Lacybourne Manor

Chapter One 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.”

“Oh, you could,” Marian moved forward and encouragingly placed her hand on the woman’s forearm. “Truly, he won’t mind.”

That was an outright lie, Colin Morgan would very much mind. But what could she do? She could see the indecision on the other woman’s face, Marian had to do something.

Marian forged ahead. “We’ll set it at six o’clock, shall we? You can give me your telephone number and I’ll phone you if there’s a problem. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Sibyl,” she said, smiling her gratitude so sensationally Marian felt her heart seize at the sight. “Sibyl Godwin.”

It was with that announcement that Marian’s hand clutched the woman’s arm with vigour far beyond her seventy years.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your surname was again?”

The woman was studying her with curiosity and Marian watched the spectacular sight as the hazel in the other woman’s eyes melted to the colour of sherry as curiosity became concern. Her hand, Marian noted distractedly, had moved to cover the older woman’s hand protectively.

“Godwin.”

At her single word, Marian couldn’t help herself, she whispered, “Oh my.”

“Tell her, no,” Colin Morgan said into the phone, his rich, deep, baritone voice showing his obvious irritation.

“Mr. Morgan, she’s been wanting to see the house for over a year. She’s a very busy lady –”

“I said no.”

“She’ll be very disappointed.”

Colin attempted to conjure an image of the woman to whom he was speaking. He assumed he’d met her at some point but he couldn’t remember. Her voice was strong but it betrayed her age. If it hadn’t, he would have told her exactly how little he cared that an unknown American would be disappointed at not having a private evening tour of his home. The very idea was ridiculous.

Instead, he said, “If you would, please remind this woman of the opening hours of the house and request that she visit during them.”

There was a sigh and if he wasn’t mistaken it was a vaguely reprimanding sigh. “Very well, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Byrne.”

For the life of him, he had no idea why he was thanking the older woman for annoying him but the impeccable manners his mother had drilled into him would not allow him to do otherwise.

When he set the handset in the receiver he dragged frustrated fingers through his dark hair and looked up at the two portraits in front of him without seeing them.

Tomorrow, Tamara would be at Lacybourne. He had far more interest in entertaining Tamara (or, more to the point, allowing her to entertain him) than avoiding some American wandering around his house proclaiming everything “quaint” and exclaiming, “Oh, if these walls could talk!”

The will of his Uncle Edward and Aunt Felicity was clear; he inherited the house only if he continued to open it to The National Trust. Colin did so but under his terms. He had no idea why he moved into the house in the first place. He vastly preferred London to this sleepy seaside town and the enormous house was far too big for only one man to be in residence.

If he was honest with himself, it was, he knew, those bloody portraits.

His eyes focussed on them but he didn’t have to look at them to know what they portrayed. He’d long since memorised them.

Since he was young and his parents would bring their children to this house during holidays to visit their childless aunt and uncle, he and his brother and sister were always fascinated by the portraits and the famous, romantic yet grisly history of their subjects.

For obvious reasons, as Colin grew older, the portraits became all the more captivating.

Throughout his life, everyone said he resembled the long dead Royce Morgan but as he grew from a child to a man, that resemblance became stunningly clear.

It was that, Colin knew, that drew him to this damned house.

That and the portrait of Beatrice Morgan, of course.

She had been Beatrice Godwin when the portrait was painted; she’d only been Beatrice Morgan for scant hours of her short life. She stood in the portrait holding a fluffy, black cat in one arm with the hand of her other arm resting lovingly on the head of a great mastiff. She was surrounded by the black shadows of trees with the blue-black backdrop of night and the sky behind her was dark and, strangely, rent with a bolt of lightning.

It was unusual for these old portraits to depict their subjects smiling, but regardless of the dire, nightly setting, Beatrice Godwin was most definitely smiling, magnificently. In fact, it looked like she was close to laughing. Her face was not painted white, her neck was not bound in some hideous ruff, her hair was not tamed but its dark curls were flying wild about her face.

The portrait of Royce Morgan, on the other hand, did not depict him as smiling. He stood wearing armour in front of a mighty black steed that Colin knew, from the many books on the subject of Royce and Beatrice in the library at Lacybourne, was named Mallory. In the painting, Royce looked fierce and battle worn and Colin had little doubt why the lovely, smiling Beatrice Godwin had caught the warrior’s eye.

Colin’s mother and younger sister had always believed in the romantic notion that Colin would find the reincarnated Beatrice, marry her and live happily ever after with dozens of children flitting around Lacybourne. Local legend said that the unconsummated love of Royce and Beatrice would one day, with magical help, be fulfilled when their tormented souls rested in new bodies.

Colin grew up believing it too. Since he could remember, he knew somewhere in the depths of some hidden place in his soul that he was meant to play a vital part in the Royce and Beatrice Saga. Because of that, since he was a young boy, he had always been in love with Beatrice Godwin or, at least, the idea of her.

Now, Colin was thirty-six years old and he had no interest in falling in love. He’d done it once and he’d never do it again. Furthermore, he didn’t believe in love or magic or destiny. He believed you made your own destiny or bought it, sold it, stole it or wrested it away from anyone who wanted to keep it from you.

Instead, he was considering asking Tamara Adams to marry him. She, unlike all of the other women in his vast experience (and most of the men), made absolutely no bones about the end to which she used her many, talented means. She blatantly and with purpose used scheming, lies, tears, guilt, begging and sex to get exactly what she wanted. Tamara had done it since he knew her, which had been most of her life as their parents had been friends for as long as he could remember.

Colin Morgan did not love Tamara, he wasn’t certain he even liked her. Then again, Colin didn’t like most people and he specifically did not like women.

Indeed, it could be said that he disliked women with a ruthless passion.

He had reason.

Colin came from money; his father and mother were both members of the upper, upper middle class. Michael and Phoebe Morgan had both been (if somewhat distantly, in the case of his father, but not in the case of his mother) doting to their three children – Colin, Claire and Anthony.

Colin had gone to Harrow then Cambridge then he took a job on the Exchange. Within two years of graduating from Cambridge, Colin started his own brokerage firm. Then, shortly after, he stopped buying and selling stocks and started buying and selling companies. Or, more to the point, wresting companies away from their mismanagement, cleaning them up and selling them off, sometimes in pieces, for a vast profit.

He was known as ruthless but he didn’t care in the slightest.

He was ruthless.

Since he was a young boy, he’d never cared what people thought of him. Colin always excelled, always triumphed, no matter what. It was simply his nature. Part of his success was natural ability and extreme intelligence, both of which Colin had in abundance. Nevertheless, Colin was driven to succeed, pushed himself to be the best and settled for nothing less in himself or the people around him.

His father didn’t need to encourage his son or make demands of him. Michael Morgan often found himself concerned about his son’s single-minded pursuit of anything he wanted.

Phoebe Morgan’s feelings went well beyond concerned catapulting directly to outright worry.

As Colin grew older and matured, their son’s seemingly easy accomplishments, his determination and aggressive competitive streak set him up as a target. It didn’t help matters that he was unbelievably handsome, fabulously sexy, unusually tall, mentally and physically strong and inordinately rich.

Colin had it all and what he didn’t have, he obtained.

Many people didn’t like that.

Colin was a target to those who wanted to best him or those who Colin bested and who wanted vengeance.

These were mostly men.

Colin was also a target for those who wanted to tame him, trap him or wished to bask in the blazing spotlight of his glory.

These were always women.

Therefore Colin Morgan understood innately that nearly everyone was capable of betrayal, anyone could be (and was) devious and no one lived their lives without ulterior motives.

He cared for his family, had close friends but anyone not in his private circle mattered nothing to him. Colin rarely trusted; he knew from a wealth of experience that people did not deserve to be trusted.

And the majority of those “people” were women.

It had started with a girl who became besotted with him when he was still a young man. She’d written him long, lovesick letters and posted them to Harrow. He had little interest in her but didn’t have the desire to tell her to stop writing. Yet when he came home for a holiday, he found her kissing another boy at the tennis courts at their club. Upon seeing his knowing face, she assured Colin she did, indeed, love him, but she certainly wasn’t going to be bored and lonely on Saturday nights while he was away at school.

Then there was the first woman he actually felt some emotion for, a bright woman at Cambridge, a woman with raven hair who reminded him, somewhat, of the portrait of Beatrice.

They had been seeing each other for some months when he’d come across her at a pub when they were out separately one night, her with her girlfriends, he with his friends. Colin had been pleased to see her and approached while her back was to him.

“I cannot believe you’re dating Colin Morgan. He’s gorgeous!” he heard her friend say.

“Yes,” his girlfriend replied, “and he’s got a huge trust fund.”

All the girls had laughed. Colin had walked away and the next day when she phoned, he hung up on her. He completely cut her out of his life, turned away from her if he met her on the pavement and put the phone down on her the dozens of times she called. He never told her what he heard, he never gave her the chance to explain herself, indeed, he never spoke a word to her again.

Then there was Portia.

Colin had met Portia in London shortly after starting his own brokerage. Slowly, over time, she’d broken down the barriers that seemed, for no reason at all (and yet every reason), to have been around his heart since he was born. Eventually, after a great deal of effort on her part, he’d fallen in love with the passionate, chestnut-haired beauty.

On the verge of asking her to marry him, he’d come home far earlier than normal and found her naked on the floor in the living room of his flat. She’d been on all fours, his best friend, Kevin, on his knees behind her. He could still remember when her face, looking strangely bored and definitely resigned, turned to him. He could still remember how her expression melted to horror at being caught.

Colin had never been so furious in his life. He’d nearly torn Kevin limb-from-limb and he could have easily struck Portia and not regretted it.

Instead, he’d walked out of the room, moved out of the flat they shared and remorselessly turned his back on the both of them, never seeing either one of them again. Though, she had phoned. He could still remember the pleading in her voice when she tried to win him back.

“Colin, I’ve been with you for months and you didn’t ask me to marry you. I need to get married, I have to. Don’t you understand? That’s what girls like me do,” she explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She was hedging her bets, pursuing Colin with Kevin waiting in the wings.

Kevin married her. They divorced after a year with Portia in possession of a good deal of Kevin’s trust fund and personal earnings.

That had been over a decade ago. Since then many different women drifted in and out of Colin’s life. At six foot two, he had a lean, muscular body that he kept fit with relentless determination. He had thick, waving hair, only a shade lighter than black, light brown eyes the colour of clay, strong, prominent cheekbones, a hard jaw and, incongruously, an immensely sensual, generous lower lip.

What he didn’t have was any problem attracting women. His family name, the quantity of his money, his good looks, his arrogance and cold heart (that many women felt they could melt) made him an object of great attraction.

He considered himself lucky, women were a banquet before him and he had a lusty appetite. Colin took what he wanted, devoured it mercilessly and then left the remains without a backward glance.

However, his mother was complaining. Both his sister Claire and brother Tony had made good marriages. Claire, nearly immediately after being wed, had two children one after the other. Tony’s wife was now pregnant.

Colin’s mother wanted her eldest son settled. She wanted him to provide her more grandchildren to spoil, more opportunities for her to meddle and dote and lastly, she was simply just too tired after thirty-six years of worrying after Colin. She didn’t understand his heartlessness and she was deeply concerned about his antipathy towards women. She wanted proof that his heart was mended (from whatever had rendered it broken) so that she could live out her old (ish) age knowing he was happy.

Enter Tamara Adams.

Colin knew that Phoebe Morgan didn’t much care for Tamara but then again, his mother didn’t have to sleep with her.

Colin liked sleeping with Tamara even if she wasn’t the best he’d had. What she lacked in imagination or even sometimes passion, she made up for in sheer will which worked very well to Colin’s benefit.

Shaking off these thoughts, he moved through the house to his study, uncovered the sandwiches Mrs. Manning left for him on his desk and smiled a small smile to himself.

His housekeeper was perfect. She was industrious, thorough and mostly unseen.

He settled behind his desk and made several business calls while he ate then made several more after he finished. Finally, late at night, he phoned Tamara, finalising plans with her to spend the rest of the week and weekend at Lacybourne.

“I can’t wait to see you, darling,” she purred and he had to control his annoyance at the endearment that didn’t even begin to sound genuine. He disliked it when she slipped into the usual feminine tactics and made them obvious. She was far more talented than that. “Are you in bed?” she continued suggestively.

“No,” he replied tersely and she immediately read his tone, not a stupid girl (which was one of her attractions) and quickly rang off.

While preparing for bed, he was unable to assuage his unease and wondered if he should scrape off Tamara and find someone else. Although who that would be, he did not know. After thirty-six years, he had long since given up on the idea that Beatrice Godwin’s reincarnated soul would enter his life, smiling magnificently at him and melting his modern day warrior’s heart.

Tamara knew she was entering the straightaway, heading for the chequered flag and the more she seemed sure of her position, the more irritating she became.

Colin lay in bed, crossed his hands behind his head and listened to the rain.

He did not relish the idea of finding a replacement for Tamara, though it didn’t really matter who it was. Although it did matter how she looked. Colin had a definite type and Tamara was that type.

Tamara had jet black hair, ice blue eyes and never allowed the sun to touch her alabaster skin. She was petite and watched her diet like a hawk so that she would not put an ounce of extra flesh on her slim body. She dressed impeccably and had her own trust fund. Her parents were friends with his parents and were also, most assuredly, upper, upper middle class.

She was, for all intents and purposes, perfect or at least as perfect as a woman could get in Colin’s dire estimation.

The rain still falling, his tired thoughts turned from Tamara to Beatrice Godwin.

He had no way of knowing if Beatrice Godwin was petite, except she was suddenly there, right beside him and she was not petite. She was long limbed and her body was lush with curves.

And there she was, laying in bed with him, completely naked, her skin glowing, her eyes heated with passion.

His mouth was on her, his hands were everywhere, she felt so damn good, she tasted so good, he couldn’t get enough of her. He felt the blood singing through his veins, burning through him with lust and… something else.

Colin was a man of many passions and refined tastes. Only the best suited him and he only accepted the best. He knew passion and desire; he liked sex, enjoyed it immensely but it was always just that, sex, an experience, a release. The act of intercourse was another skill to acquire, hone and use with ruthless determination to meet his own ends.

But he’d never felt a desire so strong it was a need before, desire that was so insistent it was nearly violent.

But he felt that with Beatrice.

Colin lifted his mouth from her nipple and looked at her face. He was surprised to see her lustrous dark locks had turned gold. Her hazel eyes were warm, melting to a liquid brown and when she opened her mouth and whispered, “Colin,” her voice was husky with her own need.

He had to have her, immediately, he could not, would not, wait a moment longer. He pulled himself over her, opened her legs and her hands glided into his hair.

He opened his mouth to say her name but somehow “Beatrice” wasn’t right.

But he had no time to sort his confusion because he was ripped viciously from her arms as they were both hauled out of the bed.

At the side of the bed, strong hands holding him back as he struggled, he watched as the faceless, dark entities that kept him hostage tore her out of the bed the other way.

He roared his fury, brutal feelings he didn’t quite understand surging through him as he watched her battle across the room. Colin came to the instant realisation that she was life to him, she was breath. The world, the entire world, his whole being, heart and soul, was wrapped up in her.

He struggled fiercely but in vain. He watched, his gut wrenching in despair, as the sharp, shining blade swiftly, without delay, slid across her throat causing hideous blood to splatter everywhere from the gaping wound at her neck.

He woke, somehow, even though it couldn’t be possible, to a high-pitched, blood-chilling, woman’s scream.