Bed of Ice

by Sk Quinn

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  Bed of Ice is Book II of the Bestselling Devoted Series.

  1

  ‘Good morning, songbird.’

  I feel strong fingers stroking my cheek.

  As sunlight hits my eyes, they water a little and I see the beautiful, hazy sight of Patrick – his face inches from mine.

  We’re in Patrick’s castle.

  In his bedroom.

  In his bed.

  Could life get any more crazy?

  ‘Morning,’ I whisper back, kind of unnerved to have his face so close. I feel myself shrinking back.

  Patrick pulls me closer.

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ He pushes his lips against mine, kissing me slowly.

  His lips feel sooo amazing. But then I remember …

  ‘Bertie.’ I jerk up.

  Patrick’s large hands go to my shoulders. ‘It’s okay. He’s with his mother. Remember?’

  ‘Oh.’ I nod. ‘Right. Yes.’

  I count the days on my fingers. One, two, three … it’s been nearly a week now since Bertie left for Euro Disney. And every morning I wake in a panic. Reliving that awful night, when I was sedated and dumped in the woods. Not knowing where Bertie was. Not being able to protect him.

  He and his mum sound like they’re having a great time. They keep adding more days to their trip and telling me all about the fun they’re having. But I miss Bertie. I won’t feel quite right until he’s back at the castle.

  ‘I’m going to call him,’ I say.

  ‘Again?’ Patrick scoops my mobile phone from the bedside table. ‘This must be the fiftieth call since he’s been away.’

  ‘I know.’ I take my phone.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Patrick asks.

  ‘Nothing …’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I miss him, that’s all. I thought he’d be back by now. But he’s having such a good time with his mum.’

  ‘Worried he’s slipping away from you?’

  ‘If he’s happy, I’m happy. But … I do want him back here. Where I can look after him.’ I sigh. ‘I guess that’s the trouble with being a nanny. It’s hard to let go. But sometimes you have to.’

  I dial Anise’s number.

  It rings a long time.

  Finally Anise answers.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Anise! Hey. How are you? Is Bertie there?’

  ‘Oh! Sera. Hi. Yes. Good thank you. Bertie’s in the other room.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Um hmm. Yes, I’ll get him.’

  There’s a clatter, and Bertie comes on the line.

  ‘Hi Sera.’

  My stomach goes all soft at the sound of Bertie’s voice. Hearing him talk is magic. Absolutely magic. He sounds a little older than his years. I guess he’s seen more than most kids.

  ‘How are you Bertie?’ I ask. ‘Did I interrupt your breakfast?’

  ‘No,’ says Bertie.

  ‘I miss you a lot. Grandma Daphne sends her love.’

  Patrick’s mother, Daphne, didn’t go to Euro Disney in the end. It’s a shame. She’s amazing with Bertie and she’s French, so she loves Paris. But she had a hospital appointment that couldn’t wait and ended up having a minor operation. She’s fine, but still recovering in hospital.

  I ask Bertie a little about Euro Disney – what he’s seen since I last spoke to him. It sounds like he’s doing exactly the same thing every day: ‘Eating hotdogs, eating candyfloss, going on big scary rides…’

  He doesn’t use a lot of words, but I understand him just fine.

  ‘Come back soon okay?’ I tell him.

  ‘Okay.’ He hangs up.

  ‘I miss him,’ I tell Patrick.

  ‘Was he all right?’

  ‘He sounded fine. I mean, considering what happened just a week ago …’ I frown. ‘I just want to protect him. So … it’s hard him being away. Where I can’t see him.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ says Patrick, sliding the phone from my hand and flinging it onto the duvet. ‘But he’ll be back soon. Until then, I have you all to myself.’

  I smile. ‘Oh do you now? Do I have any say in that?’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  Patrick strokes tangled hair from my face and glances down at my naked body.

  I feel myself flinch. I still hate him staring at me when I have no clothes on.

  Patrick is naked too of course. But whereas I feel all gawky and self-conscious, folding my limbs around each other, Patrick is loungy and relaxed.

  Patrick shakes his head, smiling. ‘So self-conscious Miss Harper. This shyness of yours is something we’re going to have to overcome. Especially today.’

  ‘Today?’

  Patrick nods, trailing his strong fingers over my breasts.

  ‘What’s happening today?’

  ‘Today is the day I get to find out everything about you,’ says Patrick. ‘No more secrets.’

  2

  My stomach lurches. ‘Um. Meaning?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘You want me to tell you … what exactly?’

  Patrick laughs. ‘The thing you keep hidden. The thing you’ve never told anybody.’

  I swallow. ‘And who says I keep something hidden?’

  ‘You do. Or rather your body does.’ He puts his lips onto my breast and murmurs: ‘It betrays you at every turn.’

  I shiver. ‘Patrick—’

  ‘I want all of you today. Every bit.’

  My stomach lurches.

  ‘What about you,’ I counter, scooting away from his lips and sitting up in bed. ‘You’ve got a few secrets of your own Patrick Mansfield.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Patrick grabs my thighs and pulls me back.

  ‘Oh!’ I skid down the sheets.

  ‘My family has secrets,’ says Patrick, pressing his lips against my stomach. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Oh come on,’ I say, taking his head and pulling him up to look at me. ‘There must be things in your past you’d rather I didn’t find out about? Things you’d rather people didn’t know?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Well,’ I huff. ‘Good for you. But you still haven’t told me all that much about yourself. I mean, there are plenty of gaps.’

  ‘You’d make an excellent fencer,’ Patrick tells my stomach.

  ‘What’s a fencer?’

  ‘A swordsman. You’re very good at deflection. Stopping a hit by attacking your opponent.’

  ‘Funny,’ I say. ‘I thought we were more than just opponents.’

  ‘We are,’ Patrick murmurs at my stomach. ‘Much more.’

  I love feeling those butterflies.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I say, pulling his head up again. ‘If you’re going to learn all my deepest, darkest secrets then I need the dirt on you first. It’s only fair.’

  ‘You want the dirt on me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How about this? I’m hopelessly, stupidly in love with a girl who is as headstrong as they come. She won’t do a dammed thing I tell her, even when it’s for her own good.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m serious Patrick. No one has a perfect life. Tell me about you. What things do you keep hidden?’

  Patrick gives my backside a little slap and sits up in bed.

  ‘Come o
n sleeping beauty.’

  ‘Come on where?’

  ‘Actions speak louder than words. If you want to see the things I hide, I know just the place.’ He grabs my hands and pulls me upright.

  Sunlight hits me full in the face.

  Through Patrick’s huge bedroom windows I see bright light spreading over the fir trees.

  It’s so beautiful outside. Truly. When I think about London and all the tall buildings, there’s just nothing to compare. I choose here.

  ‘Whoa.’ I hold up a hand to shield myself from the sun. ‘It’s bright today.’

  ‘And warm,’ says Patrick. ‘Spring came early.’

  ‘In Scotland? I thought spring came late in the cold lands.’

  Patrick laughs. ‘It doesn’t come late. It’s just different.’

  ‘And by different you mean colder.’

  ‘Maybe to you. But then you’re a southern softie.’

  ‘A southern softie? Is that a phrase you picked up at boarding school?’

  ‘In the army.’

  ‘And what does it mean exactly?’

  It’s what we called the lads from London who couldn’t hack the pace. And there were plenty of them.’

  ‘And I’m sure there were plenty from Scotland who couldn’t hack the pace either.’

  Patrick raises an eyebrow. ‘Not so much. They breed us tough up here.’

  ‘We’re tough in London too, you know,’ I say. ‘I’ve lived on a canal boat for the last five years. Building a fire every day. Emptying the toilet. Shivering through the winter. Where have you lived, Mr to the Manor Born? In a great big castle with servants?’

  ‘I’ve lived in plenty of rough environments, believe me. The army doesn’t go in for soft sheets.’

  ‘Still. You joined the army out of choice.’

  ‘Depends how you look at it. In my family, you don’t get much in the way of choices. Mansfield boys train to be army officers. That’s the way it’s always been.’

  ‘And Mansfield girls?’

  ‘They marry into good families.’

  ‘So your whole family live in the dark ages.’

  ‘You could call it that. Or you could call it tradition.’

  ‘We’re moving off the point,’ I say.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You’re a softie too. You live in a castle.’

  ‘Sometimes. But not always.’

  3

  ‘Oh?’ That throws me. ‘Where else do you live then?’

  ‘I stay out in the woods sometimes.’

  I see Patrick’s long body spread across the bed. The light catches his muscles in all sorts of beautiful angles. But his face is best of all.

  ‘What – you mean you sleep out there?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the summer you mean?’

  ‘I sleep out there in the winter too.’

  ‘But … it’s cold.’

  ‘What do you think people did before castles came along?’ Patrick laughs. ‘If I’m cold, I light a fire.’

  I frown, my self-consciousness at being naked now totally forgotten.

  ‘Let me get this straight. You’re a lord. You own a castle with a cook and a swimming pool. But you like sleeping out in the woods. In winter. Why?’

  Patrick pulls himself up on the bed and takes my hands. ‘Out there—’ He waves at the window. ‘That’s where I feel truly at home.’

  ‘Do you have people bringing you food out there or something?’

  ‘In the woods? No one would ever find me.’

  ‘So how do you eat when you’re out there?’

  ‘The forest is full of food. Birds. Wild vegetables. Rabbit. What do you think people did years ago? Do you think human beings were born with concrete homes and gas ovens?’

  ‘You eat wild birds?’

  ‘When I’m camping out I do. Kill them, pluck them, cook them on the fire.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Just because I’m a man, doesn’t mean I can’t cook.’

  ‘That’s not what’s surprising me, Mr Caveman. Believe it or not I know plenty of men who can cook. What surprises me is that you do it out in the woods. I mean, you’ve got a kitchen here. A very good kitchen.’

  ‘Mr Caveman.’ Patrick smiles. ‘I like that. So you’ll be Mrs Caveman, then?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘I love the woods. I love being out there.’

  ‘I know you go out there to protect the stags, but … I didn’t realise you actually slept out there sometimes.’

  ‘I haven’t slept out there since you came to the castle.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’ve fallen for a soft, southern girl who shivers at the slightest draft. And I didn’t think you’d appreciate being dragged away from the central heating.’

  ‘I can manage without central heating,’ I huff. ‘My canal boat in Camden didn’t have central heating.’

  ‘Did you wear that thin Minnie Mouse nightie when you were on that cold boat?’

  I grab a feathery pillow and try to whack him with it, laughing. But he’s way too quick for me. He ducks out of the way and grabs the pillow, disarming me in a second.

  ‘You’re good,’ I say. ‘The army must have been sorry to see you go.’

  ‘Some of them were. Some of them were glad to see the back of me.’ Patrick drops the pillow and grabs my hands, pushing himself on top of me and pinning me to the bed. ‘Now. If you were interested in combat manoeuvres, I could show you a few.’

  ‘I bet you could,’ I say. ‘I bet you’ve shown plenty of women your combat manoeuvres.’

  ‘I don’t want to think about other women.’

  ‘I don’t want you to either.’

  ‘Do you even know how special you are to me? Do you have any idea?’

  I glance at Patrick. ‘No. Not always.’

  ‘Well. I guess I’ll have to work on that. Let me tell you something.’ His bluey-green eyes are smiling and he raises an eyebrow – all boyish charm. He’s pretty irresistible.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re my first.’

  ‘Oh come on. I thought you never lied. I know I’m not your first Patrick. I know you’ve been with other women.’

  ‘But you’re the first one I loved.’

  I can’t help it. I’m grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Have I dug myself out of a hole?’ Patrick asks.

  ‘Pretty much,’ I admit.

  ‘And if you want any more proof,’ Patrick continues, ‘I’m about to cook you breakfast. That’s a first too. If I’m cooking a woman breakfast, she must be pretty special to me.’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘Well, what an honour. A man cooking me breakfast.’

  ‘Not just any man. A commanding officer. If the lads in my old brigade found out, I’d never hear the end of it.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you cared so much about what people thought of you.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘So what’s the big deal about a man cooking?’

  Patrick shrugs. ‘I suppose I always think of it as a woman’s job.’

  4

  I laugh, shaking my head. ‘Oh good god Patrick, what decade are you from?’

  ‘I told you. None of them.’ He grabs my hands and pulls me out of the bed.

  I stumble against him on the varnished wood floor and wrap my arms around him. Partly to steady myself, partly to hide my nakedness.

  Patrick looks down. ‘You needn’t be so coy. You have a beautiful body. If you didn’t need feeding, I’d fuck you right now.’

  ‘Need feeding? You make me sound like a pet.’

  ‘If I was after a pet, I’d pick something tamer.’

  I grab the pillow again and try to bat him over the head with it.

  He darts easily out of the way again and grabs my wrist. ‘Temper temper.’

  ‘YOU are a complete sexist pig.’

  ‘Lucky I have you to teach me t
he error of my ways.’ Patrick pulls me to him and kisses me hard. Then he gives my backside a squeeze. ‘Right. Time for breakfast. And you, Mrs Caveman, are going to find out all the dirt on me. Just like you asked.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you said that.’

  ‘Shut up and get dressed.’

  ‘I really didn’t like the way you said that.’

  ‘Okay, okay. My dearest Seraphina. Would you please get dressed?’

  ‘I’d be delighted your lordship.’ I lean down the side of the bed to pick up my underwear.

  Struggling into my bra, I say: ‘I’m a bit scared about what I’m getting for breakfast. You’re not going to feed me raw calf liver or something are you?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ Patrick marches to his wardrobe and pulls a cardboard box into the bedroom.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘Something I ordered for you a few days ago. Just in case.’

  ‘In case what?’ I frown at the box, confused. Ordered for me? The box is sealed up with tape, but Patrick rips it open with his bare hands.

  ‘What’s in there?’ I ask, as Patrick reaches into the torn cardboard.

  ‘Clothes for your ladyship,’ says Patrick, pulling a thick green woolly jumper from the box and a pair of black cargo trousers.

  ‘Oh .’ I eye up the clothes. ‘Are they for me?’

  ‘Not the fashionable London look, I know,’ says Patrick. ‘But you’ll be glad of these clothes, I promise you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see. Do you want to try them on?’

  ‘Um. Okay,’ I say, taking the jumper. The wool is really soft, and as I slide it over my head I realise it’s super, super warm too. There’s some kind of brand name on the chest that I don’t recognise.

  Wow, it’s a great fit actually. It feels so snug and cosy.

  The cargo trousers fit well too. They’re really thick and tough. I think I could probably walk through a bush of thorns in them.

  Patrick takes a pair of boots out of the box too – expensive-looking trekking ones. And thick socks.

  ‘Here.’ He passes them to me. ‘They make these boots and socks in Glasgow. They’re the best going.’

  ‘Oh. Um. Thank you.’ I take the boots and socks. ‘How did you know my size?’

  ‘I asked Vicky. I thought she’d have a handle on girls’ shoe sizes.’