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 5
Selina 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,”