The Wicked One Page 2

  “And the man?”

  Selina felt that odd, unsettling feeling again as Agnes mentioned the handsome stranger.

  “My concern is for the boy,” she answered softly.

  There was a comfortable silence as they ate. It was only when Selina stood to clear the table that Agnes spoke again.

  As Selina reached down to pick up the old lady’s bowl, her hand gripped Selina’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp.

  “Be careful, child,” Agnes whispered.

  A sudden lump formed in Selina’s throat, though she could not have said why.

  She nodded once, and Agnes’s grip loosened. But Selina still felt a strange, unknown grip around her heart long after Agnes had let her go.

  Chapter Two

  “L

  ook, Papa. Look!”

  Philip felt an unfamiliar grin stretch across his face, the muscles feeling stiff and unused.

  But he dutifully bent down to study Timothy’s find.

  “A crab,” he exclaimed, giving the creature all due attention.

  His eyes burned from lack of sleep and his body felt as though it were weighed down with anvils.

  But Timothy, at least, seemed well rested and full of energy.

  The nightmares had still come. They always came. But thankfully, the sea air had ensured that Timothy slept for longer this morning when exhaustion had finally won out.

  Philip was glad of it, for it meant that Timothy had the abundant energy a seven-year-old boy should have.

  And he was definitely using it this morning.

  Philip laughed as Timothy jumped to his feet, clearly tired of the crab already, and ran at break-neck speed to the rocks that Philip himself had climbed as a boy.

  “Be careful, Timmy.” He called the warning he knew his son wouldn’t heed.

  “Timothy,” he called again, infusing his tone with severity.

  This time, his son looked back at him and nodded, even as his face broke out in a mischievous grin.

  Philip felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

  The weak autumn sun glinted off Timmy’s sandy hair, and his light brown eyes sparkled.

  He looked happy.

  He looked like his mother.

  Timothy scampered to the rocks and began to climb. Within seconds, he’d disappeared over the other side.

  And Philip remained where he was. Frozen to the spot.

  He’d always known that Timothy favoured Charlotte in colouring, of course. A blind man would have seen the similarities between the two from the time Timmy had been born.

  But every once in a while, it still took him by surprise.

  That smile. That smile had been all Charlotte. And it had been so long since Philip had seen it. On either of their faces.

  Charlotte’s smile had been lost along with so many other things when she’d become ill past the point of his help or anyone else’s.

  And Timothy’s had been missing since the day he’d seen his mother’s body fall from that window.

  Philip winced as memory after memory battered him.

  The crash of the surf, the howl of the autumn wind – it all faded to nothingness as he was swept into the past.

  The screams of first his son and then the servants.

  The panic and chaos.

  The image of her lying there still. So still.

  It haunted him and worse, it haunted his poor, innocent boy.

  A sudden cry of “Papa” rent the air, galvanising Philip into action.

  “Timothy,” he cried, the name torn from his lips as he darted toward the rocks.

  How could he have been so damned stupid, standing there lost in his memories while his boy was in danger?

  Philip clambered over the rocks, his eyes raking the other side to find his son.

  There!

  Philip’s heart pounded with relief as he homed in on the glint of golden-blonde in the sunshine.

  Closing his eyes in relief, he opened them again and once more felt a punch to the gut.

  This time, however, it wasn’t because of a memory of the past.

  Kneeling in front of Timothy, dark sinful hair cascading down her back, was the woman from the woods.

  Selina’s heart twisted as she watched a lone tear trickle down the face of the young boy.

  “Whisht,” she crooned softly as she reached out to examine the cut on his knee.

  ‘Twas naught but a scratch, but it was sure to be painful for the boy.

  She sensed the presence of the man before she heard him climb the rocks.

  The boy’s father, if the lad’s scream of “Papa” had been anything to go by.

  “You’re Timothy?” She smiled at him as she reached into the folds of her skirts for a salve.

  He nodded at her, his big, toffee-coloured eyes glistening with tears.

  “That’s a nice name,” she said.

  “What’s yours?” Timothy whispered.

  “I’m Selina,” she answered, hoping to put him at his ease. “And you are being a very brave boy.”

  His father came closer, and Selina braced herself for outrage or demands that she unhand his son.

  To her surprise, however, he stayed silent as she saw to the child’s injury.

  Sparing him the briefest of glances, she turned her attention back to Timothy, not yet ready to examine the fluttering in her stomach at the man’s appearance.

  “How does that feel?” she asked after a moment.

  Her heart was racing, and she felt inexplicably nervous with the tall man standing over her. Brooding.

  “It’s better.” Timothy smiled, and Selina smiled right back, feeling an affinity with the boy.

  But as she looked into his eyes, they suddenly changed. In a flash, he was someone older, someone tormented.

  Selina heard a wail, mournful as the bean-sí, rip through her, screeching in her head.

  Her whole body froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Even the sunlight seemed to darken.

  Within seconds however, the boy blinked, and it was gone. His eyes were filled with nothing more than innocence and impishness. Just as they should be.

  But Selina knew better than to think she’d imagined what she saw.

  There was someone tormenting the boy. Someone not of this world.

  And Selina was determined to help him.

  Timothy turned his head to the side, and his eyes widened.

  He jumped to his feet and ran to the man who bent down to lift him high in the air, laughing at the boy’s squeal.

  Placing Timothy back on his feet, he fussed over the cut before ruffling the lad’s hair and finally looking over at Selina.

  Slowly, under his unwavering scrutiny, she got to her feet.

  Selina had never been self-conscious.

  Having spent her whole life as an oddity, something to be stared at but kept away from, she’d learned not to rely on the opinions of others for self-worth.

  Yet standing here as his bright, icy-blue eyes bored into her own, she felt inexplicably nervous.

  “Thank you.”

  His voice was gravelly and deep.

  Selina found that she couldn’t speak and merely shook her head to indicate that it was no problem.

  “Miss Selina said I’m brave, Papa.”

  Timothy’s voice shattered the tension weaving its way around them, and Selina took the opportunity to break the eye contact that left her feeling jittery and not at all herself, by smiling down at the boy.

  “And so you are, son,” the man answered indulgently before turning his gaze back to her.

  “Miss Selina?” he asked softly.

  Once again, her tongue felt tied up in her mouth and so she nodded.

  “I am Philip Everwood, Earl of Breton.”

  “You are an Everwood?” She found her voice at last. “From Everwood Manor?”

  “Just so.”

  “The place
has been empty as long as I’ve been alive,” she answered softly.

  “I thought it was time to come back.”

  The sadness in his voice, the grief in his eyes could not be mistaken.

  “It will be good for the lad. He’s a troubled boy, Philip,” she answered truthfully before giving much thought to whether her answer would be well received or not.

  His eyes widened at her words, and she wondered at his obvious shock.

  “Most people address me as ‘my lord’,” he said, a little piously for Selina’s liking. And she found that his haughtiness annoyed her.

  That was the source of his surprise then. Her apparent insubordination. Not the fact that even a stranger could tell his son was unsettled.

  Selina had never paid much attention to the rules and restrictions of a society that had shunned her. She found them foolish and unnecessarily restrictive. Why should she not call him by his name? What was the purpose of a name, if not to be used?

  The idea that it lent any sort of air of familiarity or intimacy to their conversation was preposterous, and for some reason, made her feel on edge.

  “Well, I am not most people,” she answered, her tone biting in the face of the curious feelings he had aroused in her, in only a few minutes. “And you are not my lord.”

  Chapter Three

  “M

  rs. Leary, a word if you please,” Philip called out to the tall, reedy housekeeper as she glided by his study.

  Mrs. Leary was one of a handful of staff that had kept the house from falling into disrepair. Yet much as he appreciated her obvious hard work, since the house was both spotlessly clean and run with precision, she wasn’t exactly the chatty type and certainly she didn’t seem at all happy to have an irascible child trailing sand through her carpets. At least she hadn’t yesterday when Philip and Timothy had returned from the beach.

  “My lord?” She entered his study and waited with her hands clasped in front of her.

  Her salutation reminded Philip of the dark-eyed beauty on the beach.

  “And you are not my lord.”

  Why did the memory of her defiance cause amusement, even desire, to stir inside him? Maybe more than a year of sleepless nights were addling his brain.

  “My lord?”

  “Ah, yes.” Her tone was just the right side of patient, but Philip instinctively knew patience was something Mrs. Leary had in short supply.

  “Timothy fell on the beach yesterday,” he began. “He hurt his knee.”

  Silence.

  The lady looked as disinterested in Timothy being hurt as she did in everything else to do with the boy, and Philip couldn’t help a pang of disappointment.

  Was the poor child destined to be surrounded by people who didn’t care about him? His own mother, Philip’s staff in Yorkshire whose hands had been full with the care of their mistress, even Philip’s own mother who’d insisted the boy be sent away to school.

  Only Philip had ever seemed to put Timothy first.

  Philip and the beauty on the beach…

  “There was a lady who came to his assistance,” Philip continued, knowing how bizarre this conversation must seem to the disapproving housekeeper.

  He may be the master of the house, but he didn’t feel like it under her hard stare.

  “She was – unusual,” he hedged thinking that ‘breathtakingly beautiful’ might be a bit over the top. “Introduced herself as Selina, and –“

  Mrs. Leary’s sudden gasp caught Philip’s attention, dragging it back from long, chestnut tresses and soulful black eyes.

  “Selina Lee,” she bit out, a world of censure in those two little words.

  “You know her then?” Philip pressed. He’d been half afraid he’d imagined her. There was something otherworldly about her. Though that wouldn’t have explained Timothy seeing her, too.

  “Of her,” Mrs. Leary sniffed. “She’s –“ The older woman hesitated, and Philip found his curiosity growing. “If I may speak freely, my lord?” she surprised him by asking.

  Trying not to seem too desperate for the information the housekeeper was withholding, Philip merely inclined his head.

  “Her kind – they can’t be trusted.”

  “Her kind?” he asked evenly, ignoring the odd desire to jump to the girl’s defence.

  “She is wicked, Lord Breton. A gypsy.”

  Philip resisted the urge to roll his eyes at such nonsense.

  But he allowed Mrs. Leary to rabbit on nonetheless, lest there be a bit of sensible information he would find useful.

  “She knows things, my lord.”

  “Knows things? How so?” he asked, and even he could hear the slight sneer in his tone.

  But she didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “There’s talk of witchcraft,” Mrs. Leary whispered, her beady eyes widening. “Telling people’s futures, even –“ Here she gulped, and Philip felt his skin break out in gooseflesh, foolish as that was. “Even communicating with the dead.”

  He didn’t know what to say. It was irrational, of course. Small minded gossip and nothing else.

  “It’s said that she can see into your very soul, my lord. Know what’s inside your thoughts when you’ve never even uttered a word.”

  “That sounds –“

  Ridiculous. Unbelievable. Insane.

  He wasn’t quite sure what label to give it first.

  “And she has potions, too, my lord.”

  Mrs. Leary was clearly in her stride now.

  “Potions? For what?”

  “Oh, well.” Here she hesitated. “I suppose she – helps people some of the time with them. Medicines and things.”

  “Ah.”

  “But it’s not right, Lord Breton. The things she can do with plants and flowers. And if she can make things that help people, who’s to say she can’t make things to harm folk? In fact, she has harmed folk.”

  Philip frowned at the venom dripping from the woman’s lips.

  Her words didn’t match the caring, if a little unorthodox, woman that had helped Timothy on the beach yesterday.

  “Who has she harmed?” he asked.

  “Well, my own boy, for one,” Mrs. Leary sniffed. “She lured him with her wiles, my lord. And when he acted as any man would she – she –“

  “She what?”

  “He didn’t exactly give all the details, Lord Breton. But my poor lad walked with a limp for days afterwards, and he’s not the only unsuspecting man to fall victim to her and pay for it most severely.”

  Philip had to bite the inside of his mouth not to laugh in the woman’s face. He could well imagine how her “poor lad” had come by a limp around a woman who knew how to defend herself. And thank God she did. That odd surge of protectiveness had reared its head again upon hearing of the housekeeper’s son, and his relief knowing the girl could handle herself was palpable.

  Who knew how many others tried to take liberties with the beautiful girl, he thought angrily.

  “Where does she live?” he asked now. “Is she alone?”

  He didn’t like the idea of a woman who lived alone having to defend herself. Any more than he liked the idea of her being blamed for unwanted advances from this woman’s son and his ilk.

  “In the woods near this very manor house, my lord. A cottage she shares with another strange old woman. Agnes Healy. A wizened old baggage, if ever there was one. She knows nearly as much about herbs and potions as the gypsy girl, but she hasn’t got any of that evil blood in her. Least not as far as I know.”

  Philip tamped down a flame of anger at Mrs. Leary’s words. Why should he care what people thought of a woman he didn’t even know? She’d been kind to Timothy, yes. And truth be told, whatever she’d put on his knee had worked wonders.

  Those didn’t seem the actions of an evil witch to him. But it wasn’t his place to go defending her, was it?

  The gypsy girl. It seemed fitting. The wild hair, the dark eye
s. The unfettered, untamed aura that surrounded her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Leary,” Philip said by way of dismissal.

  He remained locked in thought as the older lady moved to the door of the study.

  “My lord.”

  Philip looked up as the housekeeper hesitated by the door.

  “She truly is a wicked one.”

  Philip didn’t answer, just dismissed the gossiping woman with a wave of his hand.

  Even communicating with the dead.

  It was impossible, of course.

  People couldn’t speak to the dead.

  And Philip didn’t believe in things like ghosts and spirits. He was a man of logic by nature.

  He thought of Timothy’s cries in the night. Crying for his mama. Afraid of something or someone who came to him in his sleep…

  A chill trickled down his spine.

  “It’s nonsense,” he told himself fiercely.

  But the words rang hollow in the silent room.

  Chapter Four

  “A

  nd where are you off to this evening?”

  Selina smiled as Agnes bustled into the cottage, a basket filled with that afternoon’s forage clasped in her hands.

  She finished plaiting her hair and tied it with a ribbon before answering.

  “I’m going to Everwood Manor,” she said as she bent and picked up her own basket filled with an assortment of salves and medicines.

  “The boy?” Agnes asked, facing away from Selina as she set out her herbs and berries on the scrubbed wooden table.

  Unbidden, an image of Lord Breton’s ice-blue eyes and too-handsome face flashed across Selina’s mind.

  “Yes,” she answered a little unsteadily. “The boy.”

  “Tis fair late to be calling at the place.”

  Agnes didn’t bother telling Selina that it simply wasn’t done in the normal way of things, to have a woman turn up at a man’s doorstep alone and unannounced. Especially with night falling.

  Those rules just didn’t apply to her. And even if they did, she’d ignore them.

  “I won’t be long. I just want to drop some things off.”