She couldn’t stay in this madhouse a second longer.
It was the man from her dream, come alive, breathing, walking, talking, shouting.
And he was stark raving mad.
She couldn’t believe it.
It was just her luck. The moment she found who she thought was the man of her dreams, her one true love, the man she’d been waiting her for entire life, he was screaming maniac.
Sibyl started to stand in order to escape when Mrs. Byrne pressed her back with surprising strength.
“There’s medical assistance coming, you’ve had a nasty bang on the head, you need to rest.”
“Rest?” Sibyl asked, her voice dripping with incredulity. “I’m sorry but I’m going home.”
They heard the sirens when the crazy man from her dream strode angrily back into the room. He was holding her sleek, red leather handbag (a Christmas gift from her sister) and he fairly threw it at her when he arrived at their deranged quartet (quintet, if you counted Mallory).
“Your license,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
She had no idea why he needed her license. She’d never shown her license while viewing a National Trust or English Heritage site and she’d seen dozens of them.
Feeling she’d never been so humiliated in her whole life, noting that Mrs. Byrne was moving to her other side to wipe a drip of blood that Sibyl could feel sliding down her face, she tore through her bag and pulled out her wallet. The other woman had disappeared.
She found her license and tossed it to him. He caught it without any effort and she wished (unusually waspishly) that he’d fumbled it.
He stared at it then lifted his angry clay-coloured eyes to hers.
“Where’s your passport?” he demanded.
“You have got to be kidding,” she breathed.
She could not believe her ears.
She just wanted to see his house; it was a heritage estate for goddess’s sake, not the Pentagon. It hardly required two forms of identification.
“She’s right here. She’s hit her head.” The other woman was walking into the room leading two men in green jumpsuits and the men approached Sibyl, carrying medical boxes.
Sibyl felt like the cavalry had just arrived.
“What’s happened here, then?” one man asked in a kindly tone and it took everything Sibyl had not to burst into tears.
She would not let the tall, good-looking madman see her cry. She didn’t care if he was the man in her dream, he was not a dream man by any stretch of the imagination.
“I fell, outside, hit my head,” Sibyl explained.
“What were you doing outside in this storm?” the paramedic asked, gently touching her head.
She turned imploringly towards him. “My dog… it doesn’t matter. I need to go home.”
“What year is it?” he enquired.
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, praying for patience and counting to ten. She knew this drill, her sister was in the final years of her residency to be a neurologist and had spent hours regaling the family with information and stories filled with medical jargon, interesting case studies and detailed (and boring) explanations of testing and procedures.
Sibyl told him the year, the month, the day, the president’s name, the prime minister’s name, her name, her address and what she ate for breakfast (granola and fat-free, organic, vanilla yogurt).
“Did you lose consciousness?” he asked with an admiring (albeit slightly flirtatious) smile at her recitation.
Sibyl chanced a look at the man Mrs. Byrne called Mr. Morgan. He was looking now at the paramedic with narrowed eyes and a jaw clenched so hard Sibyl could see a muscle jump.
“Five minutes, at least,” Mrs. Byrne replied helpfully. She’d moved away to let the medic get to Sibyl and now she stood wringing the bloodied cloth in her hands and looking…
Sibyl peered closely at her…
Guilty.
“It’s concerning, you’ll have to be watched.” The paramedic was cleaning the wound. “Put some ice on this immediately and keep it on for as long as you can bear it.” He turned toward the maniac owner of Lacybourne. “I don’t see any reason to admit her to hospital, she seems lucid and hasn’t lost any memory. You’ll have to observe her, make sure to wake her several times in the night –”
“What!” Sibyl shouted. “No! I’m going home.”
“This isn’t home?” The paramedic looked from her to the crazy man and went on bizarrely, “That picture in the hall –”
“This is not her home,” Mr. Morgan’s baritone voice noted drily.
“I’ll take her home,” Mrs. Byrne waded in courageously. “Or, my dear, I know we don’t know each other very well but perhaps you should stay with me tonight. We’ll come collect your car tomorrow. My cats won’t mind a little company.”
“She really should rest,” the other medic was saying while the first one put a bandage on the side of Sibyl’s forehead.
“I’m leaving,” Sibyl insisted.
“You’re staying,” the lunatic put in smoothly.
“She’s what?” the cool brunette snapped, finally losing her arctic composure.
“No I most certainly am not!” Sibyl shouted, making her head pound.
“I’ll not have you leave this house and die in the night from a concussion and open myself up to your American family suing me for every penny I’ve got,” Mr. Morgan noted in a calm, even voice.
“I’m not going to die,” Sibyl snapped.
“You’re not going to leave,” he returned.
“My parents will not sue,” she felt the need to add.
“You’re still not going to leave,” he retorted.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Byrne said.
“You’re staying too,” the lord of the manor stated.
“I thought that,” Mrs. Byrne noted resignedly. She grabbed Sibyl’s hand and patted it kindly. “I’ll look after you.”
Sibyl turned her eyes to the older woman and she saw the woman staring at her with a bizarre intensity.
“I want to go home, Mrs. Byrne,” Sibyl told her, her tone fervent.
“Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll all have a good rest and we’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“Not likely.” This, of course, was noted by the tall, impossibly handsome but utterly mad man who owned this (from what she could tell from the one room she’d actually seen) beautiful home.
Sibyl turned beseeching eyes to the kindly paramedic, thinking maybe even Mrs. Byrne had only a tentative hold on reality.