Lacybourne Manor

  “I would be delighted,” Mrs. Byrne replied.

  “And as for you,” she turned to Colin, her eyes shimmering emeralds, she finished hotly, “I hope I never see you again!”

  Colin studied her knowing he’d see her again.

  He was planning on it.

  And looking forward to it.

  Thus, he did not reply.

  With that, and without a comment to Tamara, she stomped out the door whistling to her dog and, when outside, calling to her cat.

  They heard doors slam, the car start and the gravel fly as she peeled out of Lacybourne.

  “I must say, Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Byrne was talking and Colin’s eyes slid to the older woman. He read, very clearly this time that her voice held a more than mild rebuke. “That was not very well handled.”

  Then, with great dignity, she exited the room.

  Chapter Six

  Rescue

  Sibyl was not having a good time.

  Her life, since the morning she left Lacybourne, (not unusually but still upsettingly) descended into a mess. The only shining good fortune she seemed to have was Mrs. Byrne, who she now had a standing date to have breakfast with every Monday morning. They’d met last Monday nearly a week since their first encounter on the steps of Lacybourne and decided to make it a ritual. Sibyl had enjoyed the woman’s company and was thrilled to have a new friend.

  Social Services was very understanding about Annie and the sad state of her house but their hands were tied regarding the minibus driver. Therefore, Sibyl decided to have a few choice words with him. Her choice words, and the hold on her calm, deteriorated to the point where Kyle had to pull her back as she began to shout into the driver’s pitted, sneering face.

  “You’ll make it worse for them, luv, if you upset him,” Kyle explained, gently pushing her toward the door to the Day Centre. She didn’t have to ride the minibus, Kyle reminded her, the pensioners did. And angering the driver would only make matters worse.

  Kyle was right, of course and after her minibus driver tirade, Sibyl sought out Jemma and collapsed in a chair in her office, sipping at a fortifying cup of coffee that Tina made her to calm her down (something Tina had become adept at doing in the past year).

  “I’m out-of-control,” Sibyl admitted to her friend.

  Days before, when Jemma had asked at the bandage at her temple, she’d told her friend everything about Lacybourne. She had not told her mother or her sister, especially considering her premonitory dream and Colin Morgan’s part in that. Both women would have been in fits (especially if she described him in every luscious detail) and likely would have wanted her to go back and explore her options, crazy man or not, especially if she’d relayed the information that he’d told her he was “tempted”.

  Tempted! Insane!

  Jemma’s response to the story was odd.

  “You say he covered you up at night when you were cold?” Jemma asked.

  Sibyl stared at her but didn’t answer.

  “And watched you playing with Mallory?” Jemma went on.

  “Yes,” Sibyl drew out the word warningly, feeling the need to focus on the deviant parts of Colin Morgan’s personality, not the contradictorily kind ones that seemed to underlie them.

  “And made sure you had something to eat and even… wine?” Jemma continued.

  “What are you driving at, Jem?”

  “Well, his behaviour is very bizarre, I’ll grant you that.”

  “Why, thank you,” Sibyl voice was laced with disgruntled sarcasm.

  “However, he did keep you in his home to watch over you after you banged your head.”

  “He didn’t ‘keep me’, he imprisoned me and he only did it because he didn’t want my parents to sue,” Sibyl contradicted because she thought it was important to keep the facts straight.

  Jemma ignored her. “He also fed you, looked in on you in the night, gave you something comfortable to wear and made sure you were warm.”

  Sibyl let out an exasperated explosion of breath.

  “I’m just saying,” Jemma placated with a shrug.

  Sibyl abruptly changed the subject.

  Now, days later, in Jemma’s office after the minibus debacle, Jemma watched her with her usual kindly reserve.

  “Perhaps that bang on your head shook something loose,” Jem suggested unhelpfully.

  “I don’t think I’m going to come to you for reassurance anymore,” Sibyl grumbled.

  Jemma laughed. “I’m a mother. We tend, in certain situations, to lean more toward honesty than reassurance.”

  “I’d say now was one of those ‘reassuring times’,” Sibyl countered.

  Jem just shook her head wisely.

  The day after Lacybourne, Sibyl called Steve, the paramedic, to tell him she was all right.

  In return, Steve had asked her out on a date.

  Even though she didn’t know him from Adam, because of her mother’s advice and her continued conversations with her animals (and perhaps a bit of desperation after Lacybourne), she’d accepted his invitation and, tonight, she was with him in a fashionable, popular club in Bristol.

  Sibyl did not often date, no man ever met her expectations of what she’d always hoped for, or, more to the point, knew was her ideal. Although she loved to dance, she rarely went out to do it. She preferred doing things like breakfasts with Mrs. Byrne, chats over coffee with Kyle, Tina or Jem or her afternoon rendez vous with Meg then sitting in a pub getting snockered on pints. She spent a great deal of time in her Summer House, concocting lotions, shampoos, and experimenting with the varying, complicated scents that made her spa treatments so popular.

  But she thought Steve was a safe bet. He was a paramedic, which was a caring profession. Logically, she thought, being in a caring profession meant he had to have a good heart.

  Therefore, being in a busy, loud club with a man who, as a paramedic, had been quite attentive and appealing, but, as a date, was anything but, was a form of torture.

  The evening had not started on a high note.

  Steve had shown up at Brightrose Cottage and Mallory nearly took a bite out of him.

  Scuttling to his car while Sibyl struggled with the snarling dog, he called out from the safety of the space between the car’s open door and body, “Whenever you’re ready!”

  Clearly, he’s fearless, she thought sardonically, watching Steve quickly enter his flashy, chrome-plated Masda and slam the door and she gave up that little bit more of the fast-dwindling hope of ever finding the strong, brave, wonderful man she’d always thought she was destined to find.

  “God, you look great!” Steve said enthusiastically when she finally entered the car.

  She was wearing a pair of low slung, black trousers that had been way too expensive (even on sale) but she had to buy them since they fit her like they were made for her (something that didn’t happen often with her incongruously tiny waist but generous hips and bottom). Sibyl also had on a cherry red, satin blouse she’d stolen from Scarlett before moving to England. It had deep darts up each side of her midriff and each side of her spine, causing the blouse to fit snug around her middle and under her breasts and forcing her to keep a daring amount of buttons open from neck to cleavage. She’d kept her hair down and slid her feet into a pair of high-heeled, sling-backed, bright red pumps that killed her feet because of the seriously pointy toe.

  With a good deal of conversation in the car from Steve about Steve (without him asking about her once), after Sibyl and Steve made it to Bristol, he drove around for half an hour looking for the hard-to-find, inexpensive (as in free) parking spot. Once they located this elusive entity and Steve took four attempts at parallel parking into it, they walked, or more truthfully, hiked the long distance from car to club. This meant by the time they arrived they were late meeting his friends and, worse, Sibyl’s feet were killing her.

  At the club she stood next to Steve as his mates (who collectively seemed to have more product in their overly-styled hair than Sibyl ha
d used in her life) appraised her. Steve held her close with his arm around her waist, something that was too familiar since they barely knew each other, and he did it like she was a trophy he was showing off.

  These good-looking but too trendy men all had woman who hung about behind them. It was as if the women were in some sort of cult that forced them to stand away from the masculine crowd but within earshot should the men ever require anything, like a pint. All of the woman stared at Sibyl with varying expressions ranging from awe to abhorrence. Definitely a close-knit crowd where strangers were not welcome.

  And no one bothered to introduce her to any of them, not the men or the women.

  They’d been talking for ten minutes and Steve hadn’t even troubled himself to offer her a drink.

  “I’m sorry,” Sibyl interrupted quietly in an attempt to be polite. When she had Steve’s attention she tipped the edges of her lips up in a smile and, when she did this, Steve stared at her mouth like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “I was wondering about maybe getting a drink?” She tilted her head, trying to pull his attention from her mouth to her eyes.

  He blinked, looking sadly confused, then smiled and said, “Yeah! Great, babe. You blokes want anything?” When all four of the other men lifted their empty glasses, Steve turned back to Sibyl. “That’ll be five pints of lager and, of course, whatever you want for yourself.”

  He turned back to his friends and Sibyl stood stock-still, processing the fact that he just gave her his friend’s drink order and expected her to go and get it.

  She studied him as if seeing him for the first time. He, too, was good-looking. He, too, was trendy. He, too, was well-dressed. And apparently, like his friends, he, too, thought he was the goddess’s gift to women.

  She felt the overwhelming urge to demonstrate to him (without any room for doubt) that he was not when she realised that if she got them all drinks, she could be away from his crowd for at least a few minutes as well as have time to figure out how she was going to make the night end very early.

  Therefore, Sibyl stalked to the bar.

  But not before hearing Steve say in a loud whisper, “Isn’t she fit?”

  She felt the urge to turn on her heel and run, except her shoes would not allow it.

  As was usual (so usual, she didn’t notice it) upon her arrival at the bar, the bartender ignored the other people clamouring for a drink and jogged up to her.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Five pints of lager, and a vodka lemonade with a splash of lime cordial, lots of ice and a cherry, if you have it,” she answered and smiled at him. The effect of her smile caused the bartender to nod eagerly at her strange drink order, deciding instantly that if they didn’t have cherries, he’d go to the nearest store and steal a jar if he had to.

  “You’re pretty.” Sibyl heard this come from the man who was somehow managing to be unsteadily seated on the barstool next to her, looking as if he’d lived there at least a year.

  “Thank you,” Sibyl said politely but then turned away.

  She wasn’t normally rude to people but she also didn’t fancy striking up a conversation with an obviously highly inebriated man (she’d had enough troubles with men the last few days, thank you very much), especially considering her shoes would not allow her to affect a hasty retreat should she need to do so (and she vowed never to wear high heels again, or, at the very least, on a first date, something which she also doubted she’d do again).

  The man swayed then righted himself before he slurred decisively, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

  It was at this moment that Sibyl realised Steve hadn’t given her any money to buy all of his friends a drink, friends who she had known no longer then fifteen minutes and the fact of the matter she didn’t know them at all since she hadn’t been given their names. Nor had he (or Sibyl herself for that matter), asked any of the women if they wanted a beverage.

  “Thank you but I don’t think so,” Sibyl answered the drunk, stopping herself from going back and asking the women, none of whom said a word to her except “Heya,” what drinks they wanted.

  The drunk awkwardly stood, swayed again doing a full, unsteady loop with his upper body and carefully enunciated, “I said, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  She turned toward him, saw his bloodshot eyes and then he breathed out. Even though he was still not very close, she smelled his drink-laced breath.

  She tried not to wince but knew she was unsuccessful.

  “I’m sorry but I’m fine. I don’t need you to buy me a drink,” she replied firmly.

  Kind, polite, controlled and not unnecessarily ill-mannered, she was quite pleased with herself.

  The bartender put her glass on the bar with a smile.

  At its arrival, the drunk slammed the palm of his hand on the bar with such force that it made a loud smacking sound and she jumped. Several of the patrons close to her (and some not-so-close) turned around to look.

  “I’m buyin’ that drink!” the drunk slurred loudly and lurched toward her, leaning into her face, his fetid breath hitting her like a slap.

  Sibyl immediately became alarmed, her body tensed and she took a hurried step back to flee and slammed into a solid, hard wall.

  “She’s with me.” A voice came from behind her. It was vaguely familiar, low, deep and absolutely lethal.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see who her rescuer was and stared in disbelief (and not a small amount of shock) at Colin Morgan.

  The drunk also turned to look and saw the tall, broad-shouldered man with the frightening look on his face standing so close behind the pretty girl that their bodies were touching.

  “All right, mate, no need to get uptight.” The drunk put his hands up appeasingly and stumbled back to his stool. “Pretty girls shouldn’t buy their own drinks, thas all I’m sayin’,” he garbled.

  “I agree,” Colin murmured distractedly as he watched five pints placed around Sibyl’s drink.

  “That’ll be seventeen fifty,” the bartender said.

  Sibyl fumbled in her purse for money, still recovering from the shock of seeing Colin Morgan.

  She could not believe that her dream madman was standing so close to her she could feel his body against her back. She could also not believe he’d witnessed her being semi-accosted by a drunk man and felt the need to come to her rescue. She never expected, never dreamed she’d run into him in a club in Bristol. In fact, she had hoped never to see him again for the rest of her natural life and even throughout her unnatural one (if such a thing existed).

  She made the immediate decision to spend the rest of her days with old people, Jemma’s family or in her Summer House Girlie Stuff Laboratory and never go out socialising again.

  Ever.

  Then Colin leaned in and Sibyl felt his hard chest pressing into her shoulder blade and watched as he passed a twenty pound note to the bartender.

  At this gesture, she tried to remain cool and collected, though, she had to admit, it was difficult.

  “Mr. Morgan, please don’t pay for the drinks. They’re –”

  “For your date’s friends, I know,” he interrupted her then continued. “Your date, I might add, saw this gentleman…” Sibyl was not looking at him, couldn’t make herself look at him. She wasn’t even certain she wished to believe he was actually there. She noticed from the corners of her eyes that he jerked his head angrily in the direction of the drunk man. “Begin to approach you and did nothing about it.”

  She didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

  Steve, unfortunately, was a jerk.

  The drunk man said something though, straight into his nearly finished pint, “Criminal. Leave a pretty girl in the clutches of a degenerate like me.” Then he giggled to himself.

  Sibyl felt hysterical laughter bubbling up her own throat but she chased it down with a gulp and turned her mind to escape.

  Before she could Colin Morgan remarked, “You made light work of that.”

  At this un
usual comment, she finally lifted her eyes to the hard planes of his face, having to twist around and glance over her shoulder and she saw he was looking over his own at Steve. He obviously recognised the paramedic who’d come to his house.

  Again, she didn’t respond. He was still standing so close to her that his chest was resting lightly against her back.

  “Mr. Morgan, if you wouldn’t mind moving away,” she whispered.

  He apparently did mind because he didn’t move.

  “Jason,” his voice rang with authority and the bartender, who was listening to the orders of some patrons, turned his head immediately.

  “Yeah, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Get Shannon to take those pints to the gentlemen over there,” Colin ordered, motioning to Steve and his group with his head. “And get her to get the women with them a drink for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yes, Mr. Morgan,” and Jason jogged off obediently to find the unknown Shannon.

  Sibyl stared at Colin in dismay.

  “Do you,” Sibyl hesitated, “own this club?”

  His eyes finally dropped to her and for some reason her breath caught when she felt the full force of them on her face.

  “A third of it, yes,” he answered.

  Sibyl looked around the place for the first time.

  It was jam packed. There were three bars she could see, two on the lower floor, one on a balcony that wrapped around the club and all of them were surrounded by people buying drinks.

  It was clearly a hip hotspot for young, trendy people. Not the place she would expect Colin Morgan to spend his time, unless he had a penchant for underfed, under-clothed and nearly underage girls.

  Her face must have told him what she was thinking for he said, “I was here for a meeting. It ran long. I was leaving when I saw you leave your medic, go to the bar and choose the unfortunate position of standing by Paul.”

  The drunk man lifted his glass in salute.

  “You know him?” Sibyl was astonished.

  “Here every night,” Paul offered.

  “Do you get drunk every night?” Sibyl asked, her voice edged in concern.