Lacybourne Manor by Kristen Ashley
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 lovingl
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 j
“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.