The Ice Seduction Page 3

  ‘Hold on, let me write thatdown—’

  But Mrs Calder has already slammed the bedroom door shut.

  I hear her scuttle away down the hallway.

  11

  I look around my grey room and yawn. It’s been a long day, and outside the window I see dusk settling. The sky has gone that grey white colour that means snow is coming.

  I take out my phone. I need to call Wila anyway and find out how she’s doing on her first day as a boarder.

  Oh, this is typical. Still no bloody signal.

  The big city girl out in the wilderness.

  Seraphina Harper, what have you got yourself into?

  I creak open the bedroom door and peer out into the hallway. There must be somewhere in this place that gets a mobile phone signal.

  I mean, come on. This is Scotland, not Antarctica. And the castle and its grounds are probably bigger than most villages.

  I don’t know why, but I sort of feel like I should be quiet as I creep down the corridor. Everything is so still. Silent. So very, very different from Camden High Street, and my noisy, creaky boat with trains rattling overhead every hour of the day.

  I head for the staircase, and go down and down until I’m right back in the entrance hall again.

  Still no signal.

  I walk further into the castle, seeing flickering orange lights and creepy historic tapestries of soldiers stabbing each other.

  Still no signal.

  It takes half an hour or so, but as I wind further through the maze of hallways and wooden doors, I finally get it – the tiniest bar on my phone.

  Oh thank god.

  I call Wila.

  ‘Pheeny?’

  ‘Lala!’

  I love hearing her voice.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘How’s the first day of boarding going?’

  ‘Good,’ says Wila. ‘One of the girls has an iPad, so we’ve been playing stuff on YouTube. Music videos and stuff.’

  I smile. What a relief. She sounds happy.

  ‘We found something else too,’ says Wila with a giggle, and I hear other girls giggling in the background. ‘The man you’re working for? Patrick Mansfield?’

  Might be working for, I think, swallowing hard.

  ‘That’s him,’ I manage to say.

  ‘Well guess what? One of the girls knows him. Or at least, her dad does.’

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ I say.

  ‘Manda’s met him,’ Wila continues. ‘She has a picture of him, next to her dad in the Olympic village.’

  More giggling.

  ‘He’s like six foot three,’ says Wila. ‘And he looks like he spends his whole life working out.’

  In the background, I hear a high, girly voice say, ‘He looks like a god, Wila. A god!’

  The phone explodes with giggles.

  ‘A god, huh?’ I say with a smile. ‘Well now. Lucky old me.’

  ‘Manda’s dad says he was in the army,’ says Wila. ‘So he knows how to handle himself too.’

  ‘I guess I’ll see what he’s like tomorrow.’

  We talk a little more about Wila’s school and classes, but every so often my mind wanders to Patrick Mansfield.

  A god, huh? But a god who doesn’t have a lot of patience with nannies …

  I hope I can keep my mouth shut tomorrow. I’ve never been very good at being bossed around. My mouth has a habit of opening when it should stay closed.

  I’m so happy to hear Wila’s doing okay though. She really is having fun. Danny was right. My little sister doesn’t need me as much as I thought.

  When I hang up, I look around the castle and realize something.

  Oh shit.

  After walking down all these mazes of corridors, I have no idea where I am.

  I am completely and utterly lost.

  12

  Twenty minutes and five hundred twists and turns later, I’m more lost than ever.

  I start knocking on doors, calling, ‘Hello? Hello?’

  But there’s no answer.

  The castle is totally deserted.

  Oh shit.

  It’s pitch black outside now and getting late.

  As I walk further into the castle again, I see the light patter of snow against the dark windows and the beginnings of a twirling snowstorm outside.

  Well, that’s one thing at least. The castle might be freezing cold, but at least it has a roof. Better to be in here than out in the snow.

  But the corridors of the castle are like a bloody maze. How on earth does anyone find their way?

  I go from hallway to hallway, up stairs, down stairs, trying to find something that looks familiar.

  I remember Mrs Calder saying to stay away from the West Tower, but how the hell do I know which bit is the West Tower anyway?

  As I head up yet another spiral staircase, my tired legs give way. My heel slips and I go scattering down the stairs, bump, bump, bump, landing in a painful heap at the bottom.

  Ouch!

  My ankle is burning.

  I try to get up, but putting any weight on my foot feels like I’m dipping it in boiling water.

  Ouch, ouch, ouch!

  I slump down on the stone floor and lean against a cold wall, pulling off my cowboy boot and rubbing the painful swelling on my ankle.

  My back tenses against the cold stone behind me.

  I call out.

  ‘Help!’

  But of course, there’s no reply. I have a moment of panic as I imagine being left in this corridor for days. No one knows where I am after all, and this place is such a maze …

  Don’t be stupid Sera. Someone will come …

  ‘Help!’ I shout. ‘Help, please!’

  But no one comes.

  I’m such an idiot!

  13

  After a while, I start singing quietly to myself. It drives Wila nuts when I do this. She says it makes me look like a mental patient. But singing helps me feel calm.

  Suddenly, I hear something.

  Footsteps. From somewhere nearby.

  I sit up.

  Oh thank god. Someone’s coming.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out.

  No reply.

  I must be hearing things.

  I wrap my arms around my legs to stop myself from shivering and rest my face on my knees.

  I’m still singing to myself, but even more quietly now.

  Maybe I should lie down in the corridor and try to get some sleep.

  Just as I’m thinking that over, I see something that makes my eyes widen.

  A muddy pair of men’s boots. Right in front of me.

  I rub my eyes. No, I’m not dreaming.

  They’re black army boots with black combat trousers pushed into them.

  I look up and see cargo trousers covered in show, and a trail of icy water down the corridor.

  I hear a man’s voice, deep and fierce with a hint of a Scottish accent.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’

  The words send shivers all the way down my arms.

  I blink and look up. And up. Oh good god.

  The man towering over me … he’s a mountain – all broad shoulders, strong limbs and a firm jaw.

  And … he’s not wearing a shirt.

  His chest is toned, muscular and tanned, with streaks of mud over his abs and an eagle tattoo on his left collarbone.

  Fucking hell! Why the fuck is he walking around bare-chested like some kind of caveman?

  ‘What happened to your shirt?’ I stammer, then wince at my stupid, embarrassing question. Now he knows I’ve been gawping at his chest.

  The man frowns. ‘I asked you a question first. What are you doing down there?’

  I glance at his long, muscular arm and see he’s holding a snow-wet jumper. I guess he must have taken it off to get dry.

  I blink at his wet sandy-blond hair and the smooth, toned skin of his chest, glowing browny-w
hite under the low castle lights.

  I blink harder and see light brown stubble, a strong nose and hunter’s eyes – blue-green and angry.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ says the man, using his jumper to wipe melted snow from his face. ‘What are you doing down there? It’s freezing.’

  I pull myself up straighter against the wall. ‘I … I fell. I’m Seraphina Harper,’ I say, trying not to wince as pain shoots through my ankle. ‘The new nanny. I was … it was …’ But my brain just won’t work.

  He’s almost too attractive to look at. From his strong face, with its angry, primal eyes, to the flashes of white teeth I can see behind curved pink lips, right down to his huge, toned body, he is just … there are no words.

  There are scars on his face – one through his eyebrow, and another on his cheek. But they’re not usual scars. They look like burns. Shrapnel burns. It gives him a rugged, dangerous look.

  He watches me, eyes darting over my face.

  Even from down here, I can feel the warmth of his body, and smell a crisp, manly smell that takes my breath away.

  Our eyes meet and the castle walls seem to shudder.

  We stay staring for a moment, him regarding me angrily.

  I’m unable to pull away from his glance. But after a moment, I manage to speak, saying in a voice twice as high as usual:

  ‘I … um. So what’s your name?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ comes the response.

  A little smile pulls at those tough lips.

  When he speaks again, a shudder passes through my whole body, warming me from head to toe.

  ‘I’m Patrick Mansfield,’ he says. ‘Master of the house.’

  14

  It’s a commanding voice. A voice that’s used to being in charge. He has a slight Scottish accent, but he also sounds English – his words are hard and firm.

  My eyes accidentally drift back down to his chest, and I think of Wila and her friends, laughing and giggling.

  Patrick Mansfield. A god.

  God is a pretty good description.

  When I manage to tear my eyes away from his huge body and back up to his face, I see he’s still watching me.

  This is so embarrassing. Not just because he’s gorgeous, and I’m lost for words. But because he’s just found me in a heap at the bottom of the stairs and I asked that stupid question about his shirt and I can’t seem to stop staring at him …

  Oh shit, shit, shit.

  Reality hits me like a punch in the stomach.

  This is the man I want to give me a job tomorrow. If he’s looking for a nanny who can do simple things, like walk down stairs, then I’ve just failed that part of the interview.

  ‘Don’t you have a room to go to?’ Patrick says. His voice is so deep and strong that I almost feel the floor might vibrate when he talks. I’ve never heard a voice so low before – it makes me think of a wolf. An angry wolf.

  ‘I couldn’t find it,’ I say, adding lamely, ‘I got lost.’

  ‘You’re hurt,’ he barks, looking at my ankle.

  ‘Yes.’ I pause. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I see a lot of wounded animals.’

  ‘Wounded animals?’ I say.

  ‘We’re all animals at the end of the day,’ Patrick says, stooping down so he’s eye level with me. ‘You. Me. All of us.’

  If I were standing up, I’d have fallen over by now. My heart is beating so fast that I’m sure Patrick must be able to hear it. I bet my pupils have gone crazy huge too.

  Get it together, Sera. Don’t go all gaga just because the new boss is … how would I describe him? He’s just so … tough and wild looking. But I’m not the first woman to think this way. Sharon said he has women throwing themselves at him.

  My body has gone all sorts of hot and cold. This is getting dangerous. Especially since our eyes have found each other again, and neither of us are speaking.

  Say something, Sera. Anything.

  ‘Well. I don’t see myself as an animal,’ I say.

  Oh god! Why did I say that?

  ‘Well, that’s what you are,’ says Patrick, his low voice hitting me in the pit of the stomach. ‘What we both are.’

  He picks up my cowboy boot and tucks it under his arm, with his jumper. Then he leans forwards and slides an arm under my legs and another behind my back.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say, panicking. It’s bad enough him standing so close, but with his hands on me …

  ‘Taking you to your room.’

  I’m lifted high into the air and find myself pressed tightly against Patrick’s hard, warm chest, feeling melted snowflakes against my cheek.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You don’t want to stay here all night, do you?’ he says, not looking at me. ‘You can’t walk on that leg.’

  Oh my god. Oh my god.

  Breathe Sera. Breathe.

  ‘Maybe I should try to walk,’ I stammer.

  ‘Do as you’re told woman,’ Patrick snaps.

  Woman?

  Oh shit. He’s gorgeous and a sexist pig.

  Patrick carries me towards the staircase easily – like I’m a straw doll.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he growls.

  ‘The East Tower,’ I manage to say.

  I sway as Patrick carries me up the stairs.

  I’m scared to look at him and he doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his chest beating against mine, and my own heart beating in response.

  With each step, my cheek is thrown against his bare skin, and I try not to inhale too deeply – try not to breathe in his light dewy smell of clean, cool water and spicy earth and something else – something icy and intoxicating.

  When we come to the top of the stairs, Patrick carries me along corridors, twisting and turning.

  ‘Don’t go walking around this castle on your own again,’ he says, as we turn down a familiar corridor and I see the turret room ahead. ‘It was lucky I found you.’

  ‘I needed to phone my sister,’ I reply lamely.

  ‘You should have waited,’ says Patrick.

  ‘No. I needed to see how she was.’

  Patrick frowns, but doesn’t reply.

  We reach the turret room, and he turns the door handle, then shoulders into the wood so the door flies open.

  He places me carefully on the bed. Then he goes to the window and throws it open.

  I gasp as the cold air hits me, throwing my arms around myself.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ I gulp. ‘It’s freezing!’

  ‘Don’t move,’ Patrick barks, reaching outside and scooping a handful of snow from the window ledge. He disappears into the tiny ensuite bathroom and returns with a bundled up hand towel.

  He picks up my ankle.

  ‘Does it hurt when I do that?’ he says, squeezing his fingers against my skin.

  I shake my head. ‘No. It’s just a little tender.’

  ‘It’ll be better by tomorrow. As long as you keep it cool.’ He puts the towel against my ankle, and I wince a little as I feel a cold sting. So that’s where the snow went – it’s bunched up inside the towel.

  As the coolness takes effect, I let out a low sigh.

  ‘You were lucky,’ Patrick asks, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘You could have been in that corridor all night.’

  I feel like a little rabbit caught in a trap. A little, silly girly rabbit next to a big hulking wolf.

  ‘Yes,’ I squeak. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be in this room,’ says Patrick, placing my leg down on the bed and looking around. ‘It’s as bare as my old army barracks.’

  ‘I take it that’s a bad thing?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, without pausing. ‘A woman shouldn’t be staying in a room like this. I’ll tell Agnes to have you moved. I had no idea the nannies stayed up here.’ He slams the window closed and dusts his huge hands together.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘At least it doesn’t have a train rattling past. I’ve had much worse bedrooms than this, b
elieve me.’

  Patrick catches my eye.

  Oh god. My stomach flips over.

  He watches me with a fierceness that makes me suck in my breath.

  15

  ‘Are you going to stay longer than the other nannies?’ he asks.

  I clear my throat. ‘That’s the plan. But Agnes said … I mean, Mrs Calder … she wasn’t sure if there actually was a job for me. She said you might not have ordered anyone new …’

  ‘I won’t send you away. Especially not now I’ve met you. I can tell you’re different from the rest.’ He raises a strong, blond-brown eyebrow. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t move that leg.’

  He goes to the door.

  ‘I have great references,’ I blurt out. Oh god. I sound like an idiot, but I need this job. I’d crawl over coals to keep Wila in that school. ‘I mean to say,’ I stutter, ‘that I’ve always got on well with the families I work with. And I love kids. I’m sure this will all work out fine.’

  I reach down and unzip the bag by my bed, my hands shaking and fumbling. ‘Here.’ I hold out paper cards, and a whole bunch of drawings and calendars made by the children I’ve looked after. ‘These were made for me by my kids. They come with me everywhere. I keep every single thing because I love those children. And I’ll love your nephew too.’

  Patrick puts a large hand on the doorframe, and I swallow as I take in just how huge he is. His lips move into the tiniest of smiles.

  ‘Don’t move that leg.’

  He pauses for a moment, letting me feel the burn of those bright blue-green eyes.

  I hold his gaze. I’m not going to let him know just how unsettled I feel around him. How his stare is getting to me.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ With that, he slams the bedroom door shut, and I hear him stalking along the hallway.

  I sit on the bed, stunned for a moment.

  When I put the cards and pictures back in my bag, I see my hands are shaking.

  God damn it!

  Jesus Christ, he’s … oh my god. Raw and angry and wild … and I’m pretty sure completely caveman sexist too. And yet …