Lacybourne Manor (Ghosts and Reincarnation #3)(21)

Sibyl was making more of an effort to be quiet and find her way than attempting to look at the house she once so desperately wanted to see. She visited National Trust properties as a pastime, it was a hobby she enjoyed with her father during their many visits to England, a hobby that she normally loved. At that moment, the first (and, she hoped, last) time she would ever be a “guest” at such a magnificent estate, she was not filled with wonder and awe. She was filled with terror and tried to avoid looking at anything that would eventually make this memory more painful.

She made it to the front door and realised she couldn’t exactly walk outside in a man’s pyjama top and bare feet.

Searching around her, she saw the almost hidden handle to a door in the carved wood panelling in the wall of the entry. Her luck changing when she pulled it open with hopes of finding outdoor gear she could borrow, she discovered a very small room filled with a bunch of National Trust brochures and other paraphernalia, some coats and, as with nearly every English hall closet she’d encountered, a mess of Wellingtons. She grabbed the warmest looking coat in the closet and a matching pair of Wellingtons and pushed her feet into them. Then she wrapped the enormous cashmere overcoat tightly around her body (hoping that it was not his, she’d had enough of wearing his clothes).

Outfitted, she turned and opened the front door. Mallory, who had begun whining at what he thought was Sibyl’s unnecessary delay in searching for ways to stop herself from dying from hypothermia (or, at the very least, avoiding frostbite), shot through the door.

Sibyl and Bran followed him. The morning was bright, crisp and bone-chillingly cold. Sibyl ignored it and hoped to every goddess she knew that Mallory’s morning break did not include something for which she’d have to search the house for a plastic bag.

Luck was shining on her that morning even though it was to be short-lived. Mallory finished his business (business that did not require clean up) and seemed to be enjoying the vast front garden by running around it in circles for no apparent reason. Mallory, being a big, ungainly dog, rarely ran anywhere. He usually took his walks making it clear he did it under duress (because Sibyl made him), got up to eat even though he made it plain he would prefer Sibyl to bring the food to him and then spent the rest of his life sleeping or with his head in Sibyl’s lap getting his ears scratched.

Watching him now, Sibyl wondered with a bit of guilt if she should take him to the park more often.

“Mallory, come here boy, come here you big, lovable, lug,” she clapped her hands and the dog ran toward her, stopped at her feet, his behind up in the air, his front legs spread and close to the ground, his tail wagging so ferociously his body vibrated with it.

She clapped again, smiling at him for she’d never seen him assume this posture, ever. But she loved her pup and she was game so she jumped to one side and Mallory followed her, then she jumped to the other side and Mallory did the same. Then she leaned forward and gave his head an affectionate shake.

“What am I going to do with you, you crazy pooch?” she asked and the dog stood up, accepted her kiss on his soft, fawn head and then his black, floppy ears popped up in alert. He looked around Sibyl, ears flapping, and then dashed back toward the house.

Sibyl turned and saw Colin Morgan leaning against the doorjamb. He was wearing jeans and what looked like a very warm oatmeal-coloured fisherman’s sweater. His arms were crossed on his chest, one bare foot crossed at his ankle. Apparently oblivious to the cold, he was settled in and watching her in a way that made it seem like he could do it all day.

“Blooming hell,” she muttered under her breath and immediately felt the cold creeping up her bare legs, cold she did not feel when she was playing with her dog.

She tramped inelegantly toward the house in the floppy willies that were too big for her and Mr. Morgan, she noted with consternation, did not appear ready to move out of her way. If he was going to deny her entry and she was going to have to suffer the indignity of walking the short distance to Clevedon in Wellingtons, a pyjama top and an overcoat, so be it.

“Enjoying yourself?” His tone was not good morning cheerful and she didn’t answer as she was never good morning cheerful. Therefore, she cast a vicious glance in his direction.

For some bizarre reason, this caused him to throw his head back and laugh as he dropped his arms to his sides. His masculine throat was exposed and the sound was deep and rich and she liked it so much, it made her start to seethe.

She stopped two feet away from him and stared at him like he was the raving lunatic she knew him to be.

“Let me pass,” she demanded once his laughter quieted.

Mallory was seated half a foot away, looking up at Mr. Morgan, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, his tail still wagging. Before Colin Morgan could reply to Sibyl’s demand, the dog leaned forward and licked his hand.

Sibyl stared in disbelief.

Her dog had always, always hated men (except her father).

“Mallory!” she snapped and the dog whined then he licked Mr. Morgan’s hand again. ‘Mallory! Stop that!” she scolded the dog and then, to her surprise, she found her arm in a vice-like grip and she was yanked through the door.

It was slammed behind her and before she could get her bearings, she was roughly pushed backward until she hit door.

And again, before she even realised what was happening, Colin Morgan stepped into her, not even a foot away, cutting off any escape. Then he dipped his face to hers and he was so close she could feel the heat from his body through the coat and the warmth of his breath on her face.