Lacybourne Manor (9 page)

“I’ll sleep in my clothes,”
Sibyl told him.

“You’ll put that on,” he
parried.

She glared at him and he glared
right back.

He
, of course, was better at
it.

“Miss Godwin, you can either
put it on or I’ll put it on you, you choose.”

His command was shocking and it
was said in a voice that was dangerous and chock full of meaning.
Sibyl knew in an instant, understood it somehow to her very core,
that he was ruthless enough to do it.

Strangely, and distressingly,
she felt like she’d been in this exact position before, facing off
against him.

And losing.

This feeling was not a little
familiar, but a lot, like it didn’t happen once but repeatedly.

And it was bizarre,
frightening and, lastly, bizarrely, frighteningly
reassuring.

Her energy was draining away,
her head hurt like the devil and she was ready to do just about
anything to make this night go a hell of a lot more smoothly until
she reached its joyful conclusion.

“Fine,” she bit out between
clenched teeth, thinking agreement would make him go and then she
could ignore his order and try to get some sleep. “I’ll put it on,
now you can go.”

He crossed his arms on his
chest as if he was settling in for a show.

Then he demanded, “Put it on
now.”

Sibyl’s breath caught and her
eyes bugged out before she breathed, “What?”

“Now,” he clipped.

“You’re joking.”

He didn’t answer but he also
didn’t look like he was joking.

She started trembling,
she had absolutely no idea what this entire night was all
about.
She
was the wounded party here, if you counted her head,
literally. All she wanted to do was see his house. If he didn’t
want her to, he could have simply told her to go on her way.
Not
held
her hostage.
Not
confiscated her purse.
Not
treated her like she was
a criminal.
Not
barked at Mrs. Byrne.

She thought, somewhat
hysterically, that he was supposed to be the fierce, glorious lover
from her dream. The man who, when his throat was slit and she knew
his life was pouring out of him, she felt such an utter sense of
loss that she would have begged for the knife to slice her own
throat as well rather than to live without him.

This whole scene was entirely
wrong.

In fact, it felt
cataclysmically wrong.

She glared at him and saw the
set line of his jaw, thinking that there was a possibility, if she
defied him, this would get physical.

She felt a burning shame
creeping up at her total loss of power. She wanted to scream at
him, rail at him, claw at his eyes.

And, unbelievably, she also
wanted to throw herself in his arms.

She just stood there staring at
him.

He could overpower her in a
second. She was not a small woman but he was clearly fit,
definitely tall and obviously far, far stronger than she.
Lacybourne was just on the outskirts of town and surrounded by
forest therefore no one would hear her if she shouted. Ice Princess
Tamara, she doubted, would come to her aid and Mrs. Byrne would be
no help at all but would undoubtedly try, and maybe get herself
harmed in the process.

And therefore Sibyl had
no choice and she
hated
that.

“Okay,” she gave in, feeling
deep embarrassment that her voice sounded shaky. “Turn around.”

He again didn’t speak, he also
didn’t turn.

She waited a moment,
realising that his manners did not extend to allowing her a modicum
of privacy and, with a strangled sound, she turned herself,
presenting her back to him.

She’d never been so humiliated
in her entire life. She felt hot, shameful tears spring to her eyes
and could do nothing to stop them, though she used every bit of her
willpower not to make a sound.

As quickly as she could, she
whipped off her t-shirt and pulled the pyjama top over her head,
not bothering to take off her bra. She undid the zip on her skirt
in the back and pulled it down, hooking her fingers in her tights
as she did so (careful to leave her panties in place), stepping out
of both pieces of clothing at the same time and dropping them on
her t-shirt.

She whirled around again.

“Happy now?” she asked, but
didn’t look at him, hiding behind a curtain of hair because she
didn’t want him to see the tears on her cheeks.

His answer was to lean
forward and whip back the covers of the bed.

Bran lifted his head in ill
humour, his yellow eyes indicating his unhappiness at having his
slumber disturbed.

Mallory, exhausted from the
evening’s escapades, was lying on his side on the floor, his arms
and legs sprawled out in front of him, completely unperturbed by
this new horror.

Sibyl thought with dismay that
her mother had been wrong about the cat.

She clambered into the bed,
doing her best to keep her back to him and, when she lay down, he
whipped the covers over her. She curled into a little ball, pressed
her face into the pillows and it didn’t dawn on her as she did this
that he was actually pulling the covers high up her shoulder and
then tucking them tight around her.

She hoped he would go now that
he had his way but he didn’t. Instead, she felt his warm hand heavy
at her neck and her entire body got tight.

Then slowly, even gently, he
pulled her hair away.

Then his mouth was at her ear.
“You should know that tears don’t work with me.” His voice was as
smooth as velvet and completely cold.

She shivered.

She had no idea why he was
informing her of this fact but it sounded like he was instructing
her. Instructing her in a way that it seemed he felt she needed
this information for their future relationship to go much
smoother.

Like they had a future
relationship!

Not on her life!

(Or his.)

She pressed her head deeper
into the pillows, her humiliation complete, wondering in which of
her former lives she did something so terrible that her karma
included this awful night. She must have been a serial killer in a
past life.

“I thought you might like to
know, I have the keys to your car as well.” His voice was still at
her ear, still quiet, but it seemed to vibrate throughout her
system.

“You’re a pig,” she whispered
and this comment caused him to laugh softly.

He had, she thought with
extreme annoyance, a very handsome laugh.

If she was a violent woman, she
would have lashed out. Instead, more tears came up the back of her
throat and she choked them down with effort.

Finally, he left the room and
the minute the door closed she threw back the covers with such fury
that even Mallory woke from his exhausted doggie slumber.

She alighted from the bed and
ignored the dizzy feeling her quick movements caused.

She was going to put her
clothes back on, she was going to go get Mrs. Byrne, she was going
to explain that no volunteer role was worth
this
and she was damn
well going to walk home (if she had to, he didn’t say he took Mrs.
Byrne’s keys).

But when she looked she found
her clothes were gone.

Colin Morgan had taken
them.

She collapsed back into the
bed, wondering if she could press charges when this was all over,
and holding onto her rage because it was the only thing that
stopped her from crying.

And it was the only thing that
stopped her from thinking, however dictatorially it came about, she
was far more comfortable in his pyjama top, under the covers and in
the soft sheets of the bed.

And the room was infinitely
warmer.

* * * * *

She finally slept but woke
early. The days were still short, the sun not yet fully up in the
sky.

She woke because Mallory
desperately needed a comfort break and was telling her so by
shoving his cold, wet nose in her face.

She had no moment of panic at
her unfamiliar surroundings then the events of the night before
that were burned into her memory surfaced but she still touched her
hand to her aching head in hopes that it was all a very bad
dream.

It wasn’t.

She had to take her dog
outside. She certainly didn’t want to explain a doggie accident to
Colin Morgan and likely the rugs on the floor were
irreplaceable.

Sibyl got out of bed and then
she and Mallory, with Bran at their heels (the cat probably
thinking that breakfast would soon be coming) carefully wended
their way through the house.

Sibyl was making more of an
effort to be quiet and find her way than attempting to look at the
house she once so desperately wanted to see. She visited National
Trust properties as a pastime, it was a hobby she enjoyed with her
father during their many visits to England, a hobby that she
normally loved. At that moment, the first (and, she hoped, last)
time she would ever be a “guest” at such a magnificent estate, she
was not filled with wonder and awe. She was filled with terror and
tried to avoid looking at anything that would eventually make this
memory more painful.

She made it to the front door
and realised she couldn’t exactly walk outside in a man’s pyjama
top and bare feet.

Searching around her, she
saw the almost hidden handle to a door in the carved wood panelling
in the wall of the entry. Her luck changing when she pulled it open
with hopes of finding outdoor gear she could borrow, she discovered
a very small room filled with a bunch of National Trust brochures
and other paraphernalia, some coats and, as with nearly every
English hall closet she’d encountered, a mess of Wellingtons. She
grabbed the warmest looking coat in the closet and a matching pair
of Wellingtons and pushed her feet into them. Then she wrapped the
enormous cashmere overcoat tightly around her body (hoping that it
was not
his
, she’d had enough of wearing
his
clothes).

Outfitted, she turned and
opened the front door. Mallory, who had begun whining at what he
thought was Sibyl’s unnecessary delay in searching for ways to stop
herself from dying from hypothermia (or, at the very least,
avoiding frostbite), shot through the door.

Sibyl and Bran followed him.
The morning was bright, crisp and bone-chillingly cold. Sibyl
ignored it and hoped to every goddess she knew that Mallory’s
morning break did not include something for which she’d have to
search the house for a plastic bag.

Luck was shining on her
that morning even though it was to be short-lived. Mallory finished
his business (business that did not require clean up) and seemed to
be enjoying the vast front garden by running around it in circles
for no apparent reason. Mallory, being a big, ungainly dog, rarely
ran
anywhere
. He usually took his
walks making it clear he did it under duress (because Sibyl made
him), got up to eat even though he made it plain he would prefer
Sibyl to bring the food to him and then spent the rest of his life
sleeping or with his head in Sibyl’s lap getting his ears
scratched.

Watching him now, Sibyl
wondered with a bit of guilt if she should take him to the park
more often.

“Mallory, come here boy, come
here you big, lovable, lug,” she clapped her hands and the dog ran
toward her, stopped at her feet, his behind up in the air, his
front legs spread and close to the ground, his tail wagging so
ferociously his body vibrated with it.

She clapped again,
smiling at him for she’d never seen him assume this posture,
ever
. But
she loved her pup and she was game so she jumped to one side and
Mallory followed her, then she jumped to the other side and Mallory
did the same. Then she leaned forward and gave his head an
affectionate shake.

“What am I going to do with
you, you crazy pooch?” she asked and the dog stood up, accepted her
kiss on his soft, fawn head and then his black, floppy ears popped
up in alert. He looked around Sibyl, ears flapping, and then dashed
back toward the house.

Sibyl turned and saw Colin
Morgan leaning against the doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and what
looked like a very warm oatmeal-coloured fisherman’s sweater. His
arms were crossed on his chest, one bare foot crossed at his ankle.
Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was settled in and watching
her in a way that made it seem like he could do it all day.

“Blooming hell,” she muttered
under her breath and immediately felt the cold creeping up her bare
legs, cold she did not feel when she was playing with her dog.

She tramped inelegantly toward
the house in the floppy willies that were too big for her and Mr.
Morgan, she noted with consternation, did not appear ready to move
out of her way. If he was going to deny her entry and she was going
to have to suffer the indignity of walking the short distance to
Clevedon in Wellingtons, a pyjama top and an overcoat, so be
it.

“
Enjoying yourself?” His
tone was not good morning cheerful and she didn’t answer as she
was
never
good morning cheerful. Therefore, she cast a vicious glance
in his direction.

For some bizarre reason, this
caused him to throw his head back and laugh as he dropped his arms
to his sides. His masculine throat was exposed and the sound was
deep and rich and she liked it so much, it made her start to
seethe.

She stopped two feet away from
him and stared at him like he was the raving lunatic she knew him
to be.