The Wicked One Read online

  Agnes stopped in her task and turned to Selina, her face as serious as Selina had ever seen it.

  “Selina, be careful,” Agnes said softly.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Agnes sighed and sat heavily in her chair, suddenly looking every one of her years. There was usually such a youthful vitality about her that Selina forgot she was old.

  “Be careful with that man, child,” she said bluntly, her eyes boring into Selina’s.

  “Timothy is just a boy,” Selina said past a lump in her throat. But of course, Agnes wasn’t speaking of Timothy, and they both knew it.

  “Your mother fell victim to one such as he,” Agnes said, a bitterness tinging her voice.

  “You don’t even know him,” Selina bit back, even as she questioned her need to come to the stranger’s defence.

  “No, and nor do you,” Agnes countered. “But I know his kind. And you know what creatures men are. And men like him? Powerful, wealthy. They have no qualms in destroying a woman’s life. Especially –“

  She drew to a sudden halt, but she may as well have spoken the words.

  “Especially a gypsy woman’s,” Selina bit. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  Agnes’s sigh sounded as though it came from her soul.

  “The world isn’t fair or kind, Selina. Not to people like me. Certainly not to people like you.”

  Selina knew all of this. Just as she knew Agnes was only looking out for her.

  With a sigh of her own, she took the seat opposite.

  “I know, Agnes. And I promise, I’m only interested in the boy and helping him.”

  Agnes gazed at her for an age.

  “You’re too bonny for your own good. That’s the problem. A man would do a lot to take a beauty such as you. It’s what he’d leave you with is my worry.”

  Selina reached over and kissed the old lady’s cheek.

  “I’ll keep my wits about me like I always do,” she assured Agnes before moving away and picking up her basket. “But that child needs my help. Staying away isn’t something I can do.”

  “I know. You’ve been blessed with a kind heart as well as everything else.”

  Selina moved to the door but before she stepped outside, Agnes’s voice halted her.

  “What is it ails the lad?”

  An ominous shiver cut through Selina.

  “I don’t know as yet,” she answered. “But whatever it is, it’s not of this world, and it’s more than the boy can bare.”

  “Then let’s hope you can help.”

  Selina shut the door quietly behind her and set out through the woods to the manor house.

  She wouldn’t receive a warm welcome, of that there was no doubt.

  The servants at the house were no different to anyone else. They despised her and everything about her.

  Especially the oul trout that ran the place.

  It had only been a few months since her son and his cronies had come upon her on the road one night. She’d been out walking in the moonlight on the edge of her forest.

  The night didn’t scare her, after all. And the trees were her home.

  Nay, the only thing that scared her were the people who professed to be better than she because they lived within the confines of the restrictions they placed on themselves.

  To be free was a sin in their world.

  To live according to one’s own set of rules, and not ones laid down by others. That was unforgiveable.

  Yet real sins. Truly bad deeds. They seemed rampant in the society they deemed superior.

  Which was why Seán Óg Leary and his band of followers had thought they could do to her whatever they chose, use her and abuse her with no consequences.

  They’d have been right, too.

  Nobody would care if a gypsy girl, a supposed witch, was attacked. No punishment would be issued. No justice would be sought.

  And so, Selina had taken care of herself, as she had since she’d been a young girl.

  She’d fought him off and sent him and his pack scurrying back to town with a swift kick to the nether regions and tales of witchcraft and sorcery spewing from their drunken mouths.

  Their lies hadn’t bothered her. But their actions had scared her. The event had made her realise that Agnes had been right all these years. Men wouldn’t ever have to like her, respect her, or even care about her for them to try to bed her.

  It didn’t stop her from living her life however she pleased, though.

  She still walked the roads at night. She still wandered through the forest.

  And now, despite Agnes’s concern, she would still call at Everwood Manor.

  She was going to help the boy. That was all.

  She wouldn’t leave him suffering if there was a chance to help. It wasn’t the lad’s fault that his father was handsome as the devil. Nor was it his fault that Selina felt drawn to them both, intrigued by the torment she saw in both of their eyes.

  She would offer advice that mightn’t be taken and a sleeping draught that mightn’t be trusted.

  And then she’d turn and walk away.

  Agnes had once told her that men couldn’t, or wouldn’t, control their urges.

  Well, Selina could.

  And if when she arrived she felt an inexplicable desire to reach out a hand to the smooth, powerful jaw of Lord Breton, or press her lips against his own, she’d would ignore that and flee.

  It wouldn’t be difficult. She didn’t even know the man.

  Philip darted up the stairs, past startled servants, and into Timothy’s nursery.

  The maid who’d been assigned to act as a nanny stood with her hands clasped over her ears in the playroom, leaving Timothy alone in the bedchamber.

  With a muffled curse, Philip swept by her.

  His blood ran cold as he took in the scene.

  Not a nightmare, for Timothy’s eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming as he gasped for breath.

  “Please, leave me alone!”

  The gut-wrenching sobs broke Philip’s heart.

  He rushed forward and knelt before Timothy’s bed, clasping his son’s slight shoulders and shaking him gently.

  “Timothy, Papa’s here,” he whispered urgently. “Papa’s here. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

  “She won’t leave me. She won’t leave,” Timothy screamed, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

  “Who?” Philip asked, hearing the desperation in his tone. “Who?”

  Timothy took a deep, shuddering breath before emitting a sudden wail that set gooseflesh breaking out on the back of Philip’s neck.

  “Mama,” he cried pitifully.

  It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. But knowing that didn’t stop the snake of fear that slithered along Philip’s veins at the word.

  Nobody seemed to be able to help.

  Not the physicians in Yorkshire. Not the supposed experts in London.

  And the change of scenery clearly hadn’t done much good.

  A growl of frustration worked its way up Philip’s throat.

  This helplessness was killing him.

  He was a capable man. He ran his estates and holdings with aplomb. He kept his tenants safe and happy. He took care of his servants and the townspeople who relied on his properties for most of their incomes and livelihoods.

  Yet, the one person in the world who needed him the most. The one person he loved more than anything in this world? He was useless to.

  Just like he’d been useless to Charlotte.

  The candles in the room flickered with a sudden gust of fierce wind, and a cold unlike any he’d ever felt shot through Philip, straight through his heart.

  He looked at Timothy and to his horror, the boy’s whole face seemed to change suddenly. For a moment, Philip would have sworn to God himself that his son’s face became Charlotte’s, his eyes desperate and terrified.

  “Charlotte?”

  His
whisper was broken, dragged from the depths of his soul.

  It couldn’t be real. It certainly wasn’t logical. And Philip wondered if his mind had finally snapped. If he’d finally run mad with worry, and grief, and guilt.

  In a blink, Timothy’s own young features were back in place and he cried in great, gasping sobs that shook his entire young body.

  Philip looked around desperately.

  But though a handful of servants stood and watched in varying states of distress, nobody seemed willing or able to help.

  A movement by the door caught Philip’s eye, and he watched in amazement as Selina came forward.

  It felt as though the icy chill that permeated the room dissipated from the second she stepped inside, and the relief that swept through Philip was palpable.

  Mrs. Leary, who’d been standing uselessly in the corner, followed Philip’s line of vision, and her gasp of outrage could be heard even over Timothy’s cries.

  “You!” she hissed, stepping forward and partially blocking Selina from Philip’s sight. “How dare you come into this house unannounced and uninvited?”

  The venom that dripped from Mrs. Leary’s voice was potent, yet Philip watched Selina’s chin notch up.

  “I called, but there was no answer,” she said smoothly, calmly.

  “So, you thought you’d sneak around and steal what you could get?”

  The accusation was unfounded, as Mrs. Leary must have known, given that Selina had come here and not snuck around.

  She didn’t answer the housekeeper. Instead, she turned her head and locked eyes with Philip.

  Once again that sense of warmth, that sense of rightness flowed through him.

  “I came to help the boy,” she said softly.

  And Philip almost wept with relief.

  Chapter Five

  S

  elina brushed off the animosity from the servants in the nursery and concentrated on Philip and his son.

  Her suspicions on the beach had been correct.

  She knew from the temperature in the room and from the mournful screeching in her mind.

  The boy was being haunted by a spirit who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, let him go.

  Calmly, she stepped further into the room and to the candle by the bedside.

  Without speaking, she set down her basket and removed the dried herbs she’d prepared.

  Lighting them in the candlelight, Selina silently watched them catch, and almost immediately her nostrils filled with the soothing scent of their smoke.

  She dropped the smouldering stems into the bowl she’d brought, leaving them to waft around the room.

  “Witchcraft.”

  “Ungodly.”

  “Gypsy.”

  She heard and ignored the comments, concentrating instead on the boy.

  But Lord Breton heard, too.

  His head snapped up and after briefly touching his icy gaze to her own, he spoke, albeit it through clenched teeth.

  “Get out.”

  Selina’s eyes widened as Mrs. Leary immediately stepped forward, her face triumphantly smug.

  “You heard his lordship,” the woman crowed. “Get out. And take your filthy witchcra—“

  “Not her.” Lord Breton’s commanding tone interrupted the older woman’s tirade. “You,” he said, looking directly at her. “Get out. All of you.”

  Selina felt the shockwaves ripple around the small group but none of them, it seemed, was brave enough to argue with their lord and master.

  So, with enough glares to turn milk sour, they all turned and filed from the room.

  The silence they left was deafening, interspersed only by the boy’s cries that were already beginning to calm.

  “Can you help him?”

  The question seemed pulled from Lord Breton’s very soul, and Selina felt a pang of sympathy for the man.

  It was clear he loved his son dearly.

  “I can,” she answered firmly, hoping it was true.

  “The doctors,” he continued, his eyes fixed on his son’s distressed face, his arms still clasping the boy’s slight shoulders. “All of them said it was just nightmares. That it would pass. But none of them could tell me how to help.”

  “I’d imagine that’s because they didn’t know how,” she said frankly as she shooed him out of the way and sat on the edge of Timothy’s bed.

  The child’s cries had become pitiable whimpers now, and they pulled on Selina’s heartstrings more than she’d expected.

  Leaning forward, she took the boy’s tear-streaked face in her hands and gazed into his eyes.

  She didn’t speak.

  Blocking out everything else, she just looked.

  And he looked right back. Unblinking, unfocused.

  Selina waited.

  A clock somewhere in the room ticked the seconds.

  A dying fire in the hearth crackled every once in a while.

  The boy’s sobs mingled with his father’s harsh breathing.

  And still she waited.

  Suddenly, an icy gust blew through the room, and his face changed. Contorted and twisted until he became someone else. His eyes no longer vacant but angry and scared.

  The screams in her head became deafening, but Selina held on.

  Another gust of wind extinguished the candles in the room, plunging them all into near darkness.

  Still, she held on.

  Selina kept her eyes fixed on the brown of Timothy’s.

  “You must let him go,” she said firmly, but kindly.

  This wasn’t a malevolent spirit. This wasn’t someone who wanted to cause pain. Selina could sense that.

  Whoever or whatever this was, it needed her help just as much as Timothy.

  “You have to let him go.”

  The scream grew louder and louder until Timothy’s mouth opened.

  “I can’t!” he shrieked, sounding pained.

  He began to thrash on the bed, trying to drag his face from Selina’s hands. But she held on.

  “Timothy!” Lord Breton shouted and darted forward.

  But Selina ignored him, holding onto the boy, not breaking eye contact.

  “You have to let him go,” she shouted.

  A surge of love and protectiveness, more powerful than anything Selina had ever felt, shot through her, and she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t coming from her.

  It was someone else. Someone loved this boy so very, very much. And was tormented by what he was going through.

  It was so strong, almost overpowering. Her hands began to shake, her entire body trembling, and a bone-deep weariness began to descend.

  “Let me help,” Selina begged desperately. “Let me help him.”

  The screaming in her head grew louder and louder, and the boy’s yells grew ever more frantic.

  Selina’s limbs shook uncontrollably and grew heavier.

  She knew she couldn’t hold on for much longer.

  “Please,” she whispered hoarsely right before the scream reached an inhuman pitch inside her head, and Timothy issued one last bellow before both he and Selina keeled over, exhausted.

  The icy wind dissipated as though it had never been, and the only sounds left in the room, and in Selina’s head, were laboured breathing and the ticking of the clock.

  Selina lifted a shaking hand to her head, which had begun pounding painfully.

  She looked at Timothy, who’d fallen back against the pillows, his chest heaving.

  Wordlessly, she reached into her basket by the bed and pulled out a vial.

  Turning slightly, she held it up to the earl with shaking fingers, in a soundless question.

  He looked frozen with shock, his blue eyes wide as they stared at her.

  A stiff nod of his head was all the permission she needed to turn and remove the lid, then tip the contents into the boy’s trembling mouth.

  He swallowed, staring at her as she stared right back. />
  Now, it was only the boy. A scared, tired boy.

  Selina reached out and smoothed a golden tress of hair from his damp brow. It seemed to settle him, and so she continued to do it until his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted into what she hoped would be a peaceful sleep.

  The sleeping draught she’d given him was mild in deference to his age, but it should be enough to keep his sleep dreamless and content.

  Finally, when she was sure he wouldn’t stir, she removed her hand and stood.

  But the ordeal had taken more out of her than she’d thought, and she stumbled forward on weakened legs.

  Before she could fall however, a pair of strong arms encircled her and held her upright.

  She looked up into the severe face of Lord Breton.

  “Are you well?” he asked, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

  Selina inhaled an unsteady breath, trying to ignore the flicker of desire as she caught his scent, bergamot with faint traces of brandy.

  “A little tired,” she said with a grimace.

  Lord Breton’s concerned gaze flicked to his son.

  “Is he —?”

  “He’s fine,” she assured him. “I gave him a sleeping draught that should see him through until morning. And the herbs have a calming effect.”

  Lord Breton looked back down at her, seemed to realise that he still held her in his grasp, and dropped his hands, stepping back as though she’d burned him.

  “What was — how did you —?“

  He mumbled to a halt before lifting his shoulders in a sign of defeat, and Selina took pity on him.

  Things like this were almost impossible to explain, and there was never a guarantee that one would be believed.

  Still, he’d let her help when he could have thrown her out.

  “There are some things that I think I need to explain,” she said softly, hearing the tremor still in her voice.

  She winced at the pain in her head as she bent and retrieved her basket from the floor.

  “You look exhausted,” the earl said, his voice laced with concern.

  Left over concern for his son, she told herself fiercely. It doesn’t mean anything.

  “Why don’t I have a tray fixed and we can talk?”

  He moved and rang the bell by Timothy’s bed, presumably to summon his nursemaid, now that the boy had settled.