Lacybourne Manor

Chapter Six Rescue

Sibyl was not having a good time.

Her life, since the morning she left Lacybourne, (not unusually but still upsettingly) descended into a mess. The only shining good fortune she seemed to have was Mrs. Byrne, who she now had a standing date to have breakfast with every Monday morning. They’d met last Monday nearly a week since their first encounter on the steps of Lacybourne and decided to make it a ritual. Sibyl had enjoyed the woman’s company and was thrilled to have a new friend.

Social Services was very understanding about Annie and the sad state of her house but their hands were tied regarding the minibus driver. Therefore, Sibyl decided to have a few choice words with him. Her choice words, and the hold on her calm, deteriorated to the point where Kyle had to pull her back as she began to shout into the driver’s pitted, sneering face.

“You’ll make it worse for them, luv, if you upset him,” Kyle explained, gently pushing her toward the door to the Day Centre. She didn’t have to ride the minibus, Kyle reminded her, the pensioners did. And angering the driver would only make matters worse.

Kyle was right, of course and after her minibus driver tirade, Sibyl sought out Jemma and collapsed in a chair in her office, sipping at a fortifying cup of coffee that Tina made her to calm her down (something Tina had become adept at doing in the past year).

“I’m out-of-control,” Sibyl admitted to her friend.

Days before, when Jemma had asked at the bandage at her temple, she’d told her friend everything about Lacybourne. She had not told her mother or her sister, especially considering her premonitory dream and Colin Morgan’s part in that. Both women would have been in fits (especially if she described him in every luscious detail) and likely would have wanted her to go back and explore her options, crazy man or not, especially if she’d relayed the information that he’d told her he was “tempted”.

Tempted! Insane!

Jemma’s response to the story was odd.

“You say he covered you up at night when you were cold?” Jemma asked.

Sibyl stared at her but didn’t answer.

“And watched you playing with Mallory?” Jemma went on.

“Yes,” Sibyl drew out the word warningly, feeling the need to focus on the deviant parts of Colin Morgan’s personality, not the contradictorily kind ones that seemed to underlie them.

“And made sure you had something to eat and even… wine?” Jemma continued.

“What are you driving at, Jem?”

“Well, his behaviour is very bizarre, I’ll grant you that.”

“Why, thank you,” Sibyl voice was laced with disgruntled sarcasm.

“However, he did keep you in his home to watch over you after you banged your head.”

“He didn’t ‘keep me’, he imprisoned me and he only did it because he didn’t want my parents to sue,” Sibyl contradicted because she thought it was important to keep the facts straight.

Jemma ignored her. “He also fed you, looked in on you in the night, gave you something comfortable to wear and made sure you were warm.”

Sibyl let out an exasperated explosion of breath.

“I’m just saying,” Jemma placated with a shrug.

Sibyl abruptly changed the subject.

Now, days later, in Jemma’s office after the minibus debacle, Jemma watched her with her usual kindly reserve.

“Perhaps that bang on your head shook something loose,” Jem suggested unhelpfully.

“I don’t think I’m going to come to you for reassurance anymore,” Sibyl grumbled.

Jemma laughed. “I’m a mother. We tend, in certain situations, to lean more toward honesty than reassurance.”

“I’d say now was one of those ‘reassuring times’,” Sibyl countered.

Jem just shook her head wisely.

The day after Lacybourne, Sibyl called Steve, the paramedic, to tell him she was all right.

In return, Steve had asked her out on a date.

Even though she didn’t know him from Adam, because of her mother’s advice and her continued conversations with her animals (and perhaps a bit of desperation after Lacybourne), she’d accepted his invitation and, tonight, she was with him in a fashionable, popular club in Bristol.

Sibyl did not often date, no man ever met her expectations of what she’d always hoped for, or, more to the point, knew was her ideal. Although she loved to dance, she rarely went out to do it. She preferred doing things like breakfasts with Mrs. Byrne, chats over coffee with Kyle, Tina or Jem or her afternoon rendez vous with Meg then sitting in a pub getting snockered on pints. She spent a great deal of time in her Summer House, concocting lotions, shampoos, and experimenting with the varying, complicated scents that made her spa treatments so popular.

But she thought Steve was a safe bet. He was a paramedic, which was a caring profession. Logically, she thought, being in a caring profession meant he had to have a good heart.

Therefore, being in a busy, loud club with a man who, as a paramedic, had been quite attentive and appealing, but, as a date, was anything but, was a form of torture.

The evening had not started on a high note.

Steve had shown up at Brightrose Cottage and Mallory nearly took a bite out of him.

Scuttling to his car while Sibyl struggled with the snarling dog, he called out from the safety of the space between the car’s open door and body, “Whenever you’re ready!”

Clearly, he’s fearless, she thought sardonically, watching Steve quickly enter his flashy, chrome-plated Masda and slam the door and she gave up that little bit more of the fast-dwindling hope of ever finding the strong, brave, wonderful man she’d always thought she was destined to find.

“God, you look great!” Steve said enthusiastically when she finally entered the car.

She was wearing a pair of low slung, black trousers that had been way too expensive (even on sale) but she had to buy them since they fit her like they were made for her (something that didn’t happen often with her incongruously tiny waist but generous hips and bottom). Sibyl also had on a cherry red, satin blouse she’d stolen from Scarlett before moving to England. It had deep darts up each side of her midriff and each side of her spine, causing the blouse to fit snug around her middle and under her breasts and forcing her to keep a daring amount of buttons open from neck to cleavage. She’d kept her hair down and slid her feet into a pair of high-heeled, sling-backed, bright red pumps that killed her feet because of the seriously pointy toe.

With a good deal of conversation in the car from Steve about Steve (without him asking about her once), after Sibyl and Steve made it to Bristol, he drove around for half an hour looking for the hard-to-find, inexpensive (as in free) parking spot. Once they located this elusive entity and Steve took four attempts at parallel parking into it, they walked, or more truthfully, hiked the long distance from car to club. This meant by the time they arrived they were late meeting his friends and, worse, Sibyl’s feet were killing her.

At the club she stood next to Steve as his mates (who collectively seemed to have more product in their overly-styled hair than Sibyl had used in her life) appraised her. Steve held her close with his arm around her waist, something that was too familiar since they barely knew each other, and he did it like she was a trophy he was showing off.

These good-looking but too trendy men all had woman who hung about behind them. It was as if the women were in some sort of cult that forced them to stand away from the masculine crowd but within earshot should the men ever require anything, like a pint. All of the woman stared at Sibyl with varying expressions ranging from awe to abhorrence. Definitely a close-knit crowd where strangers were not welcome.

And no one bothered to introduce her to any of them, not the men or the women.

They’d been talking for ten minutes and Steve hadn’t even troubled himself to offer her a drink.

“I’m sorry,” Sibyl interrupted quietly in an attempt to be polite. When she had Steve’s attention she tipped the edges of her lips up in a smile and, when she did this, Steve stared at her mouth like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I was wondering about maybe getting a drink?” She tilted her head, trying to pull his attention from her mouth to her eyes.

He blinked, looking sadly confused, then smiled and said, “Yeah! Great, babe. You blokes want anything?” When all four of the other men lifted their empty glasses, Steve turned back to Sibyl. “That’ll be five pints of lager and, of course, whatever you want for yourself.”

He turned back to his friends and Sibyl stood stock-still, processing the fact that he just gave her his friend’s drink order and expected her to go and get it.

She studied him as if seeing him for the first time. He, too, was good-looking. He, too, was trendy. He, too, was well-dressed. And apparently, like his friends, he, too, thought he was the goddess’s gift to women.

She felt the overwhelming urge to demonstrate to him (without any room for doubt) that he was not when she realised that if she got them all drinks, she could be away from his crowd for at least a few minutes as well as have time to figure out how she was going to make the night end very early.

Therefore, Sibyl stalked to the bar.

But not before hearing Steve say in a loud whisper, “Isn’t she fit?”

She felt the urge to turn on her heel and run, except her shoes would not allow it.

As was usual (so usual, she didn’t notice it) upon her arrival at the bar, the bartender ignored the other people clamouring for a drink and jogged up to her.

“What’ll it be?”

“Five pints of lager, and a vodka lemonade with a splash of lime cordial, lots of ice and a cherry, if you have it,” she answered and smiled at him. The effect of her smile caused the bartender to nod eagerly at her strange drink order, deciding instantly that if they didn’t have cherries, he’d go to the nearest store and steal a jar if he had to.

“You’re pretty.” Sibyl heard this come from the man who was somehow managing to be unsteadily seated on the barstool next to her, looking as if he’d lived there at least a year.

“Thank you,” Sibyl said politely but then turned away.

She wasn’t normally rude to people but she also didn’t fancy striking up a conversation with an obviously highly inebriated man (she’d had enough troubles with men the last few days, thank you very much), especially considering her shoes would not allow her to affect a hasty retreat should she need to do so (and she vowed never to wear high heels again, or, at the very least, on a first date, something which she also doubted she’d do again).

The man swayed then righted himself before he slurred decisively, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

It was at this moment that Sibyl realised Steve hadn’t given her any money to buy all of his friends a drink, friends who she had known no longer then fifteen minutes and the fact of the matter she didn’t know them at all since she hadn’t been given their names. Nor had he (or Sibyl herself for that matter), asked any of the women if they wanted a beverage.

“Thank you but I don’t think so,” Sibyl answered the drunk, stopping herself from going back and asking the women, none of whom said a word to her except “Heya,” what drinks they wanted.

The drunk awkwardly stood, swayed again doing a full, unsteady loop with his upper body and carefully enunciated, “I said, I’ll buy you a drink.”

She turned toward him, saw his bloodshot eyes and then he breathed out. Even though he was still not very close, she smelled his drink-laced breath.

She tried not to wince but knew she was unsuccessful.

“I’m sorry but I’m fine. I don’t need you to buy me a drink,” she replied firmly.

Kind, polite, controlled and not unnecessarily ill-mannered, she was quite pleased with herself.

The bartender put her glass on the bar with a smile.

At its arrival, the drunk slammed the palm of his hand on the bar with such force that it made a loud smacking sound and she jumped. Several of the patrons close to her (and some not-so-close) turned around to look.

“I’m buyin’ that drink!” the drunk slurred loudly and lurched toward her, leaning into her face, his fetid breath hitting her like a slap.

Sibyl immediately became alarmed, her body tensed and she took a hurried step back to flee and slammed into a solid, hard wall.

“She’s with me.” A voice came from behind her. It was vaguely familiar, low, deep and absolutely lethal.

She glanced over her shoulder to see who her rescuer was and stared in disbelief (and not a small amount of shock) at Colin Morgan.

The drunk also turned to look and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man with the frightening look on his face standing so close behind the pretty girl that their bodies were touching.

“All right, mate, no need to get uptight.” The drunk put his hands up appeasingly and stumbled back to his stool. “Pretty girls shouldn’t buy their own drinks, thas all I’m sayin’,” he garbled.

“I agree,” Colin murmured distractedly as he watched five pints placed around Sibyl’s drink.

“That’ll be seventeen fifty,” the bartender said.

Sibyl fumbled in her purse for money, still recovering from the shock of seeing Colin Morgan.

She could not believe that her dream madman was standing so close to her she could feel his body against her back. She could also not believe he’d witnessed her being semi-accosted by a drunk man and felt the need to come to her rescue. She never expected, never dreamed she’d run into him in a club in Bristol. In fact, she had hoped never to see him again for the rest of her natural life and even throughout her unnatural one (if such a thing existed).

She made the immediate decision to spend the rest of her days with old people, Jemma’s family or in her Summer House Girlie Stuff Laboratory and never go out socialising again.

Ever.

Then Colin leaned in and Sibyl felt his hard chest pressing into her shoulder blade and watched as he passed a twenty pound note to the bartender.

At this gesture, she tried to remain cool and collected, though, she had to admit, it was difficult.

“Mr. Morgan, please don’t pay for the drinks. They’re –”

“For your date’s friends, I know,” he interrupted her then continued. “Your date, I might add, saw this gentleman…” Sibyl was not looking at him, couldn’t make herself look at him. She wasn’t even certain she wished to believe he was actually there. She noticed from the corners of her eyes that he jerked his head angrily in the direction of the drunk man. “Begin to approach you and did nothing about it.”

She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

Steve, unfortunately, was a jerk.

The drunk man said something though, straight into his nearly finished pint, “Criminal. Leave a pretty girl in the clutches of a degenerate like me.” Then he giggled to himself.

Sibyl felt hysterical laughter bubbling up her own throat but she chased it down with a gulp and turned her mind to escape.

Before she could Colin Morgan remarked, “You made light work of that.”

At this unusual comment, she finally lifted her eyes to the hard planes of his face, having to twist around and glance over her shoulder and she saw he was looking over his own at Steve. He obviously recognised the paramedic who’d come to his house.

Again, she didn’t respond. He was still standing so close to her that his chest was resting lightly against her back.

“Mr. Morgan, if you wouldn’t mind moving away,” she whispered.

He apparently did mind because he didn’t move.

“Jason,” his voice rang with authority and the bartender, who was listening to the orders of some patrons, turned his head immediately.

“Yeah, Mr. Morgan?”

“Get Shannon to take those pints to the gentlemen over there,” Colin ordered, motioning to Steve and his group with his head. “And get her to get the women with them a drink for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” and Jason jogged off obediently to find the unknown Shannon.

Sibyl stared at Colin in dismay.

“Do you,” Sibyl hesitated, “own this club?”

His eyes finally dropped to her and for some reason her breath caught when she felt the full force of them on her face.

“A third of it, yes,” he answered.

Sibyl looked around the place for the first time.

It was jam packed. There were three bars she could see, two on the lower floor, one on a balcony that wrapped around the club and all of them were surrounded by people buying drinks.

It was clearly a hip hotspot for young, trendy people. Not the place she would expect Colin Morgan to spend his time, unless he had a penchant for underfed, under-clothed and nearly underage girls.

Her face must have told him what she was thinking for he said, “I was here for a meeting. It ran long. I was leaving when I saw you leave your medic, go to the bar and choose the unfortunate position of standing by Paul.”

The drunk man lifted his glass in salute.

“You know him?” Sibyl was astonished.

“Here every night,” Paul offered.

“Do you get drunk every night?” Sibyl asked, her voice edged in concern.

“Every night,” Paul confirmed happily and nodded his head sloppily.

Not thinking, Sibyl grabbed her own drink and, in the tight space allowed by Colin and the bar, she whirled around then pushed him back, her hand on his chest.

One step, two then she got up on tiptoe, leaned toward his ear and whispered fiercely, “That man is an alcoholic!”

“I can hear you,” Paul sing-songed and Sibyl closed her eyes in distress.

When she opened them, Colin Morgan was grinning at her.

Grinning at her.

And if she thought his voice sounded lethal several minutes before, it was nothing compared to the entirely different killer wattage of his grin.

She mentally shrugged off her highly pleasant reaction to his grin, put her hand back to his chest and pushed him back again, this time she pushed him around the side of the bar. She was so determined, she didn’t process the fact that he let her do this.

“You have to do something!” she demanded when they’d stopped well away from Paul.

“About what?” Colin was watching her like Steve had watched her earlier, as if she was the most fascinating creature in the world. Except, when Colin did it, she felt a warmth seep into her belly that she did not feel when Steve did it.

“About Paul,” she explained, her voice showing her aggravation at his obtuseness just as it hid her reaction to his proximity. “If he comes here every night and gets that inebriated, he’s clearly an alcoholic. You can’t keep serving him.”

The deadly-delicious grin was back. “He’s our best customer.”

Sibyl was appalled.

“Mr. Morgan, that is just… completely just…” she was at a loss for words then she found them, “morally irresponsible.”

The grin turned into a full-fledged, white smile, the wattage amping up so high, Sibyl was nearly dazzled.

Although he was barely a foot from her, he leaned in closer.

“Morally irresponsible?” he repeated.

She could swear his tone was teasing.

Teasing!

Was this the man who had held her hostage, forced her to undress in front of him, accosted her in his entryway and shouted and cursed at her in his library?

Yes, she reminded herself, it was.

She straightened her shoulders.

“We must look after our neighbours,” she lectured.

“Really?” he asked, his eyes dancing and not with the jumping lights in the club.

“Yes, especially you,” Sibyl informed him.

For some unknown reason, he was walking around her and she had to turn in a staccato pirouette to follow him.

“Especially me?” he asked, stopped abruptly and took a quick step forward in a way that was predatory. This caused her to take a step back and, when she did so, she hit a wall. His hand came up to rest beside her head and he leaned into her again. She had the wall of the club to her back, him to her front (close to her front) and his arm imprisoning her on the right.

She was trapped.

Her mind screamed for flight but she stood her ground. “Yes, especially you. As the owner of this club –”

“Part owner,” he interrupted her, still smiling as if she was highly entertaining.

“Part owner,” she amended quickly and steeled herself against that smile and the annoyance she felt at his obvious amusement. “You have responsibilities.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “You’re absolutely correct. I’m responsible for keeping the money coming in.”

She spluttered at this outrageous, yet teasing remark then saved herself by taking a deep breath. “You also have a responsibility to your patrons.”

He leaned closer then stopped but if he came further forward, even an inch, he’d be kissing her.

She held her breath.

Colin stared into her eyes.

Then he said, “Paul doesn’t drive drunk. He has a standing order for a taxi to pick him up at midnight every night. He’s a wealthy businessman who doesn’t touch a drop during the day, I know because I have dealings with him. He has a wife who’s an inveterate cheat and consummate liar who spends money almost as fast as he can make it and he buys a drink for every attractive woman who enters this club. He’s a decent man, most of the time, considering, and is mostly harmless.”

Sibyl was shocked he knew so much about Paul. She was further stunned that he took the time to explain this to her, calmly and rationally. She’d never had dealings with a calm, rational Colin Morgan. She didn’t like it because she did like it and that played havoc on her very soul.

“Well good,” she decided for her sanity their conversation was over. “Now that’s sorted, I’m leaving.”

“Excellent,” he announced. “I’ll take you home.”

The hand by her head dropped and his long, strong fingers closed around her upper arm.

Alarmed, she blurted, “What?”

Colin looked down at her. “Would you like me to take you back to the medic?”

Sibyl glanced across the bar and through the crush of people and caught sight of Steve who was drinking from the pint he’d been delivered. He looked content and at ease and as if he’d completely forgotten he’d come with a date.

Sibyl had no desire whatsoever to return to Steve.

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“I’ll get a taxi,” she announced.

“Don’t be absurd, you live five minutes from me,” Colin returned.

This was true. And a taxi from Bristol to Clevedon would cost her thirty pounds. Not that she didn’t have thirty pounds but she could think of a great number of things she’d prefer to spend her hard earned money on.

“I’ll get a bus,” she decided.

Obviously, he disagreed. Without a word, he turned and then started moving forward, taking her with him. Divesting her of her drink, he deposited it on the bar without breaking stride, the whole time he brought her along with him with a firm but gentle hand on her arm.

“Mr. Morgan –” she began, looking at him and having to quicken her pace to keep up with his casual advance.

“My name is Colin,” he said distractedly and stopped. She was about to open her mouth to say something but looked around as to why they stopped.

They were standing by Steve and his group of friends. Colin’s hand had dropped but not away from her. His arm slid around her and settled tightly around her waist, not, she noted not-so-vaguely, as if she was a trophy to show off. Instead, his hold was proprietary, blatantly so. Colin Morgan was claiming her right in front of her date, an aggressive, ruthless move that stole her breath and any words she might have been able to utter.

Steve’s friends noticed Colin and Sibyl first and their open-mouthed stares made Steve turn around.

“I’m taking Ms. Godwin home,” Colin announced the minute he had Steve’s attention. Before Steve could put into words the angry, stunned surprise on his face, Colin guided Sibyl out the door.

Sibyl moved with him mostly in order not to make a scene.

When they were outside the club and walking down the pavement was when she asked angrily, “Well that… that… I don’t even know what that was. Why did you do that?”

“I would guess he’d eventually go looking for you, I saved him the trouble.” Colin had dropped his arm from around her waist but caught her hand in his as they walked.

She was too taken aback by his behaviour to recognise the familiar intimacy of his hand holding hers while guiding her down the pavement. Before this dawned on her, he turned into a car park that was two doors down from the club and she was forced to admit to a secret relief that she wouldn’t have to trek for miles to get to his car (even when she didn’t quite understand how she’d managed to get herself in the awkward position of accepting a ride from him in the first place).

He strode purposefully, and she noticed distractedly, with immense masculine grace, towards a gleaming, black, sporty, convertible Mercedes, all the while holding her hand.

She stared at the car in horror.

“You own a Mercedes?” she breathed.

He had stopped at the passenger side and dropped her hand. At her comment, he looked at her sharply.

In an about turn of everything she’d experienced a week ago at Lacybourne, that entire night he’d been regarding her with amusement and even, possibly (if she could credit it) admiration.

Now, however, he was staring at her with an expression of distaste, something about him with which she was far more familiar.

He also did not answer, possibly because the answer was obvious.

He unlocked the doors with an expensive-sounding “bleep” and, without a word, he pulled hers open, guiding her in before closing it with more force than he needed to use.

Once he’d settled into his seat, started the car and expertly reversed, she couldn’t help herself, she’d lived too long in Mags’s house to let it go, she had to say, “What kind of gas mileage does this car get?”

“I’ve no idea.” His voice suddenly sounded bored.

Sibyl ignored his tone and persevered. “Mr. Morgan, I know it’s none of my business and I dislike people who lecture about this kind of thing, but as this is a sports car, you should know that it’s likely it burns fuel like nobody’s business. In this day and age, considering the state of the environment, everyone should have a car with fuel economy. You should consider a hybrid at the very least.”

Even though he was driving, she felt his body go somehow still.

After a moment, in a voice not bored in the slightest, he asked, “I beg your pardon?”

Sibyl felt like an idiot, lecturing him on fuel economy and decided to stand down.

“It’s none of my business,” she muttered.

“Sibyl,” he said her name for the first time and she felt the effect of it physically, almost as if the sound of her name on his lips, uttered in his rich baritone, pulsated through her body, and she caught her breath. He continued without noticing her extreme, and bizarre, reaction. “This is a high performance vehicle. The fuel economy is excellent. You can save yourself from worrying that you will be tainted with guilt-by-association by riding in my car. I’m not unduly destroying the environment.”

Sibyl was inordinately pleased his tone held no anger or even the slightest hint of it (not to mention the fact that he wasn’t “unduly” damaging the ozone layer).

“That was rude. I apologise. My mother is an environmental activist and sometimes it spills over, but, um… that said, I agree with Mom that we should all do our bit.”

He didn’t respond and she tried not to look at him but instead felt the lovely, smooth nearly soundless ride of his “high performance vehicle”. She’d never ridden in a Mercedes (all her cars, and her family’s, were jalopies that they rode into the ground before buying other, used, jalopies) and she had to admit (even though she would never tell Mags), she enjoyed it.

Colin deftly negotiated the difficult Bristol roads and entered the A38 at Cumberland Basin and Sibyl stared at the beautifully lit Clifton Suspension Bridge as they passed by.

“Why him?” Colin’s voice came at her suddenly and she jumped. Even the short drive in his smooth car had lulled her into a strange relaxation.

“Sorry?”

“The medic.”

She sighed as she understood his question. It was none of his business. Furthermore, they (especially Sibyl) were both forgetting that he had an unreasonable loathing of her and the last time they’d spent any time together he made sure she knew it (well, most of the time).

“He asked me,” was all she said and hoped he would let the matter drop.

“There is no way in hell a woman like you should be on the arm of a man like that,” Colin remarked with deep meaning and supreme finality.

He exited the A38 and headed around Long Ashton toward Clevedon.

She should have stayed silent. For sanity’s sake, she knew that. Rationally, logically and all good things that meant peace of mind, she understood that with certainty.

However, she didn’t stay silent.

“And what type of man should I be on the arm of, as you put it?”

“Me,” he answered boldly and she gasped, realising, without a doubt, she’d entered the Alternate Colin Morgan Universe.

He ignored her gasp. “If you were with me, you would not buy your own drinks. You would not be sent off to buy mine. I would most likely not let you out of my sight. We would definitely not be in a club. And you certainly would not, under any circumstances, leave with another man.”

Regardless of the edge of chauvinism that tainted his statements, something started fluttering in her stomach, something not entirely unpleasant, indeed, something alarmingly pleasant, and she did her utmost to ignore it.

“If you were an ass like Steve, then you wouldn’t have a choice.”

He didn’t reply which, in itself, was an eloquent statement.

Feeling the need to be safely out of Alternate but Somehow Entirely More Disarming Colin Morgan Universe, she reminded him, “However, the last time I saw you, you forced me to undress in front of you.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Would you have done what you were told if I left?”

She felt her body jolt at his uncanny perception into her somewhat stubborn nature.

But unfortunately, everything she was would not allow her to lie.

“No,” she admitted and chanced a glance at him. She saw the flash of white from his teeth and she made a grumpy noise and looked out the window.

He chuckled.

She decided not to speak to him anymore.

He was not, however, finished speaking to her.

“You were freezing yourself to death, which was a fool thing to do, and you looked about as comfortable as if you were lying on a sacrificial slab.”

“I could hardly make myself comfortable when I was being held hostage!” she snapped, instantly forgetting her vow to stay silent.

“You weren’t being held hostage.”

“Could I leave?” she demanded.

“No,” he stated implacably.

She threw up her arms as if that settled her point. “You see! I was a hostage.”

This time, it was no chuckle but a quiet, amused laugh.

Therefore she stated crossly, “I fail to see how anything about that entire evening was funny. I just wanted to see your house. You confiscated my license and called the police to check on me.”

“I had my reasons.”

“Yes? And what were those?” she asked, her voice short and angry and she was glad, no thrilled of these reminders. Rescuer Colin was not nearly as easy to deal with as Lunatic Colin.

“You honestly don’t know?” he asked back, surprise edging his voice.

“Well, it felt like you thought Mrs. Byrne and I were going to steal your favourite hi fi, which was not a pleasant feeling. Though I think at the time she said it she was living in cloud coo coo land, considering your reaction to my arrival at your home, she told me the day before you’d likely give me a personal tour of the house.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” he murmured as if to himself.

“Thank you, but no,” Sibyl replied quickly. “I’m never going to Lacybourne Manor again. I think I may even avoid National Trust properties altogether,” she declared dramatically then ruined it by going back on her word in case the goddess heard her statement and held her to it so she made a few exceptions. “Except Tyntesfield, naturally. And Dunster Castle, which is one of my favourites. And Durham Park, of course.” She wracked her brain to think of anything else she’d missed. “Oh! And Avebury, you get parking for free there if you’re a National Trust member.”

“You can’t possibly be real.” The warm, laughing tone in his voice made her head snap around to look at him and she saw the smile was there, full force.

“I am real, Mr. Morgan, it is you, or at least tonight’s you, that I find hard to believe is real.”

They were slowing down and she realised he was on the short, but secluded, drive to her cottage. How he knew where she lived, she couldn’t fathom, unless he memorised the address on her license which was undoubtedly what he did.

Colin stopped outside the door and pulled up the handbrake. Then he turned to her and, by the dim lights of the dash, she could see the deep intensity of his eyes.

“I’m definitely real,” he told her.

“Which is the real you?” she asked in return. “Crazy, angry man at Lacybourne or rescuer guy in Bristol?”

“Both,” he answered, she saw the flash of his teeth and she fought the insane urge to smile back at him or throw herself into his arms, or both.

Instead, she retreated into flippancy which was a far safer place to be. “Great. Multiple personalities. Perhaps I should do an intervention.”

On that, she unclicked her seatbelt and hastily exited the lovely car. She heard the purring, well-tuned motor stop and his car door opening and slamming shut. Even so, she didn’t hesitate, walked directly to the front door, slid in the ancient key and opened it. Mallory bounded out with great, if unusual, enthusiasm and went tearing toward Colin.

“Mallory!” she shouted but Mallory would not be deterred.

“Stop,” Colin ordered, his voice commanding but not harsh and Mallory skidded to a halt and stopped within inches of the man then leaned her muzzle forward and licked his hand.

Sibyl’s eyes went skyward in exasperation. Though, she had to admit, if anyone deserved snarling, cranky Mallory tonight, it was definitely defunct-date Steve.

Colin walked toward her as she reached in and turned on the light switch that her father had rigged to light several of the lamps around the cottage, making traversing it easy upon entry with one single switch. This caused the whole glade around the front of the cottage to be diffused with soft, dim light.

Mallory followed Colin to Sibyl, snuffled Sibyl’s hand in belated greeting and then moseyed off into the night to do his business.

And suddenly Sibyl felt awkward as Colin stood looking down at her. She stared up at him, noting it was rather strange doing so. Being quite tall herself, and also wearing high heels, she would normally be eye-to-eye or looking down at the majority of people, even men.

She hid her discomfort and tried valiantly to end the night on a good note.

“Thank you for the ride,” she paused, “And the rescue.”

“You’re welcome.” Simple, softly said in his deep voice, and unbelievably effective, Sibyl felt the shockwaves of his tone all the way to her toes.

A shiver slid through her and she shook it off.

“Mallory!” she called, turning toward the dark night. When she glanced back to say goodnight to Colin, he spoke.

“Tell me something,” he requested quietly.

“Yes?”

“Your dog’s name is unusual. How did he get it?”

She shrugged feeling somehow this question seemed too personal because something in his tone made it so.

She decided to give him the short version. “My Dad names my pets. I’m hopeless at it. My Dad is kind of…” she hesitated, not wishing to share too much. It was easy when it was banter and it wasn’t dangerous. Colin Morgan knowing personal things about her and her family, she, for some reason, felt the need to be guarded. “A mythology buff. Thomas Malory wrote Le Morte D’Arthur and my father loves Arthurian Legend. So, he named him Mallory.”

“I see.” This, obviously, was a highly acceptable answer because he stepped toward her and she read the meaning to his advance loud and clear. She began speaking in a rush to stop his progress.

“Bran, my cat, is named for Bran the Blessed, of Welsh Mythology.”

Her ploy didn’t work, though he stopped, he did it close enough to her that she could feel him even though he wasn’t touching her.

“Can I see you again?” he asked, he was using his soft, effective voice and her toes curled.

Sibyl was stunned to her core at his request. She would never have expected after that night at Lacybourne that he’d want to see her again.

Tonight, however, he was different. Completely different.

She used every bit of willpower she had to say what was logical and right for her peace of mind. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”

She saw the flash of his smile and noted with a thrill of fear that he was entirely unaffected by her refusal.

“Why isn’t it wise?”

“Because I think you might be a little insane,” she blurted more bluntly than she would have done if she wasn’t trying very, very hard not to throw herself at him.

This could be her dream man. He was certainly acting like her dream man.

The problem was, the other Colin was most certainly not.

“I’m not insane,” he assured her, his voice made even more effective by the addition of a teasing note.

Then he came even closer.

Sibyl stepped back.

“Mr. Morgan –”

“Colin.”

“You scare me a little bit,” she admitted softly.

At this pronouncement, he stopped moving toward her.

“This is a far better ending than the one we had before,” she offered, her voice somewhat breathless and definitely rushed because if she didn’t say it, she wouldn’t. Instead she’d do something insane, like invite him inside then offer him a drink then, maybe, totally lose it and rip his clothes off. “I think we should stick with this,” she finished.

Mallory came loping out of the darkness and instead of immediately entering the house after his business was concluded, as he usually did, he sat next to Colin and leaned his big body against Colin’s legs.

Sibyl stared in shock at her dog.

“Mallory, get inside,” she commanded and Mallory leaned forward, licked her hand and then decided that, even though he liked Colin Morgan, he liked his sleep better. So he ambled into the house and disappeared.

Sibyl looked back at Colin. “Thank you again, you’ve been very nice tonight.”

Colin didn’t respond.

There was light but it was dim and she couldn’t see his eyes all that well. What she did see was his hand coming up and, before she could react, he traced a finger in a whisper-soft caress from her temple, along her cheek, to the corner of her lip. Then, all the while Colin watching his finger’s movements, it dipped and slowly traced the bottom edge of her lower lip ending on her chin. The whole manoeuvre, in real time, probably lasted five seconds, but it felt like it took a blissful, beautiful, dreamy eternity and that was why Sibyl stood silent and unmoving as he did it.

It was not a goodnight kiss but, somehow, seemed far more intimate.

Then, his eyes coming back to hers, he murmured, “Goodnight, Sibyl.”

And with that, he left.