The Wicked One Read online

  The Wicked One

  By Nadine Millard

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Nadine Millard

  Ebook Edition All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Nadine Mllard

  Prologue

  “A

  daughter. The seventh daughter. This one will be special.”

  The fire in the hearth crackled, though it did nothing to ward off the vicious cold.

  The babe didn’t make a sound. She didn’t cry. She didn’t squall. And for a moment, the woman worried the child would die.

  She could feel her own life’s blood leaving her broken body and knew she would not live to see dawn break. The wizened midwife who helped her knew it as well as she.

  “A daughter,” she managed the feeble words. “She does not cry.”

  The sound of flesh meeting flesh and suddenly, the baby’s cry rent the night.

  “Oh, she cries,” the old woman cackled. “She will cry and scream and make her mark on this world.”

  “Give her to me.” The dying woman held out trembling arms.

  The gentle slap the midwife had given the child was necessary, she knew. Yet she could not stop the spurt of anger that someone would dare hurt this precious babe.

  Yes, she was the seventh daughter and the only one who lived.

  Three of her sisters hadn’t made it past infancy. Three were killed in the gypsy purge that saw their caravans set alight and most of their clan burned within.

  The clan had scarpered. Run far and wide.

  The attack had broken the dying woman’s heart. She, who’d had so much heartbreak already. And had triggered a birth she was not yet ready for.

  She’d dragged herself into the woods and had arrived on hands and knees at this cottage.

  Mercifully, the old lady within knew the ways of the old country and was able to help, as she had with birthing all of her daughters.

  “You are a seventh daughter yourself.”

  It was a statement, not a question. And it was true.

  The tiny bundle was settled in her arms and immediately, the hungry mouth found her breast and greedily fed, draining the precious little energy left in her broken, battered body.

  “The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter.”

  The woman stared at the babe, unable to rouse herself to answer.

  The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter.

  Maybe that would be enough. Enough to keep her safe throughout her life. Free from persecution. Free from hostility. Free from danger.

  Being different was the most dangerous thing in the world. People feared what they did not understand. And fought against that which they feared.

  “Where is her father?”

  A flash of memory at the question. A man so far above her own station. A man who had thought nothing of taking what he could get from a widowed gypsy woman then casually tossing her aside. Caring not a damn for her or the babe he’d planted in her belly.

  He would never acknowledge his child. The title he would inherit and the wealth of his family were too important to risk acknowledging his bastard child. His gypsy daughter.

  “She has none.”

  It was hard to breathe. Hard to speak. The blackness was beginning to descend.

  “He left you then.” Again, it was a statement.

  The old lady had never expected him to stay. And she should have heeded her warnings.

  “Give her a name.” The old woman’s voice sounded from the corner, even above the howling of the wind.

  The babe had stopped feeding and stared at her mama now, her eyes wide and clear, her soul, ancient and not of this world, clear in their depths.

  They were already dark, those eyes. None of her sisters had been born thus.

  But she was different. She was special.

  The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter.

  “Give her a name before you go.”

  She was glad that the woman did not try to fill her with false hope. She would not live this night, but her daughter would.

  “Selina.”

  Her life’s breath left her body for the last time as she exhaled the name.

  The woman leaned down and plucked the babe from her mother’s lifeless arm and held her up to study her in the firelight.

  “Selina,” she repeated, gazing into dark, bottomless eyes. “Welcome to the world. You will do wonderful things, seventh daughter. But you will be an outsider in this world. That is your gift, and your curse.”

  Chapter One

  P

  hilip Everwood, fifth Earl of Breton blinked rapidly against the sting of exhaustion.

  He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to.

  Soon they would arrive at Everwood House, a seldom used property on the coast of County Cork in Ireland.

  His son, Timothy, had never been to Ireland. Charlotte, the boy’s mother and Philip’s wife, hadn’t been fond of travelling. Any sort of long journey made her ill for days.

  “Tis bad enough that we must travel to the wilds of Yorkshire instead of remaining in Town. Dragging me to Ireland is just too cruel, Philip.”

  Her bright blue eyes used to sparkle as she’d teased him.

  Philip’s heart clenched as he remembered his sweet, timid wife.

  So many things had bothered her. So many things she’d needed protection from.

  In the end, he hadn’t been able to protect her from herself.

  Philip blinked again, this time against the sting of tears.

  He couldn’t give way to the grief, to the guilt. Timothy needed him too much.

  Glancing over at his sleeping son, Philip was gripped by a sense of helpless despair. He slept now because he was with Philip, because his nightmares were no match for the rocking of the carriage as it trundled toward their destination.

  And because, like always, exhaustion eventually won out.

  They’d been travelling for weeks now. First from Philip’s main seat in Yorkshire, then on the boat that he’d hoped might rouse some excitement in Timothy, finally — after having docked in Dublin so Philip could take care of some business, they’d begun their journey to Cork.

  And after the best part of a week, they were finally trundling past the woodland that surrounded Everwood House.

  Philip was desperately hoping the time spent at Everwood would somehow be able to help Timothy heal from the tragedy no seven-year-old boy should have had to endure.

  Perhaps, too, it would help mend Philip’s heart. Perhaps one day he could think of his fragile, delicate
wife without the crushing guilt that haunted him.

  It helped that this trip would be an escape from the whispers of scandal that had followed him around since the accident. He’d managed to keep things relatively under wrap since the servants were loyal to him and had loved Charlotte. But people talked. And the death of a young countess, even if the circumstances were kept quiet, was bound to be fodder for gossip and speculation.

  Huffing out a breath, Philip turned his gaze to the passing scenery outside.

  Everwood was an apt name for the manor house, given the grounds were surrounded by thick forests of conifers as far as the eye could see. His grandfather had built the property as a newlywed over fifty years ago. His marriage to the daughter of an Irish earl had ensured that Philip’s family felt an affinity with this beautiful, emerald isle.

  And while Philip’s father hadn’t felt overly attached to the place and only ever used it for hunting parties, Philip had loved coming here as a boy. While the earl and countess had spent time in Town during the Season, he’d come here with his grandfather on breaks from school. The forest had felt almost magical to him, and he’d spent wonderful summers rambling through it. The nearby beach had been a constant place of adventure and freedom. He hoped that Timothy would experience the same.

  The coast was rugged and raw, lashed by unforgiving rain more often than not, but stalwart all the same. And Everwood House stood on one of the many clifftops. Tall, imposing, and austere but beautiful nonetheless.

  Philip hadn’t been here since he’d been a boy of ten. And the house hadn’t been used in years, but he’d never sold it. The expense of keeping a skeleton staff was minimal and even if it made him a sentimental sot, he couldn’t rid himself of the place.

  And he was glad of it now.

  It would be an escape. A refuge. Somewhere away from the prying eyes of whispering servants and the curious gazes of suspicious townsfolk.

  Somewhere that he wouldn’t see her body every time he looked out the window of that cursed bedchamber.

  A shudder ran through Philip as he tried to push the memories of that night from his mind.

  He couldn’t drown in them. He needed to move on. For Timothy.

  His gaze darted once more to his sleeping son.

  A lock of sandy hair fell across Timothy’s brow, and his cheeks were flushed as he breathed deeply in and out, in and out.

  Philip was relieved to see that this sleep at least seemed peaceful.

  The afternoon light was beginning to fade and soon, darkness would descend.

  His valet, Jones, had thankfully ridden ahead and would ensure that Everwood House was ready for its master’s arrival.

  There wouldn’t be time to show Timmy around today but tomorrow, hopefully after a decent night’s sleep for both of them, he could take his son to explore all the best parts of his childhood adventures in this small, isolated corner of the world.

  A rare feeling of contentment washed over Philip, and he turned back to the view with a small smile playing across his lips.

  Losing himself in his thoughts, he startled when a movement in the trees caught his eye.

  Was it a deer? A fox perhaps?

  He kept his eyes trained on a gap in the trees and suddenly, he saw what had caught his attention, and the breath left his body in one, short gasp.

  Standing in the middle of that gap in the copse of trees was a woman.

  Philip’s heart thudded as his gaze raked over the figure by the roadside.

  “My God,” he spoke aloud without even realising he’d done so.

  She was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

  Her hair was a deep, chocolate brown mixed with dark, fiery red, and it flowed to her waist in a waterfall of waves, unbound by pins, unadorned by combs or ribbons.

  It was ethereal Just like her.

  As the carriage drew closer, he took in the features of her face. Smooth, unlined, and hauntingly beautiful with eyes that made the breath catch in his throat. She had the darkest, widest eyes he’d ever seen. They seemed almost black in the fading sunlight, glittering with something he didn’t understand but which made gooseflesh break out on the back of his neck.

  How could he see them so clearly from a passing carriage? Yet see them he did. They bored into him, into his very soul.

  As the carriage rumbled past, those eyes watched him, and nothing could have dragged his gaze from hers.

  Right before they were too far past her, she suddenly smiled. A small, secret smile. As though she knew something he didn’t.

  A potent and powerful desire roared to life in Philip, shocking him to his core.

  He sat back, winded by a feeling that was almost otherworldly in its intensity.

  “What the hell was that?” he whispered.

  Darting over once more, his eyes scanned the line of trees, but there was nothing there.

  Philip ran a hand over his face, trying to catch his breath.

  He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t even know if she’d been real or if he’d imagined her.

  All he knew was that for the first time in two years, for the briefest of moments, he felt something close to alive.

  “And where have you been?”

  Selina smiled at the crotchety old woman stirring a bubbling pot over the hearth.

  “I’ve been walking in the woods, as well you know,” she answered. “Where else would I be?”

  “Who knows?” Agnes bit back. “With you, I’m never sure whether you’ll come back or wander off again.”

  “Oh, whisht.” Selina hurried over to plant a kiss on the woman’s wrinkly cheek. “You know I always tell you when I’m going. Or at least leave you a note.”

  It wasn’t often that Selina wandered off somewhere to be alone and sleep under the stars. Just that sometimes she had the urge for open space. For freedom.

  “Hmph. Decided to stay and grace me with your presence awhile then, did you?”

  Agnes was rarely in the mood to be charmed, and she certainly didn’t suffer anyone gladly. But Selina knew that underneath the gruff exterior lay a soft heart.

  Otherwise, she never would have kept Selina safe and raised her from a babe when her mother had died giving birth to her.

  “I did,” Selina answered smoothly, moving to set the table for their simple repast while Agnes continued to stir, humming softly to herself.

  As Selina set out plates and cups, she thought back to the man in the carriage.

  She’d known he would be passing by at that time. Had sensed it. Just as she’d sensed the sadness emanating from the little boy inside that vehicle.

  Selina’s heart had seized with the pain as he’d gone by. The fear, terror, and sadness that followed the boy surrounded her. Surrounded him.

  He was trapped in it. Haunted by it.

  She’d been drawn to the road in ways she didn’t understand but knew now not to question.

  From childhood she’d learned not to question her gift.

  The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter.

  It was a potent gypsy magic that people didn’t understand.

  People fear what they do not understand.

  Agnes’s words had become a litany for Selina.

  When she’d been teased by boys in the village. When people clutched their valuables tighter as she walked by. When whispers of dark magic and witchcraft followed her around the small village where Agnes sent her for supplies, Selina repeated those words to herself.

  In truth, she didn’t understand it either.

  It was so much a part of her, this extra sense, that she no longer feared it or wondered about it.

  It was just who she was and over the years, she’d learned to be content with it and this life she led.

  Sometimes, wanderlust hit and she’d pack a bag and leave for a few weeks, living in nature. Everything around her felt like a friend. She didn’t fear the forest, or the ocean, animals, or the wilderness.


  In Selina’s experience, the only danger she truly had to fear was humankind.

  Men and women were the ones who caused her hurt. Who’d killed her mother and her people. Who’d driven her to this life.

  She wouldn’t leave now, however. Not now the child was here. The child who clearly needed her help.

  Her mind skittered from the boy she hadn’t seen to the man she had, and once more that odd feeling she’d experienced as their eyes had locked swept over her.

  There’d been something about him. The stranger.

  Something that had taken her breath away and unfurled a dark, wicked something inside her.

  The look in his eyes as he’d gazed into hers had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  It wasn’t just the desire.

  Men had desired her for years. And Selina had learned that desire didn’t mean respect, or love, or even tolerance.

  No, for men it meant only the wish to bed her and nothing more.

  Her poor mama had learned that lesson the hard way. Selina had learned it by listening to her mother’s tragic story and refusing to follow in her footsteps.

  But the man, the stranger. Though desire had flared in the bright blue depths of his eyes, there’d been something else.

  They’d never met. They’d never seen each other before, yet his soul had connected with Selina’s as though they were old friends.

  However, he too was haunted by his past, though not in the same way as his son.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Agnes placing a bowl of steaming stew in front of her.

  “Where is your mind, child?”

  Selina busied herself slicing bread and pouring water from a pitcher on the table between them.

  “We had a new arrival today,” she answered as she sat across from Agnes. “A man and his boy.”

  Something in her tone must have alerted Agnes to her state of mind, for the older woman lifted her head from her bowl to stare at Selina.

  “And you sensed something.”

  It wasn’t a question. Agnes knew as much about Selina’s gift as she knew herself.

  “The child. He needs help. Something is holding onto him. Not letting him be free.”