Lacybourne Manor

Chapter Seven Bargain

Sibyl woke up the next day, her limbs hopelessly entangled with the covers of her bed.

She saw distractedly that Mallory stood beside her bed, looking curiously at her, not in his usual loopy manner, but as if he was standing at attention, awaiting her command.

She was sweating, she was panting and she remembered every vivid detail of the dream she’d just had.

“I’m going insane,” she told the dog and he melted out of his unusual stance and moved toward her, his tail wagging, his body shaking, his cold nose snuffling at her hand.

She lay back on the bed and absently pet her dog.

Last night, after Colin left, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about him, the night or his desire to see her again (and hers to see him). She had definitely not thought about his light caress. She figured it was simply bad luck that she’d run into him. She had managed to live a year in England without ever seeing him and she hoped she could continue with her life and never see him again (or, at least, this was what she told herself).

Unfortunately, that did not include seeing him in her dreams.

The real man was clearly unbalanced, or perhaps not, but she was not going to allow herself to discover the truth.

The dream man was anything but.

Last night, in her dream though, he had been blond. His hair the exact colour of hers, golden and thick. He’d been wearing some sort of tunic, hose and high, soft leather boots with a gold, intricately linked chain settled low on his narrow waist. She had been wearing a gown of soft, pale blue wool, she also had a belt made of delicate silver filigree inlaid with roughly cut aquamarines tied low on her waist.

Sibyl blamed her father for her dream’s medieval wardrobe.

They were riding a midnight black steed, the horse’s muscled power beneath her, her lover’s same power emanating into her back as he held her close to his chest atop the horse. One of his arms was wrapped protectively and possessively about her waist.

This moment was a stolen one, her lover wending his expert way through a heavy wooded area until he found the place for which he was looking. They were not supposed to be out there alone together some foreign part of her knew and felt the illicit excitement of it.

He alighted from the horse then dragged her off, sliding her tantalisingly down the length of his hard body.

Then he bent his head to kiss her and it was sweet and wild and beautiful and absolutely everything a kiss should be.

When he lifted his head, his eyes hooded and sexy as they had been in the entryway to his house a week before, she’d whispered, “Colin.”

This made him grin a very devilish grin.

“Are you trying to make me jealous, wench? ‘Colin’ indeed. Say my name when I kiss you.” Then, his lips on hers, he whispered, “Say it, Beatrice… Royce.”

Confused and not knowing what to do, not knowing why he was calling her Beatrice, and wanting another of those kisses, she did as he commanded and murmured the name, “Royce”.

The instant she did, he kissed her again and it was all the things before but now also hot with need. She felt desire flood through her as she slid her hands into his hair. He lay her down on the forest floor right next to the horse, his body settled on top of her and she gloried in his heavy weight.

The horse shifted and she felt the unsettling feeling they were being watched.

It was then she awoke, the limbs that had been entangled with his were simply wound through the sheets of her bed.

“I am going insane,” she told the dog and Mallory whined.

She pulled the covers off the bed and grabbed some jeans and sweater to wear to take her dog for a walk. She resolutely shoved the dream aside (it was only a dream, just a dream, Colin Morgan was forever out of her life, forever and ever, she vowed).

So it was a lovely dream.

So it was a particularly delicious and lovely dream.

It was just a dream.

She went through her morning regime, thinking only of the things she needed to think about.

Walk the dog, feed her pets, brush her teeth, wash her face, take a shower and so on.She sat at her dressing table, lightly applied her makeup and attempted to do something with her hair.

Sibyl loved her bedroom, it was (as was the whole of Brightrose Cottage, but especially her bedroom) her sanctuary, perfectly, splendidly her.

It had a lovely fireplace with a black, wrought iron grate surrounded by tile in a rich jade colour. It had gleaming, wide-planked floors scattered with thick, pastel-coloured throw rugs. The walls were painted a very pale green. She and her father had found and restored an ornate iron bed and they’d painted it white. It was covered with very feminine, soft sheets and comforter scattered with dainty, pastel flowers with big, fluffy pillows at the head. It had window seats in the diamond-paned windows covered with plump pillows and cushions. The bed was flanked with lovely French provincial bed stands and there was a matching dressing table with an oval mirror.

It was all girl, fresh and inviting and lovely.

If Colin Morgan stood in this room, his immensely masculine presence would be so out of place, the very thought made her laugh out loud. She took comfort in that thought and in her room that morning. She needed as much comfort as she could get after the fiasco at Lacybourne, the conflicting events of last night and her glorious dream.

Later that morning she walked into the Community Centre with a cheerful wave to Tina who was cooking lunch for fifty pensioners in the enormous kitchen.

Sibyl went straight to work on a grant to get their own minibus. Social Services could help Annie, of course, but even after another visit from Sibyl, they remained firm that they couldn’t do much about the minibus driver.

So Sibyl had priced the cost of buying the bus and training Kyle to drive it. They also needed enough money for petrol, insurance, maintenance and a cushion in case of repairs for several years.

As she created the budget, she saw the rising amount with even more rising alarm.

They’d need a heck of a lot of money but, as ever, Sibyl was determined to find it.

And she would, somehow.

It turned out Annie had no children even though she said she did. Sibyl thought that everyone had to look out for their neighbours and the best people that did that were the volunteers and staff at the Centre. Certainly, the minibus driver did not.

Kyle walked into her shabby, corner office with its makeshift tables she used as desks and the hand-me-down (most likely handed down two or three times) couch shoved against the wall. Detritus from talent shows, fayres, Easter parades and all sorts of Community Centre events crowded every corner and available surface.

His droopy moustache twitched and she found herself grinning at him after witnessing this endearing habit.

“You want me to make those deliveries for you today, luv?” he asked.

Kyle helped her deliver her girlie goods to the various stores that stocked them.

“Please. The shops in Clevedon and Clifton are out of product, they’ve ordered huge and the boxes won’t fit in the MG.”

“Great car but a death trap,” Kyle commented darkly and he’d said this before, about half a million times.

Day-after-day, Kyle was assuming more and more of a position as Father Figure in Absence of Bertie and Sibyl appreciated his gruff, but loving, concern.

Before she could reply, Jemma ran in, her dark hair bouncing around on the crown of her head, her face panicked.

“I’ve got to call 999, Meg just fell out of the minibus.”

At these words Sibyl’s heart squeezed painfully and her stomach lurched.

Her friend grabbed the phone while both Kyle and Sibyl flew out of the office, through the Day Centre and out to the street.

Sibyl wanted to burst into tears at what she saw.

Instead, she ran forward and skidded to a halt next to the heavy, prone body of Meg.

“Meg, honey, are you okay?” Sibyl asked, dropping to her knees and grabbing the woman’s hand, a hand which closed around her own in a painful grip, expressing her acute discomfort.

“I think I’ve broken a hip,” Meg answered on a tortured whisper and Sibyl knew Meg was trying to be strong but at this pronouncement, her voice betrayed a steady whine of hurt.

“Jem is calling the medics, we’ll get you to hospital in no time at all,” Sibyl tried to reassure her.

“Don’t leave me, Sibyl,” Meg begged, her hand clutching Sibyl’s desperately and Sibyl nodded her head fervently. Then Meg pleaded, “Can someone please call my son?”

“I’ll call her son,” Tina was standing over them, wringing her apron in concern. She stopped wringing her hands and ran off awkwardly on mangled feet to do her task as Jemma rushed toward them.

“They’re on their way,” Jem announced when she was close.

Hours later, the doctors reported to Sibyl, Jemma and Meg’s son (who had left straight from work to see to his mother) that Meg had broken her hip.

Sibyl waited until she and Jemma were outside the doors of the hospital before she let her formidable temper explode.

“That bloody, bloody minibus driver. He knows Meg needs help with transfers. He knows Kyle or I have to be there when Meg gets out of the bus. How could he let her fall?”

“Her son is with her now, she’s a strong lady, she’ll be okay,” Jemma assured her, her chocolate eyes melting as she watched Sibyl in full, heartfelt, outrage.

“She’s my responsibility when she comes to that Centre, Jem,” Sibyl replied, her voice rising. “And she’s my friend! How am I going to face her after this?”

And as she spoke, Sibyl felt the same hated reminder that no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, things went very, very badly for people who mattered.

Jem got closer and put a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm, saying softly, “You can’t save everyone from every little hurt, Sibyl. You couldn’t have prevented what happened today.”

“I’m going to damn well try,” Sibyl snapped and Jemma shook her head gently.

“Oh Billie, mate,” Jem whispered, using Sibyl’s not-oft-used nickname in an effort to settle her. “You break my heart.”

“I’m going to break something and it isn’t your heart. It’s that minibus driver’s head!” Sibyl promised dramatically, hanging onto her anger in order not to feel her pain and definitely not to feel the nagging sense of guilt that she’d been the cause of today’s tragedy. Her and her big mouth.

Jemma laughed, giving Sibyl’s shoulder a friendly shove and breaking the intensity of the moment. She then hugged Sibyl, an uncommon action from her reserved friend.

“She’ll be okay,” Jem whispered in her ear.

Sibyl let out a shuddering sigh. “I hope so.”

But she didn’t hope so.

Sibyl would do everything she could to make it so.

The end was nigh for the likes of Meg and Annie’s anguish.

Sibyl would see to it.

Colin drove down the attractive lane that led to Sibyl’s cottage and as he did he saw dotted in the woods sprinkles of late-blooming snowdrops, crocuses and opening daffodils. As he approached the picturesque, rambling, sparkling white cottage, he saw Sibyl’s MG and a Ford Fiesta parked in the widened drive at the front. Without room to park out front, he drove around the house and found a parking spot by the side.

As he got out and walked to the front door, he noted that all the windows had window boxes and they’d already been planted with early spring flowers that tangled with dangling ivy.

Colin was there because of last week but mostly because of last night.

Last week, after sending Tamara away, Colin had ordered an investigation into the woman who called herself Sibyl Godwin.

“I’ll need to go to America if I’m going to find out everything about her,” his investigator, Robert Fitzwilliam, told him. “Obviously, that will significantly increase my expenses.”

“Do it,” was all Colin said. He was happy to pay to find out everything about Sibyl Godwin’s past and personally intended to find out who she was now.

Arriving home early, Colin had sent Tamara home Wednesday afternoon.

Things were very much finished with Tamara Adams, for a variety of reasons.

The idiot woman had attempted to seduce him while Sibyl and Mrs. Byrne were in the house. He could barely think with Beatrice Godwin’s double lying in a bed (stubbornly freezing herself to death) two doors down from his own room, much less bear another woman’s hands on him. Then she’d had the temerity to act affronted when he told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had no interest. Making matters worse, she’d flown into a jealous rage after Sibyl and Mrs. Byrne had both left the next day.

“I heard what you said to her!” Tamara ranted. “You were tempted by her. You said it, right in front of me!”

He’d simply stared at her beautiful face, not so beautiful as it was distorted with rage.

“How dare you!” she screeched when he’d made no response.

“It’s my house, my life, my bed, I choose who I take to it,” Colin replied calmly.

At this point, she’d flown at him in a fury.

That was a big mistake.

He’d pushed her off, ordered her out of his house and walked away.

That, he knew, was the end of Tamara Adams.

Colin would not put up with jealous rages and feminine pouts. With his usual ruthlessness, he made an instant decision. He didn’t care if it took years to find a suitable replacement, Tamara would never have his ring on her finger.

After dealing with Tamara, he started piecing it together what he knew of Sibyl.

The people at The National Trust told him that Mrs. Byrne had been volunteering at Lacybourne for seven years. She was retired, living on a meagre pension and spending some of her days in a lavish manor house. She’d undoubtedly encountered Sibyl somewhere along the line and noted her amazing resemblance to Beatrice Godwin. Doing so, she’d probably talked the younger woman either into a con or conned Sibyl into a meeting with Royce Morgan’s twin.

What they were up to, he couldn’t care less, for they wouldn’t succeed.

However, considering Sibyl’s behaviour last night, he was beginning to doubt she was a con artist, trading on her resemblance to a long dead woman. She seemed genuinely surprised at his reaction to her and stunned by his behaviour.

Though, Colin wouldn’t put anything passed a woman.

His parents were worth money, he had a large trust fund he’d never touched, substantial sums of his own, his business was worth a great deal and then there was Lacybourne. It was filled with priceless antiques, including an enormous Bristol Blue Glass collection and a centuries old accumulation of Wedgewood, all of which Mrs. Byrne knew very well, and, if Sibyl’s deft knowledge of National Trust properties was anything to go by, she did as well.

Beatrice Godwin’s portrait and the story of Royce and Beatrice Morgan had been published often in books and was still often discussed local lore. Without having to think, Colin knew of five books he’d read himself about the doomed, star-crossed lovers. The National Trust volunteers recited the story dozens of times during every visiting day. If Sibyl so desired to see his house, she would likely know its most famous piece of history.

Mrs. Byrne and Miss Godwin could easily be on a con, which made him their target.

Unfortunately for them, he had no interest in being the target but, rather, aiming at one.

And he decided his target would be Sibyl Godwin.

It was either that, or the romantic myth of star-crossed lovers was true. It could, of course (and considering his cynical nature, he did not give a great deal of plausibility to this option), be merely coincidence that this glorious American woman, who just happened to own a fluffy black cat and an enormous mastiff, crossed his path.

Further complicating matters (but likely because he’d met her yet again), Colin had a dream the night before, a dream of her in a blue woollen gown, riding on a horse before him, kissing him in a forest. Her hair was dark in the dream, like Beatrice’s, but Colin knew it was her.

Perhaps it all was just a misunderstanding. Seeing as she was out with the medic the night before, she could either be moving on as it was obvious their attempt with him would be unsuccessful or she honestly was unaware of their strange, historical connection.

If that was the case, he’d apologise to her, he’d charm her and he’d win her. Of that, he had no doubt.

Either way, he had to know.

And he had a plan.

He walked toward her home and noticed that her front door was open.

Then he heard a man shouting, “Don’t you carry any of those heavy boxes!”

As she had company, instead of seeking her out, without hesitation Colin entered her house through the open door.

He felt immediately welcomed (even though he probably was not) at the same time he was instantly transported back in time.

He was standing in a huge, open room. An enormous, circular, dark-wood dining table with lions paw feet and high backed chairs upholstered in deep rusts and buttery yellows was to his left situated by a handsome inglenook fire place. In its centre was an enormous cut-crystal vase filled with yellow roses. The entire room was painted in the same warm, buttery yellow as was in the chairs and a huge, a wrought-iron chandelier hung imposingly over the table with matching sconces affixed to the walls. There was a formidable chest against one wall, intricately, yet crudely, carved. On it were heavy, cut-crystal tumblers and sturdy decanters filled with varying shades of liquid. The decanters held chains around their necks engraved with the name of the liquor that rested inside. There was a massive mirror on one wall, framed in dark wood. There was also the portrait of a woman hanging over the chest, she had a tumble of auburn hair, flashing blue eyes and very deep cleavage. She managed to look both friendly and severe.

There was a narrow staircase rising up the wall to his right with stout beams holding it up. It looked contradictorily like it could crumble at any second at the same time completely sound. The wood of the outside banister had been lovingly refinished and there was a rope handrail against the opposite wall, leading upstairs.

The stairway separated the dining area from the cosy living room which was filled with deep, comfortable chairs and couches liberally dosed with tasselled pillows and soft throws, all of which surrounded an even larger, inglenook fireplace, which was the room’s focal point. Under the stairs, ancient, arched windows had been uncovered and lovingly restored with stained glass that was a swirl of ivory and buttery yellow. More heavy wrought iron was there, these being candlesticks in the window and higher ones standing on the floor, holding thick rust, ivory and yellow candles.

All the windows were warped with age, diamond-paned and held window seats filled with inviting cushions. There was no television set that he could see but there were bookcases filling the entire side wall beyond the arched windows. The cases had been expertly built around two big windows and they were filled with books and unusual artefacts that invited perusal.

If a woman wearing a tall, conical, pointed hat with her face half-hidden behind a shimmering veil were to walk into the room at that very moment, he would not have been surprised.

Colin felt a slight uneasiness at the entire feel of the house. It was not where he expected an accomplished con artist would live.

Then he mentally shrugged. He knew little of where such people would live and there was a good possibility, the house close to confirming it, that Sibyl was exactly what she appeared to be – a beautiful American living in England who liked to visit National Trust houses and made poor choices on who to date.

He heard noise and voices coming from the behind the house.

“I thought I told you not to carry those boxes.” It was again the gruff man’s voice.

Then he heard laughter that had to be Sibyl’s and, at the husky, sweet sound of it, Colin’s body went completely still.

There was something achingly familiar about it even though he’d never heard it before in his life.

Her voice was a charming alto, he knew. Her laughter as well, was as rich as her voice and unbelievably musical.

“It doesn’t weigh anything, Kyle.”

Through the windows at the side of the house, opened to the unusual warmth of the spring day, Colin saw an older man with a shock of white hair (but strangely, the long sideburns were still completely black) walk by. The man disappeared around the back of the house and then Colin heard a masculine “omph”.

“Doesn’t weigh anything, my arse,” Kyle said.

Again, Colin heard her familiar, effective laughter.

Colin saw Kyle again, this time carrying a box and shouting over his shoulder, “How much more?”

Sibyl followed and Colin felt his body instinctively, and pleasantly, react to the sight of her.

“That’s it, just those four. The two for Clevedon and the two for Clifton. You’re an absolute love, I owe you one,” she was saying as she walked behind the man.

Colin moved to the entryway and could easily see them outside, Kyle was loading up the back of the Fiesta and Sibyl was standing talking to him as he did so. Colin could not hear them and he found himself curious to know what they were saying, considering how intent Sibyl looked as she spoke.

She was wearing jeans, the pant legs so long the backs of the slightly flared hems were frayed from where she walked on them. A pair of kelly green flats peeked out at the bottom and she wore a matching sweater that managed to be both lovingly fitted to her upper body and also looked fluffy and warm. She had a brightly-coloured long scarf wrapped round and round her neck and her glorious hair was pulled up in a precarious bunch at the crown of her head, locks falling haphazardly from it. Around her neck and shoulders were tendrils that had never made it to the knot at the crown in the first place.

Watching her, Colin liked his plan all the more.

Because, he knew, one way or the other, he’d have her.

Just then the enormous beast she’d cleverly (he wondered if that touch was hers or Mrs. Byrne’s) named or renamed Mallory came loping toward him.

Colin figured the canine would bark. Instead, the dog just swung his heavy head toward Colin, stopped when he arrived at Colin’s legs, sniffed Colin’s thigh and then sat, resting his body against Colin’s legs comfortably.

“Good dog,” he whispered and Mallory turned his head and licked Colin’s hand.

This too, seemed vaguely familiar, just as it had the first several times the dog did it.

He pushed back the thought as he saw the Ford take off and Sibyl waved it on its way. She spent some time watching it out of sight then turned with a strangely despondent jerk and walked toward the house, staring her feet, apparently lost in unhappy thought.

Colin moved deeper into the house, the dog following him. Once she was inside, she closed the door, never looking up, and she threw the bolt home.

It was then that Mallory gave a gentle woof.

Her head came around and she spied Colin.

Her eyes rounded, her mouth dropped open and she stared. Regardless of her open surprise, Colin couldn’t help himself, he thought she looked adorable.

She snapped her mouth closed so fast, he could hear the crashing of teeth.

Then she breathed, “What are you doing here?”

He had planted his feet apart, and, at her words, he crossed his arms on his chest and didn’t answer.

Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were flashing and he noticed her sweater had a lovely deep v-neck that showed a nice hint of her breasts below the drape of scarf.

“I thought I explained it wasn’t wise for us to see each other again,” she told him, her voice rising and the dog, who sat next to him again, stood up and let out a loud bark.

“Quiet,” Colin told the dog and he sat down again and wagged his tail.

For some reason, his command to the dog made her angry.

“Don’t tell my dog what to do,” she snapped.

He again remained silent and watched her in appreciation, whether it was real or a fine performance, he didn’t much care.

She dragged both of her hands through her hair and then belatedly realised it was tied up in a knot. She then tugged something impatiently out of it and Colin watched in fascination as it tumbled around her face, neck and shoulders.

Then she treated him to a true show.

She slid her fingers through her hair, gathering it up in a massive golden fall of tumbling waves and shaking it gloriously. Then she twisted it again and whatever she was holding was wound around it and then it fell, looking just as delightfully messy as it was before she fixed it.

Colin felt his body jerk to attention at the sight.

“That was quite affecting,” Colin commented, attempting to ignore his body’s reaction to her.

Her eyes narrowed on him.

“What, on this good earth, did I do to deserve this?” she asked the ceiling, her voice convincingly disgruntled.

So convincing he felt a shimmer of doubt.

And, he had to admit, a long-dead resurgence of hope.

He dug into the pocket of his trousers and found what he was looking for. He held out his hand, turned it palm up, and opened his fist, her red earrings and leather strapped pendant in his palm.

“My jewellery!” she gasped, her face showing a flash of appealing delight and she took two quick steps forward.

He closed his hand again and crossed his arms on his chest.

The dog settled into a lying position with a very loud groan.

She stopped when he closed his fist and her eyes flew to his. The delight was gone and confusion flooded in.

“Please give them to me,” she requested quietly.

He ignored her tone and told her, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Please give me my jewellery, Mr. Morgan. I forgot it in my extreme desire to exit your house and it means something to me.” She also ignored his comment and he stayed silent so she continued, her voice rising again, in anger or panic, he didn’t know her well enough to decipher. “Please give it to me. My mother gave me that pendant.”

“If you want it, you have to hear me out.”

Her response was surprising. He thought a consummate professional like herself would be willing to negotiate. But, perhaps, unsurprising if she was not the little actress most women of his acquaintance seemed to be.

She rushed to him and when she did so, the dog lumbered to his feet and started barking.

When she arrived a foot in front of him, she grabbed his wrist and tried to wrest his clenched fist open. His other hand caught one of her wrists, easily twisting it behind her back and he crushed her body against his.

He tried to ignore his body’s instantaneous reaction to her soft curves against his hard frame but he was not altogether successful. He calmly deposited the jewellery back into his pocket and caught her other hand, which was now pressing against his chest to push him away, and twisted that gently behind her too.

She struggled for a bit and then suddenly realising his superior strength, froze, her face lifting to his.

“You’re unbelievable. I see your personality has changed again,” she accused in a frosty voice that seemed entirely foreign on her lips.

He ignored her and remarked, “That’s better.”

“Let me go.”

He shook his head.

“Let me go!” she demanded.

He shook her gently yet roughly and her fierce eyes turned frightened.

He found he both enjoyed that reaction and hated it with every fibre of his being.

It was a very strange sensation.

Her body still frozen, he finally had her rapt attention. It was time to get down to business.

“I want to fuck you,” he told her calmly and bluntly and waited for her reaction.

“Oh my goddess,” she breathed, her eyes widened and her mouth ended the statement parted in surprise.

With that strange remark, he could smell her breath, which was minty, and her scent, which was now gardenias and vanilla, and both took considerable toll on his fast flagging control.

He realised he wanted her, wanted her now, wanted to rip her clothes off, toss her delicious body on the dining room table and bury himself inside her. He wanted it so badly it took a supreme effort of will not to give in to the impulse and the strength of this hunger made Colin deeply surprised. He’d never felt such a lack of control, such a feral need, in his life.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You feel good, you smell good, you probably even taste good.”

The panic flared in her eyes but her voice was quiet when she demanded, “Let me go.”

“I’ll pay you.”

Gone was the quiet but the panic escalated.

“You’ll what?” she screeched.

“Name your price. I’ll pay for the use of that body of yours. You tell me how much you want and I’ll tell you what it’s worth to me.” She was looking at him as if he’d grown a second head and she didn’t reply so he continued. “Name your price and I’ll tell you if it’s worth one time, two times or a whole month of me having you whenever I want.”

“You are mad,” she whispered, staring up at him with intensity in her green eyes.

His fingers tightened on her wrists and he pushed his game. “Just name your price. If it’s too high then we’ll add things on. I’ll have you on that table, for example,” he expressed his thought from moments before.

Her head jerked to look at the table then jerked back to him, the tendrils of her hair catching fetchingly on her lips.

“Or, I’ll have you on all fours,” he suggested in a thoughtful attempt to help her make up her mind, driven by something he didn’t understand to shock her.

At that, she started to struggle again, in earnest, anger and panic warring in her expression and she shouted, “Let me go!”

The dog, who had stopped barking, started again, backing up in confusion at this turn of events.

Colin’s hands tightened further on her wrists and he knew it was painful because she ceased struggling immediately. But her luscious body wriggling against him, her eyes flashing green, Colin was definitely no saint, he lost his patience luckily before he lost his flagging control.

But he had to know.

He had to know if she was after his money or if she carried Beatrice Godwin’s reincarnated soul.

The more she struggled, the longer she hesitated, the more he felt his hope grow and he had to know.

Was all that was Sibyl Godwin more than just coincidence?

Was she born destined to be his as he was to be hers?

Colin had been waiting his whole life. He had to know.

Therefore, he dipped his head so his face was an inch from hers and growled, “Name your price.”

Sibyl stared at him, more terrified than she’d ever been in her entire life.

Her mind was racing, her heart was beating like a hammer and panic was welling up in her chest so strongly, she thought she would explode.

This was not Lunatic Colin or any nuance of Rescuer Colin, this was Scary Colin.

“Quiet!” he thundered at Mallory and she jumped. Her dog gave a soft, confused whine and then ran out of the room, up the stairs and, likely, into the corner of her bedroom.

She closed her eyes in stunning defeat at her dog’s retreat.

And saw Meg lying on the ground by the minibus.

She opened her eyes again, knowing the exact figure because she had just that day worked on the budget.

She’d promised herself, whatever it took, she’d find a way.

And here Colin Morgan was, offering her a way.

It was an unthinkable, despicable way.

But it was a way.

She couldn’t believe she was going to do it, this man was loathsome, hideous.

But she was going to do it.

If he agreed.

How many people had fifty thousand pounds to throw around, especially for something like this?

Thinking (more like hoping), he’d never agree to it and would be so disgusted he’d walk out the door, out of her life, leaving her in peace (forever and ever), Sibyl announced, “I want fifty thousand pounds.”

That would buy the minibus, the driving lessons for Kyle, petrol, insurance and maintenance for several years, if they were frugal.

And it would buy peace of mind for Meg and Annie and all the other oldies who depended on the minibus to get them out of their homes so they could have a good meal and a few hours of companionship.

“And what does that buy me?” His eyes betrayed both a disappointment so extreme it was tangible and a desire so strong she felt her body heat. Her stomach twisted inexplicably as he looked at her with that strange expression on his face.

“You tell me.” Sibyl shot back, trying for bravado. She felt like she was on the edge of a sharp, dark precipice, just about to jump over into the blinding abyss and it scared the living daylights out of her.

If she became this man’s whore, she would never find her true love. She would never be the same again.

And she couldn’t shake the constant feeling she had when she was with him that there was something else, something missing between them, something she didn’t understand, couldn’t put her finger on but it was something vitally important.

And, because of that, because he, too, had to feel it, she couldn’t imagine he’d say yes.

“It gets me anything I want for two months,” he declared.

Oh dear goddess, he said yes.

She blinked at him and felt the world falling away as she toppled into the abyss.

He stared down at her, his clay-coloured eyes burning into her and she realised it wasn’t done, she could take it back, order him out of her home and tell him she never wanted to see him again.

It was the moment of truth, could she do this vile thing?

But, her heart sinking, she knew she could.

No, she had to.

For Annie and especially for Meg.

And she felt a pain slice through her stomach.

And she decided she hated Colin Morgan (at the same time she hated herself and her stupid temper which she vowed never to lose again).

Having come to her decision, Sibyl pressed her lips together and forced her body to relax.

It was done, it had to be. Two months of his despicable attention would mean years of safety for her oldies. It was, she tried (and failed) to convince herself, a small price to pay.

She’d gotten herself in many pickles, nothing this bad, of course, but in the past, it had been bad. And she’d also lived through it and got to the other side.

She could live through this too.

She probably should have negotiated but she wanted him to let her go and she wanted all of this to be over, for now. She’d think about it again, later, after she learned how to kick herself in the backside.

“Done,” she snapped.

Then she watched as Colin smiled, it was slow and it was lethal.

“Except –” she started to say, the panic overwhelming her.

His arms tightened painfully.

“No exceptions.”

She ignored him and stated, “Not on that table. My father rebuilt and refinished that table, you’ll not…” she paused, not knowing how to put it.

He was ever-so-helpful in a way she was beginning to realise with great annoyance was so very him. “Fuck you on the table?”

She thought she might just burst into tears.

Somehow she felt in her very soul that this was all wrong and she knew it was the dreams. They were just dreams but she felt, even hoped, deep down inside that they meant something more. That they meant her years of searching for her dream man, her knight, the other piece of her heart, were over.

Apparently, they did not.

“Yes,” she hissed and controlled, with a mighty effort, her rampaging emotions.

“Fine,” he relented, the pressure of his hands gentling but he did not release her.

“I want the money tomorrow,” she told him. If she was going to do this, she’d better do it now or she’d chicken out. Her mind was racing, two months yawned before her, filled with blackness.

“Then you’re in my bed tomorrow night.”

Her stomach clenched at his words but she nodded, her hair annoyingly falling all around her face and, with her hands held behind her back, she could do nothing about it.

“How shall we seal this bargain?” he asked, his voice had turned from edgy and intense to something else entirely and she could just not believe that her stomach actually did a mini-flip.

She didn’t even chance a look at his face.

“Mr. Morgan, you don’t touch me…” She had to stop because she was pressed up against him from toe to chest and his arms were wrapped around her. “Anymore… until tomorrow.”

“The name is Colin,” he clipped.

She tossed her head and glared at him.

“Tomorrow,” she snapped.

Surprisingly, he let her go.

She took a quick step back but her pride would not allow more. She was not going to let him know how terrified she was. Nor how devastated.

“My jewellery,” she held out her hand, palm up. This position was familiar and it seemed, now, Colin Morgan would always be holding something of hers she wanted back.

She had to gulp down her tears again as he deposited the jewellery into her hand.

Her fingers curled over it slightly and she dropped her head and poked at the precious pendant with her finger, cursing, for the millionth time, her absentmindedness that caused her to forget it in the first place.

This action also served to hide her face from his view.

She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t know what she’d do if she looked at him. Probably run from the house and never stop running.

And how was that going to get a minibus?

She could taste the vile disappointment in her mouth that Rescuer Colin was not the real Colin.

And in that moment, Sibyl Godwin let go all of her wondrous dreams of finding her fated one, true, beautiful love. They flew away from her and she felt the acute pain as if they’d been torn from her physically.

His hand came out and he used the side of crooked finger to lift her chin so he could look into her eyes.

His were completely and utterly blank.

And that scared her most of all.

“I’ll be here with the money tomorrow night at seven,” he told her in a surprisingly soft voice.

She jerked her chin away from his hand.

Then Sibyl replied, “I’ll be ready.”