Lacybourne Manor by Kristen Ashley

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