Lacybourne Manor (15 page)

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.