The Ice Seduction Page 6

  Bertie goes to a television and flicks it on, picking up an Xbox controller.

  Images of fighting men come onto the screen, and within seconds Bertie is hammering the controller, issuing punches and kicks, his face curled up into a frown.

  I go to the bed and pick up a few of the books.

  ‘Wow. You’re some reader. You like horror?’ I turn over a few scary looking novels. ‘Do you actually read these?’

  Bertie ignores me.

  We sit for a while, me waiting patiently, and Bertie hammering away at his Xbox. I’ve decided that right now, my main job is just to show Bertie that I’ll stick around. That’s it.

  He’s a bit of a strange one, this kid. Part of me is tempted to believe that he’s got some sort of disorder – autism or something – that makes him shut off from the world. But if he used to talk, then that can’t be right.

  My heart tells me that here is a child who’s been moved around from one place to another, never feeling loved, never feeling that he belongs, and crying out for someone to stick around.

  And that’s exactly what I intend to do. Which means one way or another, I need to help him eat.

  Bertie looks so furious playing his computer game, his little face locked into a deep scowl.

  And then something bad happens.

  24

  Bertie has been doing well at the game up until now, beating the living daylights out of the weird computer characters he’s been fighting. But then the computer gets the upper hand and beats his character to the floor.

  A big ‘Knock Out’ sign appears on the screen.

  Bertie stares at it for a moment, his breathing getting faster and faster. Then he leaps up from his chair and throws the remote control at the television. A big crack spreads up the screen.

  Before I know what’s happening, Bertie is trashing the place, making weird bleating angry noises and smashing up anything he can get his hands on.

  The Xbox is the first to go. He pulls it clean free of its wires and stamps on it until the black plastic cracks.

  Board games go flying across the room, a pot plant is thrown to the ground and stamped on until it becomes a gooey pile of green sap and mud, and the curtains are ripped from the windows.

  It’s like seeing the incredible hulk fly into a rage, and it doesn’t take long before he turns on me – another object in his bedroom that needs to be trashed.

  Bertie flies at me, grabbing at my clothes and hair, pulling and screeching.

  I grab his wrists as softly as I can, trying to keep my breathing steady.

  ‘Hey. Calm down. Calm down.’

  I try to look him dead in the eye, but he’s squirming around so much that it’s impossible.

  He’s pretty strong for such a skinny little thing, and he manages to get some good kicks in before I pick him up, move him to the bed and hold him down.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, over and over again. ‘It’s okay.’

  He wriggles and squirms for a good few minutes before the life finally goes out of him, and he sags into a heavy breathing pile on the duvet.

  Every time he breathes out, he makes an angry little ‘mmph!’ noise though, and it takes a while before he’s quiet.

  He won’t look at me. Instead, he buries his head in the duvet.

  ‘So losing makes you angry,’ I say, putting a gentle hand on his back. ‘Is that it?’

  Bertie doesn’t answer. Instead he spins his head around, and glares at me with such hatred that it takes my breath away.

  ‘It’s okay to be angry,’ I tell him. ‘The trick is to figure out what you’re really angry about. Because that’s one hell of a way to lose at a computer game.’

  I put a hand to my cheek and feel a mean little bruise where his fist hit me. My arms feel achy too, and I’m sure there must be a few bruises on my legs from his kicks.

  ‘Here’s the thing,’ I tell Bertie’s back. ‘I’m not like the others. No matter what you do, no matter how much you try and push me, I won’t leave you. I’m here to look after you. You can try to push me away all you want, but it won’t work. I don’t leave my children. I’m here with you until you stop needing me. And right now, I’m pretty sure you need me.’

  Bertie rolls over. He looks up at me with those brown-black eyes, but the anger isn’t there any more. Instead he looks sad. Very, very sad. Then he pushes me off the bed, and pulls the duvet over himself.

  ‘You don’t want me sitting next to you right now?’ I tell the duvet. ‘That’s okay.’ I’m on my feet, watching the bed. ‘Well. I guess there’ll be no more computer games for a while.’

  Bertie sits bolt upright, the duvet around his shoulders. The glare is back on his face, and then he’s on his feet, running out of the room.

  I follow him.

  25

  A few staircases and corridors later, and we’re somewhere I recognize.

  Agnes Calder’s office.

  Bertie pushes the door open without knocking, and I see Agnes at her desk, frowning at some paperwork. She’s wearing thin little glasses on the end of her nose.

  ‘Bertie.’ She looks up. Then she turns to me. ‘What on earth happened now?’

  ‘Nothing really,’ I say. ‘Bertie lost a computer game and got angry.’

  ‘Oh.’ She takes her glasses off and puts them on the desk. ‘I told you he was a nasty child.’

  ‘He’s not a nasty child.’

  ‘I’ve said it over and over again. A good hard slap would do him no harm at all. But in this day and age, sad to say, it’s not allowed.’

  ‘That’s the last thing he needs,’ I say.

  Agnes frowns. ‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. Everyone is too soft with him. He needs order. Firm rules.’ She waves a hand in Bertie’s direction. ‘Or this is the result. Wayward, just like his mother. Both little trouble makers.’

  I put my hands on my hips. ‘He needs people who care about him,’ I say, my voice stern. ‘Not more rules and regulations.’

  Agnes taps her glasses on the desk and ignores me. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting another Xbox?’ she asks Bertie.

  To my amazement, the little boy nods. It’s the first time I’ve seen him actually respond to a question. So he can understand what’s going on.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,’ says Agnes. ‘I’ll have one ordered.’

  ‘Wait.’ I hold up a hand. ‘He doesn’t need another Xbox.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Mrs Calder says.

  ‘He doesn’t need another one. Is that what he does all day? Play games on that thing?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Agnes. ‘It keeps him occupied. Stops him making mischief.’ She spots the bruise on my face and cocks her head. ‘Is that from the little hell raiser? Because if it was, I’ll drop him in a cold bath—’

  I put a hand to it. ‘This? Oh. No. This was … I got this from something else. It wasn’t Bertie.’

  Bertie turns to me, eyes wide with surprise.

  Agnes frowns harder. ‘I didn’t notice it before.’

  ‘I had makeup on,’ I lie.

  ‘Well. Bertie does lash out sometimes,’ says Mrs Calder. ‘Just to warn you. That’s usually the point at which the girls leave. When he attacks them. There’s not much we can do about it. I punish him, but …. that’s just the way he was made, I’m afraid.’

  My hands tighten on my hips. ‘Mrs Calder, Bertie was not made angry. He can be a good kid. Unless people keep telling him otherwise.’

  Mrs Calder shakes her head. ‘A few days with Bertie will change your mind. You just wait and see.’ She gives a short little laugh. ‘My guess is, with no Xbox to keep him busy today, you’ll be back in London by suppertime.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m here to look after Bertie, and unless I’m asked to leave, I won’t be going anywhere.’

  Mrs Calder raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  ‘No we won’t,’ I say, putting an arm around Bertie’s shoulder. ‘I’
m staying. I mean it. No matter what.’

  Bertie shrugs me away, and Mrs Calder laughs.

  ‘See?’ she says. ‘A lost cause. The only thing you can hope for is that you get some discipline into him. What on earth are you going to do with him, if he’s not playing computer games? He’ll have fits of temper, I’ll warn you.’

  ‘I’ll take him outside.’

  ‘Outside? He’s not allowed outside.’

  ‘He was outside before.’

  ‘By the kitchen garden, yes. It’s all fenced in. But he’s not allowed any further than that. It’s too wild out there, and Bertie doesn’t know how to behave. He disturbs the birds. Last time he was let loose in the woods, he tried to destroy a bird’s nest.’

  ‘I’ll keep a good eye on him.’ I say. ‘He won’t get in any trouble.’

  ‘You’re not to take him into the grounds, Miss Harper,’ says Agnes, her voice stern.

  ‘Fine.’ I plaster on a fake smile. ‘Then I guess we’ll just have to play a board game or something.’

  I steer Bertie out of the room. He shrugs away from my hand again.

  When I close the door, I realize I’m fuming. ‘She shouldn’t talk about you that way,’ I tell Bertie. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve just had a hard time, that’s all.’ I sigh. ‘I wish I knew what happened to make you stop talking. Anyway. We are going to play outside, no matter what she says. It’s criminal to keep a little boy locked inside all day.’

  Bertie doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell him. ‘Let’s walk around the grounds. Burn off some of that energy.’

  We take a few twists and turns through the castle’s corridors, and then …

  Oh shit. Lost again.

  ‘Bertie, do you know the way out to the grounds?’ I ask him.

  Without saying a word, Bertie starts walking.

  ‘Wait,’ I say, gently taking his arm. To my surprise, he doesn’t shrug me away. ‘We need to put your coat on first, right? And my coat. Do you know the way back to your room? And to the nanny’s quarters?’

  Bertie doesn’t nod or anything, but he turns around and heads back into the castle.

  We go up to my bedroom first, where I grab my brown sheepskin coat. Then I follow him up to his bedroom, where he silently puts on his green wax jacket.

  I notice Bertie’s bedroom looks out almost over the main entrance, and give a little shudder.

  Bertie’s room must be near this mysterious West Tower that everyone is telling me not to go in …

  ‘It’s cold in this castle,’ I say, welcoming the fleece on my skin.

  Bertie turns and leads us back downstairs, past the great hall and to the back door that leads into the kitchen garden.

  Bertie opens it, and I see where he was playing earlier in the snow – if you can call it playing.

  The snow has stopped falling now, and I can see a little of the symbols he was drawing before. They look like something you see in a puzzle book – the ones Wila likes to fill in. But I have no idea what they are or what they mean.

  Something tells me to look more closely at the symbols, but Bertie heads towards a tall gate and rattles it.

  The lock is too high for him, but not for me.

  I open it, and we head out into the grounds.

  26

  It sure is wild out here.

  Past the neat green lawns, the wind blows and the sky is ashy white, and all around us are craggy grey rocks, thistles and pine trees.

  There’s mown green grass all around the castle, with flowerbeds and well-tended trees, but past that there’s nothing but wilderness.

  It’s beautiful but wild at the same time. Untamed.

  Bertie runs straight over a little rocky bridge and into the woodlands, and I follow him, my cowboy boots slipping and sliding on snow.

  He seems to know exactly where he’s going, considering he’s not supposed to play out here.

  ‘You remember it out here?’ I ask, hurrying to catch up.

  Bertie doesn’t answer. Instead, he jumps over craggy rocks and weaves between trees.

  He’s not smiling, but he’s not frowning either and he seems to feel at home.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, as we head deeper into the woodlands. We’re in so deep now that I can hardly see the castle any more.

  Suddenly, Bertie begins climbing a tall pine tree.

  ‘Bertie?’ I call, but within seconds he’s halfway up the tree.

  There’s nothing wrong with a little boy climbing a tree, but this is a tall tree and up in the branches I see a bird’s nest.

  Oh hell.

  If Bertie destroys a nest and Mrs Calder finds out, he’s going to be in trouble. And that’s the last thing we need right now.

  ‘Wait for me,’ I shout, scrabbling onto a low branch, my cowboy boots scrabbling to get a grip.

  I climb up and up as fast as I can, until I’m right underneath him.

  Sure enough, Bertie is heading straight for the bird’s nest.

  ‘Bertie, don’t do anything to the nest,’ I tell him. ‘There are probably rare birds out here. We want to help them, not hurt them.’

  Bertie keeps climbing until he’s right by the nest. Then he stops.

  I clamber onto a branch beside him.

  Then I see it – a beautiful golden eagle circling above.

  Bertie glares at the eagle, shooing at it with his hands, and it flies away.

  Something clicks.

  ‘You climbed up here to scare the eagle away,’ I say. ‘In case there were already eggs in this nest.’

  Bertie doesn’t say anything, but I know I’m right.

  ‘And Mrs Calder thought you were trying to upset the nests before,’ I say slowly.

  What an old witch.

  We’re about to climb down, when I sense someone is nearby – even though I can’t hear footsteps.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I grab Bertie’s arm and hold him still.

  I strain my ears, but I don’t hear anything else. Maybe I’m being paranoid. But I just can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

  And then …

  Oh my god.

  Down below, I see Patrick Mansfield.

  27

  Patrick is a hunter all right. Stealthy, silent and deadly. If we were prey, he’d have shot us by now.

  His blond-brown hair is blowing wild in the wind, and he’s wearing a camouflage jacket and carrying a shotgun under his arm.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’ he growls up at us, swinging the shotgun into a holder on his back.

  ‘We were just coming down,’ I call, helping Bertie onto the lower branches.

  ‘Of all the stupid, dangerous things …’ Patrick comes to the foot of the tree and reaches up to catch Bertie, swinging him to the ground.

  When I get to the lowest branch, he reaches up for me too.

  Before I can argue, Patrick’s hands catch under my arms and he lifts me to the ground.

  We stand for a moment, facing each other.

  I’m out of breath from the climb, but Patrick is still as a statue, his angry eyes roaming my face.

  ‘What the hell were you doing? You could have been hurt.’

  He still hasn’t let me go, and I feel the firmness of his fingers against my ribcage.

  I notice the brown stubble around his jaw and a hint of sideburns by his ears. Everything about him is just so, so … wild.

  ‘Bertie … I mean we both decided to climb up. There was an eagle circling the nest. And Bertie wanted to scare it away. We weren’t doing any harm.’

  I’m aware that I’m still breathing quickly, my hair flying all around my face in the wind.

  Patrick turns to Bertie, but his hands are still around my ribs.

  I feel a lovely sort of icy warmth in my chest, and shiver.

  ‘It’s good Bertie’s out in the woods,’ Patrick says. ‘I never liked him being shut away inside.’

  ‘Look, if there’s any trouble about this, I s
hould take the blame,’ I blurt out, my cheeks turning red. ‘None of this is Bertie’s fault.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I thought he wasn’t allowed out here … Mrs Calder said …’

  Patrick’s lips pull into something like a smile. ‘You really can’t follow orders, can you?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘But I don’t give a damn what Agnes Calder thinks. If she knew what was right for Bertie, he wouldn’t need a nanny.’

  ‘But doesn’t she look after him sometimes? Between nannies?’

  ‘She has done. But I’ve never liked it.’ He hits me with those sharp blue-green eyes. ‘He needs someone like you. Someone who cares.’

  His eyes twinkle a little and a smile pulls at his lips.

  My heart beats hard in my chest, and I feel like I’m falling.

  Get it together, Sera. Mrs Calder says that Patrick Mansfield is spoken for, and even if he isn’t … this is dangerous territory.

  I step back out of Patrick’s large hands, going to Bertie and putting a hand on his shoulder. As usual, he shrugs me away.

  ‘Um. So what are you doing out here?’ I ask Patrick.

  He laughs. ‘I have to justify myself now, do I? For walking around my own woodlands?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I’m protecting the grounds,’ says Patrick.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Poachers. They come for the white stags. One in particular, Hawk Turner, I’ve been after for a long time. He’s out there today. I can always tell by the damage to the woodlands.’ Patrick spits on the ground. ‘He shoots first, looks later.’

  ‘Hawk Turner?’

  ‘His name for himself, not mine. I’d call him Scumbag Turner. He never comes this near the castle, but out there—’ Patrick waves towards the dark woodlands and the snow-capped mountains, ‘the stags roam wild. Stay in this part of the woods. Like I said. No further than the stream. And you won’t get caught in the crossfire.’ Patrick’s strong eyebrows pull into a frown, and those clear sea-green eyes fix on my reddy-brown ones. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I don’t know where to look. It’s hard to stand still with Patrick’s eyes on me. This is just too much. I tug myself free of his stare and turn to Bertie. ‘I guess we’ll just carry on with our walk,’ I say.