The dog barked, angry and fierce, three times in a row.
Colin ignored him but the woman turned to the animal and commanded, “Mallory, be quiet!”
The dog stopped barking but the name of her pet being uttered was just too much.
The same name as the dead Royce Morgan’s legendary steed.
“Priceless,” he hissed, the ferocity back in his voice.
Her eyes jerked to his, the depth of green was now a hard, glittering emerald.
“If you need my license, it’s in my bag, which is in my car, which is –”
Colin didn’t listen to another word.
He turned on his heel and left the room, heading straight to her car.
* * * * *
“I need to go home.” Sibyl looked at Mrs. Byrne, who seemed the only sane person in the room. “There’s been a terrible mistake and furthermore, that man is a raving lunatic.”
There was a low, indistinct noise made by the other woman in the room and Sibyl looked into the cool blue eyes of the stunning woman who was standing five feet away from her. The woman looked amused by this debacle.
Amused.
There was absolutely nothing funny about one damned minute of what had just occurred.
Not… one… thing.
She couldn’t stay in this madhouse a second longer.
It was the man from her dream, come alive, breathing, walking, talking, shouting.
And he was stark raving mad.
She couldn’t believe it.
It was just her luck. The moment she found who she thought was the man of her dreams, her one true love, the man she’d been waiting her for entire life, he was screaming maniac.
Sibyl started to stand in order to escape when Mrs. Byrne pressed her back with surprising strength.
“There’s medical assistance coming, you’ve had a nasty bang on the head, you need to rest.”
“Rest?” Sibyl asked, her voice dripping with incredulity. “I’m sorry but I’m going home.”
They heard the sirens when the crazy man from her dream strode angrily back into the room. He was holding her sleek, red leather handbag (a Christmas gift from her sister) and he fairly threw it at her when he arrived at their deranged quartet (quintet, if you counted Mallory).
“Your license,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
She had no idea why he needed her license. She’d never shown her license while viewing a National Trust or English Heritage site and she’d seen dozens of them.
Feeling she’d never been so humiliated in her whole life, noting that Mrs. Byrne was moving to her other side to wipe a drip of blood that Sibyl could feel sliding down her face, she tore through her bag and pulled out her wallet. The other woman had disappeared.
She found her license and tossed it to him. He caught it without any effort and she wished (unusually waspishly) that he’d fumbled it.
He stared at it then lifted his angry clay-coloured eyes to hers.
“Where’s your passport?” he demanded.