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.