Lacybourne Manor

Chapter Sixteen Hope

“It’s rather nice of your young man to send a limousine,” Bertie Godwin told his eldest daughter.

Sibyl stared at her father and used every ounce of willpower not to scream at the top of her lungs.

Sibyl Jezebel Godwin was in a carefully controlled rage. This was unprecedented, considering that Sibyl’s rages were usually considerably uncontrolled.

However, yesterday while she was standing outside Customs in Terminal Four at Heathrow airport waiting for her parents to come through the doors, her mobile had rung.

It was Colin.

After she’d answered, without even so much as saying hello, he commanded, “I want you and your parents to come to Lacybourne for dinner tomorrow night.”

Sibyl felt her heart constrict painfully and she stared unseeing at the people marching tiredly through the doors of arrival dragging their luggage behind them as she listened to Colin’s inconceivable order.

“Please tell me you aren’t serious,” she breathed.

For the last week things had been different between them. Entirely different. So much so that part of her feared her magical powers were forcing Colin away and bringing Royce out of the dream world and into the real.

But this order was from the Old Colin.

Their relationship was temporary. She knew that. He knew that.

Why on the goddess’s green earth would he want to meet her parents?

It was cruel.

He interrupted her careening thoughts. “I’m very serious.”

“Is this an order?” she asked, her voice sharp.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Her breath, and her sharpness, went out of her.

“Why?” she whispered, that one word, she hoped over the miles, expressed the many nuances of her question.

“Just be at Lacybourne at seven thirty,” he’d replied and if she could credit it (which she decided later she could not), he sounded gentle.

And therefore she didn’t even say good-bye; she simply flipped her mobile shut.

The very idea, the very thought of her parents meeting Colin tore her heart to pieces. They wouldn’t understand, they’d probably even like him (they always liked the men in her life). Her father, she knew, even though he never said, wanted her to find herself a mate, a partner, a husband partly so she wouldn’t be alone and party because her father wanted to know she was protected and safe. Her mother wanted her to be intellectually and sexually gratified (and often). Her mother already was hinting broadly, and sometimes asking straight out, at wanting to meet Colin every time she’d called in the last three weeks.

And this meant Sibyl was going to have to sit through dinner knowing what she was to Colin with her parents sitting right beside her.

She hadn’t been reminded of that, of what she really was to Colin, since he yelled at the minibus driver.

The situation became worse when her parents walked through the arrival doors; Mags saw her daughter and shouted, “Surprise!”

Behind her mother struggling with a fair amount of duty free shopping bags was Scarlett.

At the sight of her sister, Sibyl’s heart plummeted just as it sang with happiness.

Sibyl loved her sister, loved her to death. But her parents were one thing. Scarlett, being Scarlett, was going to be a problem. She read men like books, dissected them with her mind like a psychological biologist. She was good at it because she’d had a lot of practice. Sibyl would not be able to hide what she was to Colin from Scarlett.

There was plenty of room for them in the huge Mercedes sedan that Colin sent for her to use, a sedan that came complete with driver. Sibyl had, that morning at nine o’clock when she’d first clapped eyes on it, considered this an act of extreme thoughtfulness. Her parents could ride to Clevedon in complete luxury after a trying plane trip.

Now she wished she could send the driver home and troop her family into a bus just to be contrary.

Obviously, she could not.

Although her family seemed surprised at their chauffer driven transport, they took one look at her set face and knowingly let the matter slide.

Luckily the sedan had a huge trunk for all of her family’s luggage and Scarlett’s shopping. Scarlett sat in front with the driver and Mags, Bertie and Sibyl sat in the back. As usual, conversation was tangled and loving as they caught up. When they were nearly to Clevedon, Sibyl was forced to break the news.

And pretend to be happy about it.

And, considering her poor talents at prevarication, she was surprised she got away with it.

“We have plans for dinner tomorrow night,” she announced, trying desperately to sound cheerful and she must have succeeded because her mother and sister pounced on this right away.

Mags turned to Sibyl, her eyes bright.

“Really?” She drew this word out dramatically, her dancing green eyes alight with excitement (yet Sibyl had the strange sensation Mags was hiding something).

She had no time to assess this sensation for Scarlett twisted in her seat to stare at Sibyl, her blue eyes not bright with excitement but as usual teasing. “Well then, does this mean we’ll finally learn this mystery man’s name?”

Sibyl asked the goddess silently for patience but said with forced levity, “His name is Colin Morgan and he’d like us all to come to his house for dinner.”

“How delightful,” Bertie murmured, trying not to look too pleased all the while watching his daughter carefully.

“Where does he live? Does he live in Clevedon?” Scarlett asked.

“Yes.” Sibyl hated this whole thing but she knew she hated what she was going to say next the most. “Dad,” she called and her father turned kind eyes to her, “he’s the new owner of Lacybourne Manor.”

Her father, usually rather staid and mellow, gasped and his cheek went pink with pleasure.

“Lacybourne Manor? What’s Lacybourne Manor?” Mags asked.

“Sounds like a house in a Daphne du Maurier book,” Scarlett commented.

“It’s a great manor house, built in medieval times…” Bertie started to explain, breathless with excitement but as usual the rest of the women tuned him out the minute the word “medieval” passed his lips. The Godwin Girls always tuned Bertie out when he started instructing them on medieval history. For her part, Sibyl, who was usually the only one who listened to him (sometimes), found she’d rather spend her time seething, which she did.

Shortly after, when her family were ensconced in their rooms at the cottage all of them having naps to fend off jetlag, Sibyl searched through her bag and took out the business card Colin had given her weeks ago.

She grabbed her phone and went into the garden with Mallory and Bran close on her heels. She sat on one of her sun loungers and Bran jumped into her lap, pressing against her and purring. Mallory collapsed beside the lounger, exhausted from his amble which consisted of the great and taxing distance from living room to garden.

For the life of her (and she wasn’t actually going to ask) she could not fathom why Colin had done this. He had said he wanted to see her while her parents were in England but he’d never said he wanted to meet her parents.

She would never have agreed to that.

Never.

Sibyl turned her face to the sun and let her thoughts wander in an attempt at procrastination.

She’d called him without thinking after she couldn’t wake Mallory the night of the break-in and he’d done exactly what she needed him to do. He took control and handled things while she coped with the bizarre and frightening situation.

But he’d gone beyond that, being possessively, even fiercely protective. When he’d crouched by Mallory and gently stroked him muttering a curse in a tone that exactly matched Sibyl’s mood, she’d nearly come undone. She wanted to hurl herself in his arms, promise to pay him back every penny if they could go back to the beginning and start new.

But she couldn’t do that. They couldn’t do that. That time had long since passed.

She simply had to take what she had for as long as was left and be happy with it.

The morning after the break-in, she’d stood in his bathroom brushing her teeth and thinking how different it was this time at Lacybourne. It was normal, he was normal (not even a hint of a personality disorder). It felt safe. It felt right. It felt pleasantly, weirdly and wonderfully like she was home.

Helping it to be more pleasant and wonderful, Colin had come up behind her, kissed her shoulder and turned her into his arms.

“I like you in my bathroom,” he’d whispered in a voice so hot, his eyes blazing with intensity; she instantly relaxed in his loose embrace.

As if this wasn’t enough, he went on. “And in my kitchen,” already reduced to goo in his arms, those arms tightened and his face came close before he finished, “And in my bed.”

He then gave her a hard, closed-mouthed kiss (even though her mouth was filled with toothpaste foam) and he’d walked away, carelessly wiping the back of his hand across his lips to swipe away her foam.

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.

Instead a beautiful, older woman, with greying dark hair swept back in a chic chignon, kind, cornflower blue eyes and flawless skin opened the door. She was wearing her own version of the mature woman’s little black dress and she wore it well.

The woman looked first at Bertie and smiled an obvious warm welcome. Then her eyes skittered to Sibyl and, upon seeing her, the older woman’s mouth dropped open, the colour drained from her face and her hand went to her throat in a gesture that seemed meaningful in its profound surprise.

Sibyl didn’t know what to make of this bizarre reaction nor did she know who this woman was.

Thinking she was Mrs. Manning, the best dressed housekeeper in the world, she said with a small smile, “Hello, we’re here to have dinner with Colin.”

At Sibyl’s smile, the woman’s eyes actually filled with tears.

Yes, they filled with tears.

At the sight, Sibyl stepped forward instinctively, detaching herself from her father as Bertie stared in confusion at the other woman’s outlandish reaction to his daughter.

Sibyl put her hand on the woman’s arm in concern and asked, “Are you okay?”

The woman blinked once then twice. Then she nodded her head and smiled a smile that was faltering but it was warm.

“Yes, my dear girl, I’m definitely okay,” she replied in a breathy voice filled with what sounded like wonder. “You must be Sibyl.”

“Yes,” Sibyl responded and squeezed the woman’s arm reassuringly, awarding her with the force of a full smile.

Then she said something that nearly made Sibyl faint for the second time in her life. “I’m Phoebe Morgan, Colin’s mother.”

It was Sibyl’s turn to react in a bizarre manner as she stared at Colin’s mother in obvious distress. Vaguely she heard noises behind her. Her father made some kind of indistinct murmur, her mother chuckled and Scarlett muttered, “Now this is interesting.”

“Good God, woman, don’t stand in the doorway. Let the people in.”

This was a booming, deep voice and it came from a tall man who could only be Colin’s father. Sibyl dazedly watched as he moved into the entryway. He was a few inches shorter than his son, he had thick, attractive, salt and pepper hair and nearly Colin’s exact bone structure. His eyes, however, instead of the rich clay of Colin’s, were a deep, warm brown.

“You must be Sibyl,” he commented knowingly and he was smiling with what appeared to be extreme, almost unnatural, delight.

Sibyl felt a hysterical bubble of laughter rising up as both of Colin’s parents said the same thing in greeting and were both now staring at her as if she was an unusual and intriguing creature but one from another planet.

“Come in, come in.” He gestured magnanimously and pulled Sibyl gently into the entryway that not long before had been the scene of Colin’s first audacious indication that he was attracted to her. “Colin just phoned. He’s been detained at the office but will be here shortly. We’ll have a few drinks, have a chat, get to know one another, the usual.” He let go of Sibyl and walked to her father. “I’m Mike.”

“Albert,” Bertie responded, also looking a bit dazed.

Sibyl noted with distracted eyes that Mike was wearing a superbly-tailored suit. Her father looked, as usual, like the absentminded professor he was in a brown suit that had seen lots of wear but never really better days. Her mother was dressed flamboyantly in an outfit she had bought that day, pairing a bright pink peasant blouse (which she tried to get Sibyl to buy herself, an effort that failed mostly because Scarlett would not allow it) and a deep purple gypsy skirt complete with little metal dangles that tinkled when she walked.

Phoebe and Mike Morgan were the stylish and tailored opposite to Albert and Marguerite Godwin’s eccentric and showy. Yin and yang, night and day. Sibyl’s heart sank and she hoped her parents felt comfortable in the face of this new horror.

Sibyl knew, at that moment, that this night was doomed to be a disaster.

“It’s all going to be fine, absolutely fine,” Scarlett whispered in her ear as if sensing her dismay then Scarlett moved forward to interrupt Phoebe and Mike introducing themselves to Mags.

“I’m Scarlett, the prodigal sister,” she announced and Sibyl felt the desperate desire to run screaming as far away as she could get in her strappy heels which, she had to admit, would not have been very far and she wondered, somewhat distractedly, what happened to her vow never again to wear high heels and she re-vowed to learn her damned lesson.

Instead, she and her family were swept into the Great Hall, swept in and through, with somewhat alarming speed, into the library. Bertie was desperately craning his neck to have a look around but Mike was crowding him strangely and practically pushing him forward.

“Drinks!” Mike boomed once he’d slammed the doors firmly shut to the Great Hall behind them, his tone sounding strangely slightly desperate. “We need drinks.”

“I’ll get them, Dad.”

Sibyl halted with a jerk several feet into the library when she heard these words.

Phoebe Morgan’s younger, stunning, equal stood in front of them smiling a warm, vivacious smile and also wearing a lovely, little black dress (it seemed Mags would be the only little-black-dress-less female of the evening).

“Hi! I’m Claire,” she introduced herself coming, without even a moment’s delay, right to Sibyl. “We talked on the phone?”

At this reminder (not that she needed one), Sibyl nodded, feeling she’d left the land of the real, normal and sane and had been rocketed, kicking and screaming, into some other, frightening, bizarre world where she did not, at all, wish to be.

What was Colin thinking?

His parents, her parents, his sister, her sister. Why on earth was he engineering a meeting of their two families? What would motivate him to introduce his family to the woman with whom he paid to have sex and who he would, in a little more than four months from now, likely leave without looking back?

Claire leaned into Sibyl and kissed both her cheeks. Then she grabbed Sibyl’s hands, squeezed them tightly and announced, what sounded genuinely, “I’m so glad to meet you!” Her eyes wandered Sibyl’s face and, if Sibyl hadn’t totally lost her mind, she could swear she saw tears shimmering in Claire’s eyes. Then Claire suddenly broke away. “Is this your family? Hi!” she repeated. “I’m Colin’s sister.”

Scarlett, for some reason, burst out laughing.

Sibyl glared at her sister.

“Drinks!” Mike boomed again, cottoning on quickly to the weird overall mood. “Don’t worry, Clairy Berry, I’ll get them.”

Sibyl was coping with Colin’s father’s familiar endearment to his daughter, just like they were a normal, adoring family, which was something she never expected in a million years that Colin would have (what she expected he would have, she had no idea, she’d never considered it, she’d never thought she’d be have the opportunity to meet them much less have drinks and dinner with them, with her family also in attendance, no less), when she heard, “Hello Sibyl dear.”

She jumped, whirled and stared as Mrs. Byrne melted out of the woodwork and came toward her.

“What are you doing here?” Sibyl rushed to the other woman, and, once there, pressed her lips to the still smooth skin on her cheek, thrilled beyond belief that she had an ally in the room even though she couldn’t imagine why Mrs. Byrne was there, not to mention, even Mrs. Byrne didn’t know what Sibyl was to Colin.

“Why, Colin asked me to come. Wasn’t that kind?”

Kind? Mrs. Byrne thought Colin was kind?

And Colin had asked her to come?

The last time he’d had Mrs. Byrne and Sibyl in this room, he’d roared at them both like a raving lunatic.

It was then Sibyl knew that she was currently residing in an alternate universe.

Heart racing, Sibyl turned woodenly from Mrs. Byrne to take in the scene. She watched as Mike poured drinks, Phoebe fingered the material of Mags’s skirt admiringly, Scarlett and Claire were giggling, actually giggling, like high school chums reunited when they’d known each other all of five minutes and Bertie was staring with rapt admiration at some crossed swords and a chest plate from a set of armour that was affixed to the wall.

“Mrs. Byrne, do you know what’s going on here?” under her breath, Sibyl asked the other woman.

“Just have faith, have strength and trust Colin,” came what Sibyl considered her mentally unhinged reply. “Our Colin knows what he’s doing.”

Our Colin?

Sibyl’s eyes rounded and then Mike was standing close, pressing a drink in her hand. He hadn’t even asked what she wanted but one look at the tall, thin glass with a maraschino cherry sitting on the top told her what it was. She sniffed it anyway and smelled the lime cordial.

It was chock full of ice.

She felt a shimmer she didn’t comprehend go down her spine.

Something was happening, something she didn’t understand, something she feared but also something that her crazy mind and crazier heart told her just might be hopeful.

“Mrs. Byrne,” she whispered to the other woman as Mike moved away but before Mrs. Byrne could answer Phoebe was speaking.

“Albert, Marguerite, how would you feel about a tour of the house before dinner?”

Scarlett and Sibyl were, pointedly, not invited which, Sibyl thought, was pointedly peculiar.

At that moment, Sibyl decided to give up attempting to understand what on earth was going on and walked to the comfortable, inviting couch that had been the centre point of the scene that was her last nightmare at Lacybourne. She decided it as well as any was a good place for her to spend her time experiencing this latest one. She told herself it was only a few hours, just a few, short hours. Whatever was happening, she could cope. She’d been through worse, she told herself, she’d get through this.

“Please call us Mags and Bertie, everyone else does,” Mags invited as she hooked her arm through Phoebe’s and they turned to the door.

Bertie didn’t reply, he was speechless with excitement at getting a tour. The older people went off, leaving the four women together but, again, Mike firmly closed the doors to the Great Hall behind him after they’d gone through.

“Sibyl, are you okay? You look a bit pale.” Her sister, the soon-to-be-fully-practising neurologist, pointed out the not-so-medically obvious.

Before Sibyl could answer, Claire noted, “Scarlett, I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Byrne.”

Then the four women wiled away the minutes, all but Sibyl joining in easy conversation while Sibyl tried to decide why, on earth, Colin had arranged this hideous tableau.

And what she decided eradicated that hope she’d felt earlier.

For, she decided, she had been right about their first encounter.

He had to hate her. Whatever reason there was for him to hate her, she knew there could be no other reason for him to do this to her. This whole thing was simply… well, she’d never been the paid sexual plaything for a man but she couldn’t imagine it was de rigueur to invite her family to meet his parents (and sister). In fact she was pretty certain it was the exact opposite. He’d spent weeks lulling her into a false sense of security and now he was going in for the kill.

“Sibyl, you aren’t saying a word,” Claire noted, her blue eyes looking concerned. “Are you quite all right?”

“No,” Sibyl stood, her heart was fluttering in a funny way that felt almost like pain and she replied honestly, “No, I don’t think I’m all right.”

All three women stood with her, glancing at each other with concerned eyes and Sibyl felt a great wave of nausea building inside her. She was no longer seething, no longer angry, she was humiliated and defeated.

“Sibyl,” Mrs. Byrne said, her voice full of weight, urgency and a meaning Sibyl did not understand. Sibyl heard their parents coming back into the room as Mrs. Byrne went on. “Did you hear what I said to you earlier? Did you understand me?”

Sibyl wasn’t listening. She was staring at her parents.

It looked like her mother had been crying but they were joyous tears and there was a smile, a smile the like she’d never seen on Mags’s face and Sibyl had seen many smiles on Mags’s face.

It was a smile that made Mags’s face illuminate with happiness.

For his part, Bertie looked stunned and pleased as punch, as if Mike had told him there was an ancient archaeological ruin in the backyard that no one had ever touched and it was all his.

“What’s going on?” Scarlett asked, clearly also noting the buoyant looks on their parents’ faces.

“A word in the Hall, Scarlett,” Bertie had recovered first and promptly commanded his younger daughter in a tone he rarely used but both girls had obeyed for a lifetime.

Scarlett followed her father out of the room.

Sibyl stood stock-still.

“What’s going on?” Sibyl repeated her sister’s question.

Mags walked to her daughter, her eyes shining with a beautiful light that, for some reason, made Sibyl feel even more frightened and sick. Mags grabbed Sibyl’s hand and squeezed.

“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” she whispered to her mother and Mags simply leaned in, looked into her daughter’s eyes with her own still bright with tears then she turned her head and kissed her Sibyl on the cheek.

At this, Sibyl started to shake. She felt that the world had tilted and she was the only one remaining upright.

She was about to scream blue bloody murder when she heard Phoebe Morgan exclaim, “Colin! Finally, you’ve arrived,” and relief was palpable in her words.

Sibyl’s head snapped around and she saw Colin, wearing one of his dark suits with a deep green shirt as usual unbuttoned at his masculine throat.

He looked around the room, seeming tense, until saw her. Then he relaxed, took one look at her face and strode forward, straight to her. She felt like fleeing, she felt like screaming at him, she felt like bursting into tears, but instead, she held her ground. He ignored everyone else in the room even though everyone else was watching.

Avidly.

“Colin,” she whispered when he was close enough to hear her. She was physically unable to make her voice any louder.

He stopped close to her, too close, closer than was seemly in front of his parents, her parents (well, maybe not Mags), everyone.

Then he did something strange.

He took both her hands in his.

Then he did something even stranger.

He dropped his forehead to rest it against hers and murmured in a low, intense voice filled with urgency and a meaning akin to Mrs. Byrne’s, meaning she didn’t understand, “Trust me, Sibyl.”

She shook her head in a panic and his hands squeezed hers.

It was then she noticed his eyes, the look in them, a look that immediately melted away her fear and nausea.

He’d called her Sibyl but this wasn’t Colin.

Not at all.

It was Royce.

“Trust me,” he repeated.

She gulped.

As she stared, close up, into his beautiful eyes, her heart fluttered again, dangerously, but the feeling had a soft edge which was a weak sense of hope.

Sibyl latched onto the hope.

Then she leaped off her second precipice in a month, leaped into the great unknown.

And she nodded and, even in front of her parents, his parents, their sisters and Mrs. Byrne, Colin came even closer and brushed his lips tenderly against hers.