Lacybourne Manor

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.

“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 grab 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 overpower 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.

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.

“I would be delighted,” Mrs. Byrne replied.

“And as for you,” she turned to Colin, her eyes shimmering emeralds, she finished hotly, “I hope I never see you again!”

Colin studied her knowing he’d see her again.

He was planning on it.

And looking forward to it.

Thus, he did not reply.

With that, and without a comment to Tamara, she stomped out the door whistling to her dog and, when outside, calling to her cat.

They heard doors slam, the car start and the gravel fly as she peeled out of Lacybourne.

“I must say, Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Byrne was talking and Colin’s eyes slid to the older woman. He read, very clearly this time that her voice held a more than mild rebuke. “That was not very well handled.”

Then, with great dignity, she exited the room.