* * * * *
Robert Fitzwilliam stopped at the gatehouse, one of his men was supposed to be inside but did not come out at the approaching car.
Robert stopped and got out, looking around him. The rain was beating down and yet not twenty minutes before it had been sunny and clear. Now the sky was dark, thunder and lightning were rolling over each other in waves and the wind was whipping at his body.
He walked into the gatehouse not liking what he felt. Something was wrong.
He saw his man lying on the floor, unconscious.
Robert swore under his breath and rushed straight to the prone body.
* * * * *
Royce told Beatrice everything as they rode to Lacybourne, Royce driving Mallory quickly through the pouring rain as he held Beatrice firmly to his body, the ten minute ride cut down to five.
She believed him, to his astonishment. But then again, Beatrice was not like other women.
He stopped well outside the copse of trees which was meant to be the place of their demise, if the woman named Sibyl (a witch’s name if he ever heard one) could be believed.
But he felt… nay, he knew he could believe her.
He alighted from Mallory’s back and again pulled Beatrice down.
“Run, just as I told you, straight to the witch’s cottage. Explain and she’ll keep you safe.”
He had no way of knowing this but he felt it to be true.
She nodded, got up on tiptoe to press her lips against his and without hesitation, she ran.
He watched her go, watched her out of sight then mounted his trusted steed.
He made a clicking sound with his teeth and the horse moved forward.
Unbeknownst to Royce, once out of sight, Beatrice changed directions.
Something sinister was afoot and Royce might need her, after all, and she was Beatrice Godwin, now Morgan, and Beatrice Morgan was certainly not the kind of woman who would desert her beloved new husband when there was a possibility her strong warrior might need her.
Not a chance.
* * * * *
The locked door to Sibyl and Colin’s bedroom flew open with such violence, it crashed against the wall.
With a strong jerk, Sibyl was yanked straight off her feet by Colin’s arm at her waist and nearly thrown behind his back as the figures drifted through the door.
The dark, faceless, shifting figures from their dream.
She felt a scream surge up her throat.
“Run to the sanctuary. Now!” Colin thundered.
She couldn’t move; she couldn’t leave Colin alone to face those things.
“Now!” Colin roared.
And then the figures attacked.
* * * * *