Lacybourne Manor

Kristen Ashley

Published by Kristen Ashley at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Kristen Ashley

Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:

Rock Chick Series:

Rock Chick

Rock Chick Rescue

Rock Chick Redemption

Rock Chick Renegade

Rock Chick Revenge

The ‘Burg Series:

For You

At Peace

Golden Trail

The Colorado Mountain Series:

The Gamble

Sweet Dreams

Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:

Mystery Man

Penmort Castle

Sommersgate House

Three Wishes

www.kristenashley.net

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*****

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all my good
friends

at the now sadly demolished Bournville
Community Centre

on the Bournville Council Estate in
Weston-super-Mare, North Somerset, UK.

Thank you for introducing me to this
beautiful country and the wonderful people in it by being so
welcoming, so kind, so hilarious and sharing so much with me.

Wish I had a rich hot guy who would have
helped us keep the old girl afloat.

I miss you all.

But boy, we had some good times, didn’t
we?

*****

People try to explain magic in
a variety of different ways.

They use the excuse of science,
miracle, divine intervention, luck, fate and coincidence.

It’s all just magic in one form
or another.

* * * * *

And the purest magic is
love.

And the purest,
purest
magic is
true
love.

* * * * *

Everyone has magical
powers.

Some know they do.

Some would never believe.

Some are greater than
others.

Some are good and kind
and true.

Some are evil and wicked
and violent.

And sometimes they all get
tangled together.

* * * * *

This is the story of the
purest,
purest
form of magic,
true love.

It is a story about all
kinds of magic, mixed up in a crazy, mystical mess.

* * * * *

Esmera
lda Crane was there when Royce Morgan first laid eyes on
Beatrice Godwin.

It was the Year of our
Lord, 1522, and even though Esmeralda had already lived a goodly
number of years in two centuries, she had never been blessed to
witness true love.

He was handsome, a rich,
land-owning knight wearing shining spurs. He had thick hair the
unusual colour of sunshine mixed with honey and eyes the colour of
the richest, most fertile clay. She was dark of hair and fair of
skin, her hair so dark, it was only a shade lighter than black and
her skin so fair, it was without blemish except for the freckles
that danced across her nose. She had extraordinary hazel eyes, eyes
that could be more green then brown on occasion (with ire, which
was a good deal of the time, considering her fiery nature), more
brown than green on other occasions (with love or happiness, which
was also a good deal of the time, considering her kind
heart).

Esmera
lda watched their stormy courtship with fascination. There
were times that his personality (which was mostly autocratic,
reserved and often cynical) would grate roughly against her
personality (which was buoyant, free-spirited and often explosive).
Esmeralda feared both these stubborn souls would never see the
magnificent stars in each other’s eyes and understand what kind of
precious gift they had been given.

As ever, the magic of
true love was victorious. Esmeralda should never have doubted
it.

Even though Esmeralda
wasn’t invited, she created a glamour for herself so she could
attend Royce and Beatrice’s wedding.

One rarely had the honour of
witnessing true love in the giddy hours right before its
consummation.

But she felt the black
soul there that day, dark as midnight. The soul was sitting in the
church, as bold as can be, even though lightning should have struck
it dead the minute its foot crossed the sacred
threshold.

As Royce and Beatrice
stood in the front of the church, Esmeralda saw the stars in the
lovers’ eyes. Alas, Esmeralda knew those stars were now crossed
with darkness.

She hurried from the
church before the ceremony was finished, jumped on her
sweet-spirited, but not very swift, nag so she could quickly get to
her larder. There, she pulled out herbs, incense and oils, all the
while muttering to herself. She put all of her efforts, all of her
energy, all of her (considerable) power and all of her (even more
considerable) magic into a protection charm that would keep the
lovers safe.

Once done, exhausted with
her efforts, she shrugged off her fatigue and scurried to
Lacybourne Manor, frightened that she would be too late.

Nearly to the doors of
the grand house, Esmeralda found that she
was
too late.

She came upon the newly-wedded
pair outside the house, lying entwined under a copse of trees, the
blood from their slit throats now fertilising the soil around
them.

Esmeralda
wanted to cry, to scream, to keen into the night
all of her despair that their love had not been consummated. The
glorious consummation of true love, the like of the love between
Royce and Beatrice Morgan, would have protected them like a
powerful shield.

The old witch, no matter
how tired, was not yet done with magic that night.

She picked up the
delicate hand of the fallen Beatrice and saw the flesh and blood
beneath the girl’s fingernails. The same could be found under the
nails of the once mighty knight.

Taking her dagger, she
gouged the human particles from beneath the lovers’ nails and also
collected a dagger blade full of the soil that had absorbed the
couple’s mingled life blood. Lastly, she pierced the point of the
dagger into her finger and squeezed her own blood into her powerful
brew.

Working swiftly, the
witch mixed the protection charm with a fierce shake. More of her
conjuring was muttered, she opened her charm and sprinkled her
potion around them.

Forever linking them.

Forever, through
eternity, binding them together.

Until one day, many, many
years in the future, the stars in the lovers’ eyes would
uncross.

Esmeralda
knew the black soul would hunt them but she
prayed that her protection charm and the added power of violence,
death and true love would protect them.

The witch knew one day, they
would find each other again.

And that day, they would need
her.

Reincarnated

Marian Byrne stood at the door
of Lacybourne Manor smiling at the last tourists that left through
the grand entry.

At seventy years old, she’d
been a volunteer for The National Trust working at Lacybourne for
seven years. She had no idea how long she would be able to
continue, her feet were killing her.

Marian was tall,
straight, thin as a rail and had the energy of a fifty year old
(or, at the most, a fifty-five year old). Her hair was cut short,
its curls died a peachy red that was
not
old lady peach but a colour
she, personally, found very becoming.

She was under strict
instructions to have all the tourists and their cars and the other
flotsam and jetsam cleared from the area before the man of the
house came home.

Colin Morgan had inherited
Lacybourne just over a year before. His aunt and uncle left no
heirs so upon their untimely death (he of cancer, she of a broken
heart, the latter Marian believed although the doctors said
differently), the man from London became owner of the grand house
with its medieval core. The old owners were not nearly as demanding
as Mr. Colin Morgan. They would often mingle with the tourists and
even open some of the private chambers.

Not Colin.

He closed the house all days
except Mondays and Tuesdays and allowed it open only one Saturday a
month. It was available solely from February through June, which
was quite a muddle for The National Trust as that cut out the
height of the tourist season and school holidays. And he expected
all of the tourists and The National Trust pamphlets and laminated
leaflets that lay about the rooms to be locked out of sight by the
time he came home.

This would have vastly annoyed
Marian, if she hadn’t met Colin Morgan.

He was near as the spitting
image of the man in the portrait that hung in the Great Hall.

For that reason alone, Marian
knew she’d do whatever he required.

The day had turned gusty, the
sky already dark with encroaching night. The clouds, long since
rolled in, had begun to leak rain.

Marian began to push the heavy
front doors closed when she heard a feminine voice in an American
accent call, “Oh no! Am I too late?”

Marian peeked out the door just
as thunder rent the air and lightning lit the sky, illuminating the
woman who stood on the threshold.

Marian couldn’t stop herself;
she gasped at the sight.

The woman was wearing a scarlet
trench coat belted at the waist and her long, thick hair, the
colour of sunshine liberally dosed with honey, was whipping about
her face. She had lifted a hand to hold the tresses back but she
wasn’t succeeding. The tendrils flew around her face wildly.

“It’s so hard to find time to
fit Lacybourne in the schedule, it’s rarely open,” the woman
continued as she smiled at Marian.

It was then that Marian
realised she’d been holding her breath and she let it out in a
gush.

The woman standing before
her was the image of the
other
portrait that hung in the
Great Hall.

She was not, however,
dark-haired, like the lady in the portrait, but rather blonde.
Marian thought that interesting, considering Colin Morgan had the
exact visage of the long since murdered owner of this house, except
Colin’s hair was dark, nearly black, rather than fair.

“I’m afraid you are late, my
dear. We close at four thirty, on the dot,” Marian informed her
lamentably.

The disappointment was evident
on her face; Marian could see it by the light shining from the
entry. Marian was pleased at this, she hadn’t been volunteering at
Lacybourne for seven years without having some pride in the house.
It was nice to know this woman on the threshold so desperately
wanted inside.

There were other reasons as
well that Marian was pleased the woman wanted desperately to be
inside.

“Why don’t you come back
tomorrow?” Marian asked, her voice kind, her face smiling but her
mind working. She was wondering how she could finagle a meeting
between the American woman and the man of the house.

For she
had
to
find a way to arrange a meeting.

It was, quite simply, Marian
Byrne’s destiny.

“I can’t, I’m working. I
couldn’t be here until well after it closes. I’ve been trying to
find time to get here since last year.”

“What time could you arrive? I
know the owner of this house, perhaps, if I explain –”

“No… no, please, don’t do that.
I’ll just try to get here next Monday,” she offered politely then
lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell, giving one last, longing
look at the house and started to leave.

Marian rushed her next
words in an effort to stall the woman and then she fibbed (for, she
knew, a
very
good cause), “He’s a lovely man, he won’t mind.
I’ll stay personally to give you a private tour. Or he might like
to do so himself, considering how much you wish to see the
house.”

She’d turned back, hesitating.
“I couldn’t.”