The Ice Seduction

by Sk Quinn

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  He passes me the blanket and our fingers touch.

  Quickly, I snatch my hand back, holding the blanket close to my chest, making a wall between us.

  ‘I meant what I said earlier,’ says Patrick.

  ‘So did I,’ I say. ‘Goodnight Patrick.’

  I close the door, but Patrick’s hand shoots out and stops me.

  ‘You still want to pretend?’ he says.

  ‘I’m not pretending.’

  ‘Yes you are. Your body gives you away.’

  And it’s true. Even with Patrick just standing here, I can feel myself heating up. Warmth has spread all the way up my legs, right between my thighs. His voice alone does things to me, and when I think of his hands …

  ‘So what if it does?’ I say, trying to ignore those beautiful blue-green eyes and the ripple of his jaw. His hand is pressed on the door, inches from my face. ‘Do you always listen to your body?’

  ‘Always.’

  I swallow. ‘That’s what makes us different then. Because I can control myself. That’s what makes humans different from animals. The fact that we can listen to our minds and ignore our bodies.’

  Patrick smiles. ‘I told you before. We are animals. Both of us. And the sooner you can accept that, the better.’

  Oh god.

  This man is a totally arrogant sexist pig, and yet … his words are doing things to me.

  Get it together Sera.

  ‘Goodnight Patrick.’

  I push his hand from the wood and slam the door closed.

  Then I fall against the closed door, my heart pounding.

  This cannot be happening. I cannot fall for my boss. I cannot fall for my boss who also happens to be drop-dead gorgeous and extremely wealthy. He can’t really be interested in me. I’m just a game to him. This can only end in tears.

  Those words go round and round my head as I drop into bed.

  Sera, this can only end in tears.

  38

  The next morning, I wake up feeling warmer. And a little stronger. But still confused.

  Patrick is so manly and rugged and hot. But the way he makes me feel – it’s more than just sex appeal. It’s like he can see inside my head. And that scares me.

  Oh, why am I even thinking about this? I’m here for Bertie. There’s no way I’m going to let anything happen between Patrick and me.

  I have to admit that last night I was grateful for Patrick’s blanket. But not grateful enough to shake off the feeling that he really is an arrogant bastard. Even if he is an amazing kisser …

  I dress in leggings that I’ve decorated with lace, a skirt, and an over-sized black sweater with sequins I’ve sewn on myself. Then I head to Bertie’s room.

  I don’t know if he gets up at six like the rest of us, or sleeps in until later, but if he is awake I want to be there for him. After a day away, I want to spend as much time with him as possible.

  Gently, I knock on Bertie’s bedroom door then peer inside the room.

  I figure that if Bertie is still asleep, I’ll just sneak off and come back when he’s woken up. But he’s not asleep. He’s wide awake, dressed and sitting on his bed turning the pages of a horror novel.

  He’s wearing a starched white shirt and jeans with creases down the front.

  ‘Morning Bertie,’ I whisper.

  To my dismay, the angry look is back on Bertie’s face.

  ‘Are you really reading that?’ I ask, puzzled. I mean, apart from the fact it’s a scary looking book, it’s also way too old for him. And something about the way he turns the pages tells me he’s not reading exactly. More looking. But I don’t know.

  Bertie doesn’t answer. Instead he frowns and launches the book at my head.

  ‘Whoa.’ I duck. ‘That’s not a nice thing to do, Bertie. Did you have a bad visit yesterday or something?’

  Wrong question.

  Bertie picks up anything he can get his hands on and hurls it towards me.

  I duck Xbox games, books and even a bedside lamp that comes crashing down near my feet.

  ‘Hey. Come on. Stop that.’ I go to him, but before I reach him he goes all limp and sinks back down against the bed, pulling the duvet over himself.

  ‘Did you have a bad day yesterday?’

  Bertie responds by pulling the duvet even tighter around him.

  ‘Maybe we should go and get breakfast,’ I say, patting the duvet. ‘Life might seem better on a full stomach.’

  I hear a world-weary sigh. Then the duvet is thrown back, and Bertie leaps out of bed and heads towards his wardrobe.

  He picks up a pair of smart leather shoes and slips them on.

  39

  I follow Bertie down to the great hall, where he climbs on the bench and starts swinging his legs back and forth.

  ‘I take it you’ll be wanting your milk and liquorice?’ I ask.

  Bertie looks at me, his forehead still all creased up and angry. But he doesn’t nod or anything.

  ‘Okay. I’ll get it for you.’ I go to the serving hatch.

  ‘Is everything okay hen?’ says Vicky, when she sees me coming towards the kitchen.

  I sigh. ‘Not really. I think Bertie and I just took a massive step back.’

  ‘He went to see his mama yesterday, didn’t he?’ says Vicky, her brown curls bobbing up and down.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. There’s your answer. He’s always a little angry after he’s spent a day with her and grandpa Dirk.’

  ‘His grandpa was there too, then?’

  ‘He always is,’ says Vicky. ‘Controlling so and so. He won’t let Anise see Bertie unless he’s there. It’s sort of like a punishment, I think. Because she had Bertie so young. His way of saying she’s not fit to be a mother without another adult around. He rules that girl, so he does. He says jump and she says how high.’

  ‘Oh.’ I think about that. ‘I don’t know much about his mum. Is she … I mean, is she nice?’

  Vicky pats a pile of pastry dough. ‘She seems okay. I mean, she’s young. And she doesn’t see Bertie all that much. Bertie always comes second to her schooling.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ I say. ‘So Bertie’s mum … she’s Patrick’s younger sister – right?’

  ‘That’s right, hen. Her name is Anise. She’s very pretty. Blonde. But she was led astray in her teens. The wrong boyfriend, and then it all went wrong. I think she’s fine now, but it must kill her not to see Bertie.’

  ‘How often does she see him?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, once a week usually. Sometimes less, sometimes more.’

  ‘Wow. That really must kill her.’ I glance over my shoulder. ‘And him.’

  Vicky sets down Bertie’s liquorice and milk on the serving hatch. ‘There you go pet. Still not trying the little lad on anything more adventurous?’

  ‘Definitely not today,’ I say. ‘He’s got enough on his plate.’

  Vicky laughs.

  When I bring the liquorice and milk back to Bertie, he shoves the plate away and turns to look out of the window.

  ‘Bertie? It’s just liquorice. And milk. Like you always have.’

  Bertie shoves the plate so hard that it falls onto the floor. The plate breaks into two pieces, and liquorice sticks roll around.

  Usually, if one of my kids started throwing things like this I’d make them clear up the mess. But with Bertie … this isn’t like a usual tantrum. I can see that he’s hurting. More than hurting. He’s not acting up to try and get his own way. He’s trying to tell me how much he needs help.

  ‘You’re going to feel pretty sick today if you don’t eat anything,’ I coax.

  Bertie turns his whole body away from me, just as Mrs Calder storms into the great hall.

  I sigh. The look on Mrs Calder’s face tells me I’m about to get told off.

  ‘Hello Mrs Calder,’ I say, trying to kick the broken plate under the table. I don’t want Bertie getting shouted at or told off for not eating his breakfast.r />
  The plate halves make loud wobbling, scraping sounds as they shoot under the table and I cough loudly to try and cover the noise.

  Mrs Calder tilts her head, listening. Then I guess she must decide that her mind is playing tricks on her.

  ‘Miss Harper,’ she says. ‘We have a very important guest this morning. Patrick’s father. Dirk Mansfield.’

  ‘As in Bertie’s grandfather?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Didn’t he see Bertie yesterday?’

  Mrs Calder’s lips go thin. ‘Yes. But he’s not here to see Bertie today. He’s here to oversee developments to the castle. Among other things. And as a matter of fact, he’d like Bertie out of the way for his visit. He doesn’t want the developers put off by a wayward young boy running around.

  ‘I’ve had a new Xbox set up for him in one of the downstairs games rooms. He can keep himself out of trouble there. I don’t want him roaming around the halls or going into his bedroom today. Is that clear?’

  ‘Why can’t he go in his bedroom?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re here to look after Bertie, Miss Harper. Not to ask questions.’

  ‘Um … okay.’ I decide there’s nothing to be gained by arguing with her. She’s obviously not going to tell me anything. Bertie and I will just do our own thing once she’s out of the way.

  ‘And then in the afternoon,’ Mrs Calder continues, ‘Bertie’s grandmother will arrive.’

  ‘How come his grandparents aren’t arriving together?’

  ‘Dirk and Daphne Mansfield are separated,’ says Agnes. ‘They have been for a long time.’

  ‘Am I to keep Bertie out of his grandmother’s way too?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘No, no, no. She’d like to see him. Bertie needs to be formally dressed and presented at the drawing room in the West Wing. He will spend the rest of the afternoon with his grandmother. You will take your leave until supper time, when you will pick Bertie up from the drawing room and take him for his evening meal.’

  ‘It seems a shame that Bertie’s grandfather doesn’t want to see him. If he’s coming to the castle anyway …’

  ‘Dirk sees plenty of Bertie. Probably more than he’d like, to be truthful. And can you blame him for being embarrassed of the boy? Seeing as he’s so difficult?’

  I swallow. ‘Bertie is a lovely little boy,’ I say. ‘He just needs help in coming out of himself.’

  ‘Hah!’ Mrs Calder laughs. ‘I’d say he needs help staying out of everyone’s way. Anyway. His grandmother does wish to see him today. So have him ready for her.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll make sure he’s there.’

  ‘Good.’

  Mrs Calder walks to the serving hatch and knocks on it with her fist. ‘Victoria, where’s my muesli and tea?’

  ‘Do you want your milk?’ I whisper to Bertie.

  As a reply, he reaches forward and tries to shove the milk cup away, but I’m too quick for him.

  I grab the cup before it spills.

  ‘I guess you had a hard day yesterday,’ I say. ‘I wish you’d tell me about it.’

  Bertie looks at the table.

  ‘I tell you what,’ I whisper. ‘Shall we go outside again today? Let’s go get our coats and head out.’

  Bertie raises both eyebrows in surprise, and looks urgently at Mrs Calder.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘We’ll go out the front entrance. She won’t see us. And if we’re caught, I promise I’ll take the blame.’

  Bertie gives the tiniest of nods, then climbs over the bench.

  I follow him out of the great hall.

  40

  Bertie and I get our coats. Then I take him out the front door and onto the beautifully bright green lawns that surround the castle entrance.

  Just as we’re heading left around the castle, I hear the crunch of gravel.

  I turn and see a black Jaguar creeping up the drive.

  Something about the car makes me grip Bertie’s hand tight.

  It’s moving so slowly, that car. Prowling, almost.

  The car stops right by the main entrance, the door clicks open.

  Two shiny black brogues appear, followed by the clack of a walking stick.

  A short, bald man steps out of the car and looks up at the castle. He smiles like a shark, and I see a gold tooth glint in the winter sunshine.

  I feel Bertie tug urgently at my hand.

  ‘What is it Bertie?’ I whisper. And then I realize. This must be Dirk Mansfield. Bertie’s grandfather.

  I let Bertie tug me around the castle wall so we can’t be seen, but I can’t resist poking my head back around.

  I see two more men climb out of the car. Both slick city types in suits, with gelled black hair and briefcases.

  Dirk Mansfield spreads his arms open, and says something to the men.

  They all laugh.

  Then they disappear into the castle.

  ‘Was that your grandfather, Bertie?’ I whisper.

  Bertie nods.

  ‘Do you like him?’

  Bertie shakes his head, no.

  ‘I don’t blame you. There’s something kind of creepy about him.’

  It’s only then that I realize Bertie’s little hand is shaking in mine.

  ‘Are you okay Bertie?’ I ask.

  Bertie gives a sharp little nod, and pulls me along and around the castle.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say, following him.

  Of course he doesn’t answer. He just keeps pulling me along.

  Wow. The gardens around this place are so amazing.

  I’m just wondering how on earth anyone grows lawns like this, without a single dandelion or daisy, when I see Gregory Croft – the castle gardener I met when I was riding up here on my motorbike.

  He’s clipping a privet hedge into a violin shape and quietly humming to himself. Just like before, he’s wearing kind of a summer outfit – shorts and a thin shirt.

  My hands are blue after just a few minutes out here, but Gregory is clip clipping away like he’s in the south of Spain.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, going over to him. ‘That’s a beautiful hedge you’re cutting there.’

  Gregory turns and gives a crinkly smile.

  He’s got something in his mouth – I think it’s chewing tobacco – and it makes his left cheek look all puffy.

  ‘Well, well. If it isn’t our little wandering musician,’ says Gregory. ‘You haven’t left yet, then?’

  I shake my head. ‘And I won’t. At least, not until I’m asked to.’ I glance at Bertie. ‘This little one needs me. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.’

  To my surprise, Bertie goes to stand right by Gregory, and looks up at the privet hedge. He reaches out and strokes the spiky branches.

  ‘It’s a fiddle, lad. Like the one I play for you,’ says Gregory.

  To my amazement, Bertie looks right at Gregory and nods his head.

  ‘I’ll play it again for you soon. When that Mrs Calder is out of ear shot.’ Gregory winks at me. ‘They don’t like him hearing the sort of music I play. I only know jigs and reels – none of your fancy, classical stuff.’

  He reaches out a rough, red hand and ruffles Bertie’s hair.

  I expect Bertie to flinch or move away, but he just tips his head towards Gregory like a little puppy.

  My mouth drops open. ‘He likes you,’ I tell Gregory.

  ‘I like him too,’ says Gregory, looking fondly at Bertie. ‘I don’t try to boss him or tell him his own mind. And we both like music, don’t we lad?’

  ‘You like the violin?’ I ask Bertie.

  Bertie doesn’t answer, but Gregory says:

  ‘He loved it, last time I played. He even had a little bash himself, didn’t you lad?’

  Bertie nods again.

  I feel a big grin on my face. ‘You like music, Bertie?’

  ‘Too right,’ says Gregory. ‘And he’s got a gift for it too. You can tell. He picked up my fiddle and played it without me hardly telling hi
m anything.’

  My smile grows even wider. ‘How about guitar, Bertie, would you like a go of that?’

  Bertie looks at the ground.

  ‘She won’t let him play anything like that,’ says Gregory.

  ‘Won’t let him? Who won’t?’

  ‘Mrs Calder. She thinks guitars and drums and all of that are the devil’s work. She thinks it’ll make him wild, more wild than he is already. But music tames the wildness in all of us. It’s what marks us out from the animals.’ Gregory glances over my shoulder at the house.

  ‘I never knew he liked music,’ I say.

  ‘Did you ever ask him?’ Gregory says.

  ‘No,’ I admit.

  ‘Ask Bertie the right questions and you’ll get some interesting answers,’ says Gregory.

  ‘Oh?’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘There’s a music room inside,’ Gregory says, his voice becoming a croaky whisper. ‘With a piano in it. I reckon if you let him have a bash around in there, you might be all right. After all, Mozart played the piano. Just make sure you’re playing some fancy concerto if Mrs Calder walks past.’

  ‘A music room …’ I crouch down to Bertie’s height. ‘Bertie? Would you like that?’

  Bertie nods harder than I’ve ever seen him nod.

  I beam at him. ‘That’s settled then. Let’s go and make some music.’

  41

  Although I’m getting better at knowing my way around the castle, I still need Bertie to help me find the music room.

  When we reach it I stop dead, my eyes wide.

  Woooow!

  ‘Look at this place,’ I breathe, following Bertie into the light, airy room full of the most amazing antique instruments.

  There’s a grand piano, so shiny that I can see my face in it. And a huge harp. And a cello, and a glass cabinet with different sizes and shapes of flutes.

  ‘It’s just beautiful,’ I tell Bertie, going to a shelf of music scores.

  They’re all classical scores – Mozart, Bach, Beethoven – antique and in lovely condition. I bet they’re worth an absolute fortune.

  ‘Why don’t you have a go on the piano, Bertie?’ I say, going to the grand piano stool.

  Bertie takes a little step back. His eyes widen and he shakes his head.