Lacybourne Manor (Ghosts and Reincarnation #3)(19)

Not thirty minutes later, Mrs. Byrne came in the room.

Still awake and trying not to think of her dream of last night, the events of that evening and how they all fit together (or, spectacularly, did not) Sibyl assured the woman quietly, “I’m fine.”

“You must sleep. I have a feeling you have a long road ahead of you,” Mrs. Byrne whispered as she laid a comforting hand on Sibyl’s shoulder.

Sibyl didn’t know what to make of this latest comment that came in her current occupancy in the World of Lunacy. But she smiled, mentally promising herself to check in on the old woman after this debacle was complete to make certain Marian Byrne wasn’t suffering from a mild form of dementia. Then, obligingly, she nestled her head into the soft pillows.

This happened twice more, the second time, Mrs. Byrne actually woke her and Sibyl was surprised she could get to sleep at all.

It seemed only moments after Mrs. Byrne left the room when she heard the door open again. She pretended to ignore the older lady, hoping she would cease her kind, but overly earnest, ministrations and get some sleep herself.

But this time, Mrs. Byrne entered the room and stopped and Sibyl could almost feel the lady’s eyes on her. Obviously deciding Sibyl needed her rest, she left again, only to come back not five minutes later.

After she heard some rustling across the room, unceremoniously, Sibyl’s jacket was pulled off of her.

She twirled around in bed to look up, not at Mrs. Byrne, but at a tall, looming male standing imposingly beside the bed.

“Get up,” Colin Morgan commanded in a deep, angry voice.

“What are you…?” Sibyl started.

He reached forward and pulled her roughly out of the bed and the only way she could respond to this stunning action was to yelp.

“Did it occur to you to turn on the radiator?” His tone was caustic.

Sibyl blinked in the direction of one of several radiators in the room.

No, it actually didn’t occur to her and she wondered why it hadn’t, but then she’d always been a bit flighty and absentminded. However, she would never impart this information on him.

He didn’t wait for an answer and demanded, “Put this on.”

He tossed a garment to her and she had no choice but to catch it and shake it out. In the light coming in from the hall she realised it was the top of a pair of men’s pyjamas.

Most likely his pyjamas.

“I can’t wear this!” she snapped, ready to toss it back to him.

“Nothing Tamara has will fit you, for obvious reasons.” She saw his eyes run the length of her body and she thought from the look in them that perhaps this ended up being not the cutting insult he meant to be.

Tamara must be Mother Winter’s name.

“I’ll sleep in my clothes,” Sibyl told him.

“You’ll put that on,” he parried.

She glared at him and he glared right back.

He, of course, was better at it.

“Miss Godwin, you can either put it on or I’ll put it on you, you choose.”

His command was shocking and it was said in a voice that was dangerous and chock full of meaning. Sibyl knew in an instant, understood it somehow to her very core, that he was ruthless enough to do it.

Strangely, and distressingly, she felt like she’d been in this exact position before, facing off against him.

And losing.

This feeling was not a little familiar, but a lot, like it didn’t happen once but repeatedly.

And it was bizarre, frightening and, lastly, bizarrely, frighteningly reassuring.

Her energy was draining away, her head hurt like the devil and she was ready to do just about anything to make this night go a hell of a lot more smoothly until she reached its joyful conclusion.

“Fine,” she bit out between clenched teeth, thinking agreement would make him go and then she could ignore his order and try to get some sleep. “I’ll put it on, now you can go.”

He crossed his arms on his chest as if he was settling in for a show.

Then he demanded, “Put it on now.”

Sibyl’s breath caught and her eyes bugged out before she breathed, “What?”

“Now,” he clipped.

“You’re joking.”

He didn’t answer but he also didn’t look like he was joking.

She started trembling, she had absolutely no idea what this entire night was all about. She was the wounded party here, if you counted her head, literally. All she wanted to do was see his house. If he didn’t want her to, he could have simply told her to go on her way. Not held her hostage. Not confiscated her purse. Not treated her like she was a criminal. Not barked at Mrs. Byrne.

She thought, somewhat hysterically, that he was supposed to be the fierce, glorious lover from her dream. The man who, when his throat was slit and she knew his life was pouring out of him, she felt such an utter sense of loss that she would have begged for the knife to slice her own throat as well rather than to live without him.

This whole scene was entirely wrong.

In fact, it felt cataclysmically wrong.

She glared at him and saw the set line of his jaw, thinking that there was a possibility, if she defied him, this would get physical.

She felt a burning shame creeping up at her total loss of power. She wanted to scream at him, rail at him, claw at his eyes.

And, unbelievably, she also wanted to throw herself in his arms.