The Ice Seduction Page 16

‘This is the twenty-first century,’ says Vicky. ‘Who cares about that?’

  I feel a lump in my throat. ‘But we’re from different worlds,’ I insist.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I’m just trying to be realistic,’ I say.

  ‘Hah!’ Vicky scoffs. ‘Realistic! You don’t need to be realistic, Seraphina. You’re drop-dead gorgeous. And a lovely girl, to boot.’ She turns to me. ‘How do you feel about Patrick?’

  Oh. What a question.

  I’m aware of Bertie suddenly, and hold his hand extra tight as we turn onto the little lane leading to the castle.

  ‘I … I’ve been trying not to think about how I feel,’ I admit.

  ‘What does your heart tell you?’ Vicky asks.

  ‘It tells me I’m in a lot of trouble.’

  Vicky laughs. ‘Because you’re the nanny and he’s a lord? You can’t think any of that stuff really matters, can you?’

  ‘But it does,’ I insist. ‘It really does matter. I mean, lords and nannies just don’t get together.’

  ‘So set a trend. Follow your heart. It won’t steer you wrong.’

  ‘I just don’t see it working out. Anyway, I’ll be packing my bags and heading back to London if I can’t get this little one to eat something. So … I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.’

  ‘Think positive pet,’ says Vicky. ‘You never know how a day will end.’

  61

  By the time we reach the castle, I’m lost in thought.

  Snow is falling again and Vicky, Bertie and I are covered in crisp, white flakes.

  Dare I even consider the idea that Patrick and I could be more than just a casual, throwaway thing?

  No. Thinking that way can only bring pain. But the truth is, I feel much more for Patrick than just something physical.

  I don’t know why.

  It’s hard to explain. But … it’s like he sees the real me. Even though he knows nothing about me, he sees right inside my soul. I’m shy around him, because he makes me feel naked.

  And I see him too. I see more than the hunter and the army officer. I see a man who would do anything to protect those he loves.

  I wonder about the women who have come before … how serious they were.

  As I’m getting Bertie changed, I feel myself hoping, wanting Patrick to be nearby. But he isn’t. I know he isn’t. If he were, I would feel it.

  Not that it matters anyway. I’ll be going home soon.

  ‘Well Bertie,’ I say, as I help him onto the bench in the great hall. ‘What a day, huh? I loved hearing you play that violin.’

  Bertie fidgets a little.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I won’t tell anyone. But it’s a crying shame that there are people in this castle who don’t think Gregory’s music is a good enough. Music shouldn’t be an ambition. It should be a joyful thing.’

  I hear a clatter, and Vicky calls out, ‘Supper’s ready, hen!’ from the serving hatch.

  I collect Bertie’s liquorice and milk, and beef stew for me, served with Irish soda bread and fresh butter.

  ‘Just what we need after a day out in the snow, huh?’ I tell Bertie.

  He glances at my beef stew and slurps his milk.

  I sigh. ‘I guess this will be our last night together.’

  We eat in silence for a moment, me spooning up stew and Bertie gobbling up his liquorice sticks.

  Then Bertie points to one of the huge oil paintings on the wall, and I follow his finger.

  ‘What is it, Bertie?’ I ask. As I look closer, I see it’s the picture of two boys on horses.

  They look like brothers, I decide.

  I get up from the bench and look closer.

  Under the painting it says, ‘Patrick and Jamie’.

  Patrick …

  The taller boy looks a little fierce, but very cute. He’s on top of a white horse, while the younger boy, who I guess must be Jamie, is on a brown pony beside him.

  ‘Why do you want me to look at this painting?’ I ask Bertie. And then something clicks and I turn a little red. ‘Was it because of what Vicky and I were talking about earlier?’

  Bertie nods again. He points at me. Then he points at Patrick in the picture. And he clasps his hands together.

  ‘Oh, no, no. We’re not … I mean, no. Vicky and I were just talking. There’s not much more to it than that. Anyway, by the looks of things I’ll be leaving here tomorrow. So I’ll never see Patrick again.’

  Bertie’s eyes drop to the table. Then he does something I totally don’t expect. He picks up my spoon and takes a dainty mouthful of beef and potato stew.

  62

  I stare at him.

  As I watch, eyes wide and my mouth dropping open, Bertie tips the spoon into his mouth and begins to chew.

  I stand there like an idiot, completely shocked. Then a smile threatens to split my face open.

  ‘Bertie,’ I breathe. ‘You ate some stew!’

  He swallows, then gently puts the spoon back in the stew dish.

  ‘Bertie! Oh my god! Bertie, that’s amazing.’

  I run back to the table and throw my arms around him, crushing his little face into my chest.

  ‘Would you like to try some more?’ I ask, taking a seat beside him.

  Bertie nods.

  He takes another small spoonful, and I clap my hands together in delight as he chews and swallows.

  ‘Bread?’ I ask, tearing off a chunk.

  Bertie takes the bread from me, tears in it half, and then pops the smaller piece into his mouth, sucking on it carefully.

  ‘What’s all the noise about?’ Vicky calls from the kitchen.

  ‘It’s Bertie!’ I shout. ‘He’s eating your stew!’

  ‘Woo!’ Vicky shrieks, running out of the kitchen. ‘Oh my goodness! I’ll go get Mrs Calder.’

  She runs out of the hall.

  I slide my bowl of stew over to Bertie, and watch like a proud parent as he takes spoon after spoon.

  I wish I knew why he’s suddenly decided to eat. But then again, I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s getting a good meal in him on a cold day, and I couldn’t be happier.

  Behind me, I hear clipped footsteps and Mrs Calder comes sweeping into the room with Vicky.

  ‘What’s all this nonsense about Bertie eating stew?’ she says, storming up to our table. ‘He’s never eaten stew in his life.’

  ‘Take a look,’ I say, and lean back so she can see Bertie scraping the bowl clean and popping a spoon of beef, potato and gravy into his mouth.

  Mrs Calder stands there, mouth open, hands on her hips.

  For once, she has nothing to say.

  ‘Looks like Seraphina will be staying at the castle, Mrs Calder,’ says Vicky, smiling broadly. ‘And Bertie too. You’d better tell Dirk to cancel that boarding school place.’

  Mrs Calder closes her mouth, then opens it again. ‘Well. It appears … I mean, one swallow doesn’t make a summer. This is only one meal …’

  ‘Which is more than he’s eaten the whole time he’s been here,’ says Vicky.

  ‘I … this is … how did you get him to do it?’ Mrs Calder stammers.

  I shrug. ‘Love and patience I guess. Lucky for me, he decided today was the day. Well. Lucky for both of us really.’

  Mrs Calder snaps her mouth closed, and her lips go white with rage. ‘You might have won this battle, Seraphina Harper. But you’re still a stranger in this castle. And I’ll find a way to be rid of you. Just see if I don’t.’

  She stalks off.

  Vicky bursts out laughing.

  ‘Just see if I don’t,’ she mimics, putting an arm around my shoulder. ‘You did it, hen. You got Bertie to eat. So I guess you’ll be staying for a while. Which I for one am very happy about. And I’m sure Patrick will be too.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ I say.

  ‘Well I do,’ Vicky replies.

  63

  When I tuck Bertie into bed that night, I give him an extra big hug.

  ‘I�
�m so happy you ate something, Bertie. And I’m so happy I can stay here with you.’

  And with Patrick, says an unwelcome voice. But I brush that thought away.

  Bertie’s cheeks have more colour in them since his meal, and he seems happy and a little sleepy.

  I guess eating a proper meal with meat and vegetables, after such a long time on sugary liquorice, must feel terrific.

  ‘I wish I knew why you wouldn’t eat before,’ I say.

  Bertie pushes books around on his bedside table, and picks up one particularly grisly looking one with a snow-encased skull on the front.

  He flicks through pages until he reaches a section that’s heavily marked up with blue biro.

  ‘More pen marks,’ I mutter, looking closely. I read the words that are underlined and my heart skips a beat.

  ‘Poison’

  ‘Torture’

  ‘Starving’

  ‘Bad’

  ‘Bertie, did you underline these words too?’

  Bertie nods.

  My mouth goes dry. ‘Did someone … did someone try and put something in your food or something? Is that why you stopped eating?’

  Bertie looks away from me.

  ‘I wish you could tell me,’ I say. ‘This is so, so important Bertie. If someone tried to hurt you, I need to know. I can protect you. I promise I can.’

  Bertie shakes his head even harder. Then he pulls the duvet over his head.

  ‘Are you okay under there?’ I whisper.

  I feel the duvet shake as he nods.

  ‘Would you like me to leave you alone?’

  The duvet shakes again.

  ‘Okay. Okay, Bertie I will. For now. You could use a good night’s sleep.’ I frown. ‘I wish … never mind. It’s been a long day. You have a lovely sleep, Bertie boo. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?’

  The duvet shakes again, and I leave the room.

  64

  As I head towards my own bedroom, my heart pounds.

  Oh god.

  I just can’t shake those underlined words from my mind.

  Poison … torture …

  Did Bertie understand what those words meant when he underlined them?

  What on earth happened to Bertie, before he came to this castle?

  It’s just unbearable to think that bad things happen to children. But they do. All the time. Sometimes thinking about them keeps me awake at night.

  I need to talk to somebody. This is important. Really important. I need to figure out what to do next.

  Vicky. Talk to Vicky.

  Yes, she seems to know plenty about the Mansfield family. Maybe she can tell me more about where Bertie was before he came here.

  I head to the great hall, but the kitchen is all closed up for the night. I guess Vicky has gone home.

  Who else can I talk to?

  Gregory? No, he’ll still be in the pub.

  Patrick?

  Can I seek Patrick out, after everything that’s happened between us? I’ve spent so much time running away from him and telling him to leave me alone …

  I give myself a little shake. I don’t have any choice. I have to tell someone about what Bertie just showed me. And embarrassing as it might be to ask for Patrick’s help, here in this cold castle I don’t know who else to turn to.

  The West Wing feels very still and silent as I creep along, poking my head around doorways.

  ‘Patrick?’ I call. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Not in the sitting room. Nor in the drawing room where I met his mother.

  Then I remember – the South Wing. He was there a few days ago, working out in the gym.

  I head down there, summoning all my courage and letting go of my dignity. After all the times I’ve told Patrick to leave me alone, I’ve got a lot of pride to swallow. But who cares? This isn’t about me. It’s about Bertie.

  When I reach the gym, I see the lights are on and I hear the clank of weights.

  Cautiously, I poke my head around the door and see the mesmerizing sight of Patrick, shirtless, doing pull-ups on an iron bar.

  His muscles go round and tight as he pulls himself up, and his chest is rock hard. He’s wearing loose grey sweat pants and his long, bare feet dangle over the ground.

  He doesn’t look out of breath or in pain or anything as he pulls himself up and down.

  I stand for a moment, not knowing quite what to say. And then Patrick turns and sees me in the doorway.

  He gives the flicker of a smile, and drops down from the bar.

  ‘Back again Seraphina?’ he says, picking up a towel and running it over his face. He flings the towel down on an exercise mat.

  I redden. ‘I … again?’

  ‘You came down here before,’ he says.

  Oh god. How embarrassing.

  ‘You saw me?’ I say, my voice going all squeaky.

  ‘I heard you,’ says Patrick.

  ‘I guess nothing gets past you. I’d hate to be something you were hunting. I wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘You don’t,’ says Patrick, his voice deepening as he strides towards me. ‘But I can tell this isn’t a social call. Something’s wrong. What is it?’

  Patrick comes closer, and I nearly swoon at the beauty of him – that elegant, muscular torso, and those dangerous icy blue-green eyes.

  I see the eagle tattoo on his collarbone and my eyes sort of catch on it.

  Patrick follows my gaze. ‘This was for my brother,’ he says softly, grazing his fingers against his collarbone. ‘He was in eagle regiment. So I thought it fitted.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I murmur.

  ‘Do you like birds of prey?’ Patrick asks.

  ‘I like that one.’

  Patrick smiles. ‘So how can I help you today, Miss Harper? Any more boys stuck up trees?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I say. ‘But … I do need to talk to you about Bertie.’

  Patrick frowns. ‘Is everything all right?’

  I shake my head, and feel tears coming again. I try to speak, but the words won’t come out. How can I say what I’m thinking? It’s all too horrible.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Patrick strides forwards and takes me into his arms, pressing me against his beautiful chest. ‘It’s all right.’

  I shake my head at his ribcage, embarrassed to be getting all upset like this.

  Patrick tilts my chin up so I’m gazing straight into his fierce eyes. ‘Tell me,’ he commands. ‘Right now. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I … I don’t know exactly,’ I stutter, feeling my lips red with blood. ‘But Bertie … he showed me some things tonight. In one of the horror books he keeps by his bedside. He’d marked up some words. Like poison and starving. It was when I was asking him about food …’

  Patrick frowns. ‘Poison?’

  I nod. ‘I don’t know what he was trying to say exactly. He nodded when I asked if he’d underlined the words himself. But when I asked him if someone had put something in his food, he shook his head. I … I just get the feeling something bad happened to him and he’s trying to tell me about it. But he’s too scared. He wants me to figure it out.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls,’ says Patrick. He drops his eyes back to mine. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘I … maybe I should leave you to it,’ I say, trying to slap on a smile. I swipe at the tears under my eyes and rub my nose.

  ‘You’re upset. I’m not leaving you alone. You’re coming with me whether you want to or not.’

  ‘Patrick, honestly—’

  ‘Don’t argue. Or I’ll just have to pick you up and carry you again.’

  ‘Don’t you dare—’

  ‘Then come with me.’ Patrick slides his fingers into mine.

  The warmth of his hands against mine makes my stomach flip over, especially when he grips my fingers tight.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  ‘Finally,’ says Patrick. ‘You’re learning to take orders.’

  ‘Where Bertie is concerned, I’ll do whatever is needed.’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘My bedroom.’

  65

  ‘Your bedroom?’ I yell. ‘Oh no, Patrick. No way.’

  But Patrick ignores me, leading me back to the West Wing.

  He’s still holding my hand. Tight.

  ‘I need somewhere private to make these calls,’ says Patrick, bounding along at such a pace that I’m tripping and stumbling trying to keep up with him.

  ‘There must be some other place—’

  ‘There isn’t. This castle has eyes and ears. Haven’t you realized that by now?’

  ‘Patrick. Wait … no. Patrick …’ I protest, as he drags me along. But before I know it, he’s opened a solid oak door and bundled me through it.

  He slams the door behind us, and I’m left dazed, looking around.

  Oh holy Jesus. I’m in Patrick Mansfield’s bedroom.

  How in god’s name did I end up here? How?

  It’s a beautiful room, with the same great big long windows and sweeping red velvet drapes that I’ve seen all over this castle. The huge double bed is made up with burgundy red sheets and the headboard is, I think, made of rosewood. It looks antique, like all the other furniture.

  Everything is totally neat and tidy – the complete opposite of my room. I see well-polished boots lined up under a row of combat jackets. There’s a shelf of army war memoirs, the books all neatly arranged, their spines perfect and uncracked.

  On one wall is a dartboard with three darts neatly positioned in the bull’s-eye.

  I notice a framed picture on the wall of Patrick and his brother in army fatigues, their arms around each other.

  It’s huge, this room, and I see a door leading to a walk-in cupboard beyond. I can see far enough in there to know it’s full of rifles of all different shapes and sizes.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Patrick says, leading me to an antique armchair upholstered in green leather. It’s a battered-looking chair, but very comfortable.

  ‘You play darts?’ I ask.

  ‘Whenever I can’t shoot outside,’ says Patrick, stalking to his dresser. He picks up a silver Samsung and frowns at the screen.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ I ask.

  ‘Someone who can find out things. If anything has happened to Bertie, I’ll kill whoever is responsible.’