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.
Selina didn’t exactly trust his staff not to spit in her tea or something, but she nodded her consent, nonetheless.
Timothy needed her help and in order to help him, she needed Lord Breton to be willing.
“As long as you taste the tea before I do, I’ll stay,” she said with a grin, hoping to break the tension in the room.
Rather than smile along with her, however, his scowl deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For how they behaved.”
Selina shook her head in dismissal of his apology.
“It’s to be expected,” she answered pragmatically. “I’m different. And there’s nothing quite so frightening to people as those who are different. Agnes taught me that.”
“Agnes?” he questioned as he stepped back to allow her to leave before him, reaching out and plucking the basket from her hands. “The lady whose cottage you share?”
His manners were impeccable. And he treated her as though she were a grand lady and not a gypsy from the woods.
“You know Agnes?” She turned to stare at him and was shocked by the sheepishness in his expression.
“I might have enquired as to your identity,” he answered.
“Ah. And you still trusted me with your son?”
She meant to make the quip light-hearted yet for some reason, his answer and his trust were important.
They’d reached the elaborate staircase that would lead to the living rooms below but before Selina took a step to descend, his hand shot out and clasped her gently around the upper arm.
She turned to face him, trying and failing to ignore the frisson of awareness at his touch.
“I do trust you with Timothy,” he said seriously. “And I don’t listen to idle gossip.”
Selina was touched beyond measure at his faith in her.
To cover the confusing, riotous emotions that swirled inside her, Selina shrugged her shoulders.
“It matters not,” she said with only a faint tremble in her voice. “I don’t care what they think of me. I only care about your son.”
Chapter 6
Philip cursed himself as they descended the stairs, disgusted at the pang of disappointment he felt at her words.
How selfish a bastard did he have to be to be feel anything other than relieved at her words?
Why would he suddenly, inexplicably wish that she cared about him, too?
It was just the heightened emotions of the night, he told himself fiercely.
Whatever happened in that nursery – and he had no idea what had happened – had shaken him to his core.
And yet, he’d felt it.
Much as he didn’t believe in witchcraft or gypsy magic, hauntings or ghosts. He’d felt the very air change around them when Selina had been with Timothy.
He’d seen, too, what the connection had taken out of them both.
Timothy at least slept, his nursemaid sent back up to sit with