Lacybourne Manor (36 page)

It took her at least five
minutes of holding the sink basin to recover from this heated yet
tender barrage and every bit of self-control she possessed not to
rush into the bedroom and pounce on him like a demented wanton.

Her teeth had gone a whole
shade whiter.

The day after the cottage
break-in, Colin sent a locksmith to put new locks on the front
door
and
the backdoor. Not happy with this, he also sent out an
alarm specialist to see to putting in an alarm. However, as the
cottage was a listed building, everything would need to be approved
by the heritage council before it was installed. Since Colin knew
seventeen North Somerset Councillors (he reminded her rather
arrogantly, as was, she’d learned, his way) this would not be a
difficult proposition.

“But Colin, I can’t pay for an
alarm system,” she informed him at the time.

“I’m hardly going to allow you
to live at Brightrose when there’s a lunatic running around with a
tranquilliser gun,” he replied like it was as simple as that.

“
But Colin, I
can’t
afford
an alarm system,” she somewhat repeated,
thinking the different word might permeate his dictatorial
brain.

“You aren’t paying for it, I
am.”

“But Colin –”

“It’s either that or live at
Lacybourne with me.”

At that alarming juncture in
the conversation, she’d given in though not gracefully.

He’d also, to her surprise (and
hidden delight) had a survey done of the Community Centre and had
some builder “pop ‘round” to look at building an office extension
for her.

The oldies were beside
themselves with delight and Kyle couldn’t believe his luck at the
possibility of no more patched wire jobs and blocked toilets.

When she approached Colin about
this he’d said, “The place is a health hazard. If something isn’t
done, it’ll crumble down on your head and I happen to like your
head as it is.”

Well. How could she
respond to
that?

She didn’t know so she didn’t
respond at all and couldn’t, really, since he’d brushed his lips to
hers, turned from her and walked into the kitchen.

Furthermore, a rubbish truck
arrived last Friday and carted away the old, ratty chairs and
couches that littered the Day Centre (and nearly every stick of
furniture in Sibyl’s office). It was replaced within a half an hour
with new, plush easy chairs and a three piece suite. There were
brand new, sturdy yet attractive tables on which the oldies could
lunch with far more comfortable, not to mention safe chairs all
around the tables. Sibyl herself had a new desk, a swivel chair
that could only be described as luxurious and a lovely, comfortable
couch in her office.

“
I’m
definitely
writing
your mother about this,” Mrs. Griffith proclaimed, settling
contentedly in a new, plump, mauve chair covered in soft
velour.

Sibyl had been so beside
herself with glee, she didn’t know what to say or do. When she saw
Colin again after the new furniture was delivered, he passed it off
like it was nothing even though she knew it had to be worth
thousands of pounds.

She thought he’d demand his
pound of flesh, another month, maybe two, but he didn’t say a
word.

Not a single word.

Instead, the whole time,
he treated her like she was, well… his
girlfriend
. The very idea of
him having a girlfriend was ridiculous. Men like Colin didn’t have
girlfriends; they had arm candy, glorious, sunken-cheeked,
catwalk-model-type lovers. When he’d described himself as her
boyfriend the night Mallory was shot, she’d been stunned but she
thought it was simply his way of describing the indescribable. He
couldn’t say what she
really
was to him.

However, for the rest of the
week, although he was constantly authoritarian (as per usual), his
usual politeness and gallantry had melted to something that was far
more tender.

Sibyl didn’t know what to make
of this, how to handle herself with this new Colin or who she was
to him anymore. She was confused and felt vulnerable and he pressed
this advantage aggressively, asking her questions about her life,
her work, her friends. She couldn’t bear up against it, telling him
things she never meant him to know, inviting him into her life
where she never meant him to be.

She’d even told him about the
incident with the animal shelter, something she promised her father
she’d never speak of again, in her whole life, under threat of
death or certain torture or, at the very least, being disowned.

She was on dangerous
ground for this Colin, who she thought of as Royce/Colin, was
something new and different and entirely wonderful.

And she feared that she
was making him thus simply because she wanted it. Simply because
she had decided that she was going to make the most of the time she
had with him and
she
, as an untapped, untrained
witch, was turning him into something he was not, using a power she
could not control.

Of course, she could never tell
him this. She could not tell him of her dreams of Royce (dreams she
still had, every night) or the beautiful kiss they shared. Colin
would call in the men with the straight jacket and have her carted
off immediately.

Or, worse, turn away and walk
out of her life forever.

But that was then and this was
now and Colin was no longer Royce/Colin of the possessive,
protective, tender, loving variety. He was back to Colin of the
annoying, imperious, crazy variety.

Sibyl phoned his office, not
his mobile, meaning only to leave him a message because she did not
want to speak to him at all. She’d never phoned his office before
and didn’t relish the thought. As she dialled, she even entertained
the notion (quite contentedly) of spending the next four months
sleeping with him but never speaking to him again.

A woman answered, “Colin
Morgan’s office.”

Something about this greeting
made her seethe more.

“Hello, this is Sibyl Godwin.
I’d like to leave Mr. Morgan a message.”

“Oh, hi Miss Godwin. I’m Mandy,
Mr. Morgan’s assistant. He told me to put you through immediately
if you called. One moment.”

Then before she could get
a word in edgewise, Sibyl was put on hold. This gave her the golden
opportunity to seethe even more and she took it. She did not spend
one second (well, maybe
one
second) thinking what it
meant that he’d instructed his secretary to put her through the
minute she phoned.

Faster than she expected, she
heard his rich, attractive voice saying, “Sibyl.”

She tried not to react to the
sound of his voice and without preamble she began, “Colin, you
should know, for dinner tomorrow night –”

“Sibyl, I don’t –”

She interrupted him as he
interrupted her. “I’m just calling to tell you that my sister is
here too.”

He was silent.

“It was a surprise,” she
explained wishing she could be more excited about her sister’s
surprise visit and blaming Colin for that too.

“I’ll inform Mrs. Manning of
the addition,” he replied, though he sounded strangely pleased.

Sibyl seethed even more.

“Mrs. Manning?” Sibyl queried,
her voice curt.

“My housekeeper,” he answered
calmly.

“
Oh.” Of course,
Mrs. Manning,
the housekeeper.

“I’ll send a car to collect
you,” he added.

“Fine,” she bit out, knowing it
was an order and not feeling she had a tight enough reign on her
temper to fight him on it.

“Sibyl –”

“I’ve got to go,” and with a
great deal of courage, she hung up on him.

Luckily and unfortunately, he
did not call her back. Luckily, because she didn’t wish to speak to
him. Unfortunately, because him not calling her back meant she had
to worry if he was angry with her for hanging up on him.

Her family’s first evening in
England was spent, to Bertie’s despair (although he quickly found
himself listening to a comedy programme on BBC’s Radio 4), in
Sibyl’s bedroom with Scarlett and Mags inventorying Sibyl’s
wardrobe. Apparently, after Sibyl’s phone call several weeks
before, Scarlett became alarmed at the state of her older sister’s
apparel and decided it was high time for a fashion overhaul.

With clothes and shoes
everywhere, Scarlett turned from the wardrobe to Sibyl, who was
lying on the bed, and proclaimed, “Girl, you
really
need a little
black dress.”

“And some of those peasant
shirts. They’re very ‘in’ right now,” Mags added helpfully, sitting
on the floor and sifting through piles of clothes.

“The dress is priority,”
Scarlett decreed, her face contorting in hilarious distaste at the
thought of a peasant shirt.

“And maybe some of those
flowing gypsy skirts,” Mags ignored her younger daughter.

With the state of Sibyl’s
wardrobe declared at a level Scarlett told her was called “dire”,
the next day, while Bertie took the MG and went to Clevedon Library
to research Lacybourne and do the other things professors did when
they lost themselves for hours in libraries, the women took a taxi
to the train station and went to Bath in search of a little black
dress. They found three, as well as four new pairs of shoes (for
Sibyl, Scarlett bought herself two). Scarlett relentlessly added
two skirts, three pairs of trousers, a pair of jeans, several
expensive, designer t-shirts, four blouses and a good deal of
lingerie and sleepwear to Sibyl’s massive shopping take of the
day.

Which meant Sibyl (and
Scarlett) were both wearing little black dresses to Lacybourne.

Sibyl would have liked to have
been wearing a potato sack to make her feelings about the evening
perfectly clear but instead her dress was halter necked, the
narrow, deep V showing more than a hint of cleavage (indeed, it
went nearly to her midriff) and the hem of the skirt hit her two
inches above the knee ending in a short, perky ruffle. The ruffle,
Sibyl found, was the most annoying part of her outfit as she felt
anything but perky. Her legs were bare and shone with some kind of
lotion-slash-oil that Scarlett forced her to try (and, Sibyl
thought, with professional detachment, she should add it to her spa
inventory). Her feet were encased in a pair of beautiful, yet
painful and extremely expensive, spike-heeled, elaborately strapped
sandals.

Scarlett and Sibyl had
nearly come to blows when Scarlett demanded Sibyl wear her hair up
and Sibyl dug her heels in and wore it down. This was done in order
to irritate the now-despised (Sibyl was telling herself) Colin.
Once he found out the weight of her hair gave her headaches, he had
begun the habit of bunching her hair in his fist and lifting its
weight while kissing her, holding her and, once, just plain old
standing close to her. She
had
thought this lovely. Now,
since she fully intended to wear a pained expression the entire
evening, she’d aggravate his conscience at the same
time.

And now they were in the car
driving through the slowly darkening night to Sibyl’s doom.

Lacybourne.

Bertie was going on about some
star-crossed lovers who used to live at Lacybourne but Sibyl wasn’t
paying attention even though Mags and Scarlett were listening to
this dramatic story with unusually rapt attention. Sibyl was too
busy with her new favourite pastime of controlling her temper and
trying very hard not to cry.

The driver of the sleek, black
limousine turned into the gates of Lacybourne and Sibyl held her
breath.

She felt, inexplicably,
that her life was about to change (yet again) and she convinced
herself that it was
not
for the better (yet
again).

The weather was holding out
even though a storm was, for the first time in weeks, threatening
and luckily, this time, there was no rain, thunder, lightning or
misbehaved pets. As the car halted, Sibyl touched the place at her
temple, just under her hairline, where a small, only slightly still
pink scar was the physical souvenir of her first visit to
Lacybourne.

The driver let out Mags and
Scarlett on one side. Sibyl exited the other side with her father’s
assistance. Once they’d alighted, Mags and Scarlett stood staring
in wonder at the dramatically grand and beautiful manor house that
lay before them.

Sibyl didn’t notice it and
started toward the front door but her father stopped her by not
releasing her hand and not moving.

When she turned to her father,
he got close.

“Sibyl, my love, is there
something not right between you and this Colin?” Bertie was
studying her intently and she realised he was very tuned into her
mood, as per normal. She and her father had a close bond; they
always had for as long as she could remember.

She shot him a false smile and
hoped she fooled him (she didn’t).

“I’m fine, Dad. It’s fine. We
have a kind of…” she searched for a word that would not worry her
father, “an unusual relationship.”

He looked at her with
searching, faded, blue eyes and then nodded. She felt that he did
not, at all, like what he saw and she hated herself for kind of
lying to him.

Bertie escorted his daughter to
the imposing door, his hand firmly at her elbow, his demeanour
nowhere near his normal, relaxed, mellow self.

He knocked loudly,
uncharacteristically taking control as her father and the man of
the family. Mags and Scarlett trailed behind.

Sibyl steeled herself against
the sight of Colin on the other side.