightly around her body (hoping that it was not his, she’d had enough of wearing his clothes).
Outfitted, she turned and opened the front door. Mallory, who had begun whining at what he thought was Sibyl’s unnecessary delay in searching for ways to stop herself from dying from hypothermia (or, at the very least, avoiding frostbite), shot through the door.
Sibyl and Bran followed him. The morning was bright, crisp and bone-chillingly cold. Sibyl ignored it and hoped to every goddess she knew that Mallory’s morning break did not include something for which she’d have to search the house for a plastic bag.
Luck was shining on her that morning even though it was to be short-lived. Mallory finished his business (business that did not require clean up) and seemed to be enjoying the vast front garden by running around it in circles for no apparent reason. Mallory, being a big, ungainly dog, rarely ran anywhere. He usually took his walks making it clear he did it under duress (because Sibyl made him), got up to eat even though he made it plain he would prefer Sibyl to bring the food to him and then spent the rest of his life sleeping or with his head in Sibyl’s lap getting his ears scratched.
Watching him now, Sibyl wondered with a bit of guilt if she should take him to the park more often.
“Mallory, come here boy, come here you big, lovable, lug,” she clapped her hands and the dog ran toward her, stopped at her feet, his behind up in the air, his front legs spread and close to the ground, his tail wagging so ferociously his body vibrated with it.
She clapped again, smiling at him for she’d never seen him assume this posture, ever. But she loved her pup and she was game so she jumped to one side and Mallory followed her, then she jumped to the other side and Mallory did the same. Then she leaned forward and gave his head an affectionate shake.
“What am I going to do with you, you crazy pooch?” she asked and the dog stood up, accepted her kiss on his soft, fawn head and then his black, floppy ears popped up in alert. He looked around Sibyl, ears flapping, and then dashed back toward the house.
Sibyl turned and saw Colin Morgan leaning against the doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and what looked like a very warm oatmeal-coloured fisherman’s sweater. His arms were crossed on his chest, one bare foot crossed at his ankle. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was settled in and watching her in a way that made it seem like he could do it all day.
“Blooming hell,” she muttered under her breath and immediately felt the cold creeping up her bare legs, cold she did not feel when she was playing with her dog.
She tramped inelegantly toward the house in the floppy willies that were too big for her and Mr. Morgan, she noted with consternation, did not appear ready to move out of her way. If he was going to deny her entry and she was going to have to suffer the indignity of walking the short distance to Clevedon in Wellingtons, a pyjama top and an overcoat, so be it.
“Enjoying yourself?” His tone was not good morning cheerful and she didn’t answer as she was never good morning cheerful. Therefore, she cast a vicious glance in his direction.
For some bizarre reason, this caused him to throw his head back and laugh as he dropped his arms to his sides. His masculine throat was exposed and the sound was deep and rich and she liked it so much, it made
her start to seethe.
She stopped two feet away from him and stared at him like he was the raving lunatic she knew him to be.
“Let me pass,” she demanded once his laughter quieted.
Mallory was seated half a foot away, looking up at Mr. Morgan, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his tail still wagging. Before Colin Morgan could reply to Sibyl’s demand, the dog leaned forward and licked his hand.
Sibyl stared in disbelief.
Her dog had always, always hated men (except her father).
“Mallory!” she snapped and the dog whined then he licked Mr. Morgan’s hand again. ‘Mallory! Stop that!” she scolded the dog and then, to her surprise, she found her arm in a vice-like grip and she was yanked through the door.
It was slammed behind her and before she could get her bearings, she was roughly pushed backward until she hit door.
And again, before she even realised what was happening, Colin Morgan stepped into her, not even a foot away, cutting off any escape. Then he dipped his face to hers and he was so close she could feel the heat from his body through the coat and the warmth of his breath on her face.
“The police just called,” he told her.
She blinked up at him and there was something about him being there, so close, all she could see, almost like he was everywhere and everything, her entire world. His presence simply overpowered her.
And this was an odd, frightening familiar sensation too. It was as if she’d looked up into his clay-coloured eyes so near she could count his eyelashes and she’d not done it once or twice but countless times.
Countless.
She could also smell his cologne (a nice woodsy, musky scent, she noted with professional detachment, with hints of cedar). She could see his lashes, very thick and long. And she noticed for the first time that his lower lip was, surprisingly, sensuously full.
“I have a friend at New Scotland Yard. He did a search on you last night. It appears you are who you say you are,” he was saying.
That got her attention and her gaze snapped from his lips upward. “Of course I am who I say I am. Who else would I be?”
He watched her, his eyes strange and glittering and again he had no response.
After several very long moments of silence, Sibyl realised she was holding her breath but she also knew it was either that or pant. Although she had just been out in the chill morning air, suddenly her body felt very hot and her heart had begun to pound.
“I still don’t trust you for a moment,” he informed her.
She had no idea what to make of that comment so she simply told him exactly what was in her mind.
“You’re mad.”
He proved her right by responding to her insult with, “What’s that smell?”
Sibyl looked wildly around for Mallory, hoping that she didn’t miss something during his morning business when Morgan’s voice came again. This time softly, so softly she thought she could almost feel it on her skin.
“It smells like lilies.”
Her eyes jerked to his and his were still glittering. But instead of anger, she was shocked to see (and her heart began pounding all the more insistently at the sight), there was an odd, sweet warmth there.
Something was happening to her, something she didn’t understand and something she definitely couldn’t control. She felt the tenseness slide from her body and her bones felt like they were softening. She felt compelled to touch him, to get closer to him, to move her body into his. Her eyelids lowered and she looked at him from underneath her lashes.
Her voice came out, just as soft as his. “It’s my perfume.”
He watched her for a second, his head slowly, nearly imperceptibly, descending to hers and she thought, hysterically, that he was going to kiss her.
And she braced for it. Ready for it. Wanting it.
Then he stopped, she watched his eyes blink and then, his tone back to cool civility, he remarked, “God, you’re good.”
And this was not a compliment. She knew this comment was meant to be insulting, knew it right to the very marrow of her bones.
It felt like she was sitting in a dunking booth, someone hit the bulls-eye and she’d crashed into its ice waters.
“I want to go home,” she demanded and he hadn’t moved away so she put her hands on the hard wall of his chest and shoved.
He didn’t budge.
And finally after banging her head, having her license confiscated, being held hostage, forced to change in front of a male stranger who, according to her very faulty dreams, was supposed to be the love of her life and, most importantly, forgetting to count to ten, the full force of her temper exploded.
“I want to go home!” she shouted in his face. “Give me my damned clothes and my bag and my car keys and my license and let me get out of this crazy place!”
He did not react to her fury as she expected him to. He didn’t move away. He didn’t seem offended or angered.
If anything, he moved closer.
Sibyl completely ignored it and announced, “Mr. Morgan, if you want me to leave here and not press charges then you better step back, let me take my animals and go home.”
“What if I told you I’m tempted?” he replied bizarrely, his eyes hooded and he looked (goddess help her, she was going insane too) unbelievably sexy.
“Tempted by what?” she squeaked.
“By you.”
Her eyes rounded, she sucked in her breath so deeply her chest expanded and then she shoved him with every ounce of strength she possessed. Fortunately this worked, he went back on a foot.
Then she cried, “You’re deranged!” She pulled off the coat and threw it at him, not noticing that he caught it deftly because she bent down to yank off the Wellingtons. She’d lost it, in a rage that was completely out-of-control and so done with Colin Morgan, if she could control it, she wouldn’t. “You’re like a male Mrs. Rochester except you have run of the house.”
She noticed over his shoulder that Ms. Winter Wonderland, Tamara, was staring at the scene with polar spears darting from her eyes.
“You!” Sibyl pointed at the woman. “Need to lock him up before he does any damage.” Then she stomped (as much as she could stomp in bare feet) into the Great Hall. “Now will someone give me my fucking clothes?” she shouted at the top of her voice.
“I’d be delighted,” Tamara returned, her voice calm and smooth.
In an ungracious tone, Sibyl replied, “Thank you.”
“Follow me,” Tamara invited.
Sibyl did and gratefully, Mallory following closely behind, his tail still wagging.
* * * * *
Mrs. Byrne had witnessed this scene and was left watching Colin from across the Great Hall as Sibyl (looking very appealing in his pyjama top) and Tamara disappeared up the stairs.
Colin carelessly tossed the expensive coat over a chair and saw the older woman look up at the portraits then back at him and he knew he was meant to understand her meaningful glances.
They stood that way, squaring off like opponents on a battlefield as moments turned to minutes and then Sibyl, struggling to pull her shirt over her head while, impossibly, her jacket and boots where tucked under her arm, stamped down the stairs, muttering to herself such phrases as “loony bin” and “danger to society”.
Sibyl stopped, shrugged into her jacket then bent over to pull on her boots and then she strode angrily to Colin. He stared down his nose at her.
He’d seen her earlier that morning, out the window, in her ridiculous outfit (an outfit that still managed to look enticing on her) and it was almost as if he couldn’t control himself. It was almost as if an invisible force pulled him to the front door to watch her cavorting with her damned dog.
She was (he knew, as he was a connoisseur of woman) unbelievably beddable. His hands itched to touch her, his mouth was dry with the effort not to kiss her. Last night, when he found her stubbornly shivering in her sleep, he had the strong urge he almost couldn’t beat back and very
nearly warmed her with his own body.
Earlier, every time she’d said “Mallory” it made his gut twitch because it sounded so familiar, as if he’d heard her say it before, many times before.
It didn’t help matters that when the dog licked his hand that seemed bizarrely familiar and welcome as well.
Now, she was standing before him, her eyes flashing that intriguing green when five minutes before, when he looked into her eyes, they were a warm sherry, and she held her hand out, palm up.
“Keys!” she barked in his face, her clearly formidable, and just as appealing, temper flashing like lightning in the room.
He calmly pushed his hand into the pocket of his jeans and deposited her car keys in her palm.
Tamara came forward and held out the red purse to Sibyl who snatched it out of the woman’s hand without a word.
Colin slowly, taking his time, looked between the two women.
Tamara was his type, dark, petite, thin, sophisticated and cool.
Sibyl was not his type, she was golden, lush, curvy and tempestuous.
To his stunned surprise, there was absolutely no comparison. Tamara, he found, was sadly lacking.
Colin decided in that moment that Sibyl was rather magnificent, even if he felt certain that every movement was a studied performance. He had no idea what she and the older woman wished to gain but he was beginning to think that it might be rather diverting to turn the tables on them.
Especially if Sibyl Godwin (if that was, indeed, her real name as the police had assured him the resident of Brightrose Cottage, the address on her license, was named) was as splendidly hot in bed as she was out of it.
The other option remained that she was Sibyl Godwin, the reincarnation of the legendary Beatrice. The fact that option existed, even minutely, Colin knew meant it had to be explored.
He noticed throughout her act that she didn’t even glance at the portraits and he didn’t know what to make of that then Sibyl interrupted his thoughts by speaking.
“Mrs. Byrne, I’d love to have coffee somewhere far, far away from Lacybourne. Please call me if you’d like to do that sometime,” she said to the older woman, her voice lower and more controlled.