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.