The Librarian's Spell

by Patricia Rice

  Although given the condition of the tower’s foundation, he should probably consider it.

  “Well, you’ll be working here for a while, won’t you?” his mother demanded, sounding quite normal and not demented for a change. “I’ll just take Bakari up to the nursery and let him explore.”

  The boy looked at him eagerly. His son had to be bored out of his over-active mind. Max gave in. “Fine then, although perhaps you should ask Miss Lydia first.”

  Watching his mother and his son walk away, hand in hand, as he must once have at that age, Max suffered a prescient vision of his own. There walked the family he never thought to have—and might have with Lydia, if she didn’t kill him first.

  Of course, if he didn’t fix the tower, there would be no library and Lydia would despise him.

  * * *

  Hearing a carriage on the drive, Lydia almost jumped up with expectation, thinking they might have visitors from the city. But then she remembered it was too early, and she pressed her lips together in a grimace. Only one local man would arrive with carriage and team.

  She would like to refuse him, but she wasn’t comfortable with Mr. Cadwallader’s level of rudeness. Besides, she liked knowing what the enemy was plotting.

  Zack eventually arrived bearing a card on a salver. “Lord Crowley to see you, miss.”

  “Take him to the formal drawing room. Offer tea. I’ll be with him when I have time.” That seemed officious enough. And the two-story great hall was uncomfortably chilly and gloomy.

  Of course, putting off the inevitable left her squirming in her chair. She thought she’d made herself clear the last time he was here, and again, at the solicitor’s office. The library would never be for sale. Why would anyone else want this rambling old fortress?

  After she decided he’d cooled his heels enough, Lydia did her best to don her Malcolm Librarian/duchess persona. She checked her hairpins, straightened her scarf, raised her chin high, and marched off to the medieval hall that served as the castle’s main drawing room.

  Crowley had abandoned his tea and was prowling the ancient armament adorning the walls. He glanced up at Lydia’s entrance, then returned to studying a broadsword.

  “These need oiling,” he complained. “They’ll rust.”

  “And good morning to you, my lord.” She imagined herself as a stout gray-haired duchess filled with consequence. “I know you don’t understand, but I am a busy woman. I don’t have time for social calls.”

  He scowled. “Women haven’t the mind for business. That’s why it takes you so much time to complete it. You should marry and have babies and let men who understand finance handle money. I made a perfectly good offer for this property. Even your solicitors agreed it was fair. You cannot maintain a property this size on your own, Miss Wystan. How do I convince you to let me take it off your hands?”

  “I have been maintaining this property for years, my lord.” She quelled her righteous ire at his insult. “You surely didn’t think Mr. Cadwallader had time? It is quite impossible to sell—“

  The floor rumbled. A loud ominous crack shuddered the rafters. Plaster dribbled from the overhead beams. Or perhaps it was just dust.

  Trying not to panic, Lydia nodded curtly at her visitor. “I’m sorry, my lord. The answer is no, now and forever. Good day.”

  She departed sedately, as if rumbling floors were perfectly normal. She didn’t run until she was in the corridor leading to the tower. A few more ominous rumbles followed. A crack zigzagged down the wall by the garden door.

  Where was Max? Bakari? The servants? She ran outside, expecting the tower to tilt and collapse at any moment.

  No one was in the yard. Did no one hear the crack but her? Had anxiety driven her mad?

  She circled the outside of the tower until she reached the open door into the ancient byre.

  Muddy and rumpled, Max leaned on a filthy shovel as if he hadn’t a care in the world, talking with the stable lad.

  “What did you do?” she cried as she approached. “I thought the roof was caving in.”

  Max straightened and the boy ran off, apparently on some errand. “Sorry. I hadn’t realized it would affect the hall.”

  Lydia stopped to catch her breath and force her heart not to leap from her chest. “What did you do?” she repeated.

  “Knocked a hole in the wall into the inner tower. Your plumbing isn’t just medieval, I think it’s prehistoric.”

  “Prehistoric?” She could scarcely breathe for imagining the walls tumbling around her.

  “I suppose the Romans aren’t pre-history. What are they called?” He pointed at an outcropping in the tower wall. “The original garderobes aren’t connected to a moat or stream but to a complex system of pipes and vaults that empty out in a drain field down the hill, providing natural fertilizer for the crops that must have once grown there. But as best as I am able to tell, that system was built with the original inner tower or before it. I’m not a historian, but my guess would be it was originally Roman.”

  “Not prehistoric, but Dark Ages, certainly,” she murmured, trying to puzzle it out to prevent quivering in terror. “I know the Romans fortified this area back in the first and second centuries. We’re on one of the highest hills, so it’s possible there was a fortification here, but it should have been little more than a mud hut. Until now, the tower hasn’t tilted or shook. You aren’t working with Baron Crowley so I will be forced to sell, are you?”

  “Why would I do that?” he narrowed his eyes at her change of topic. “Who is Crowley and why does he want you to sell your library?”

  “He’s a neighbor. I think he owns mines and wants the land. The walls aren’t coming down? We’re safe?”

  “Mines?” He frowned up at the sky as if looking for answers there, nodded, then studied the tower. “New mines might explain why the old system is failing. I’ll need to order a few loads of brick. Will the trust be able to pay for them? My liquid funds are mostly frozen. I can pay for my minor expenses but repairs of this size require a large outlay.”

  She ought to shake him. She really should. Her life, was under that roof, and he talked about bricks?

  “What on earth will you do with bricks? Look at this place.” Lydia gestured at the towering stone walls in exasperation. “Every inch is stone.”

  “Except for the wood bits,” he replied with a grin that proved he really did not understand her panic. “Bricks are faster, cheaper, and it’s easier to find workmen who know how to build with them. They will be underground, so no one will notice.”

  “What will be underground?” She clasped her elbows, trying not to tremble. The man was impossible! He stood there in all his Ives strength and glory, as solid as a mountain, fully confident he could produce miracles—literally out of clay—not giving one thought to what would happen should he be wrong.

  “Your improved sewage system. It won’t be an easy task, mind you. It won’t be cheap either. But if you want to keep your tower and use your plumbing, it has to be done.”

  Stricken, she could only stare. No plumbing?

  “You can afford it, can’t you?” he asked again. “I come free but labor doesn’t.”

  “How much?” she asked worriedly. “So far, I’ve only been given a budget for regular maintenance, and that’s been neglected for a year. The roof is starting to leak. . .”

  Is this what Crowley meant when he said women had no head for business? Should she have been planning for major repairs?

  Max watched her sympathetically. “These old places need a lot of cash. I can do this cheaply as any man in the kingdom, but I’m not a magician.”

  “All the plumbing?” she asked in desperation. “Perhaps if we just closed the tower bath. . .”

  He shook his head. “If it was the well, yes, but that’s elsewhere. The sewage all goes through one ancient tunnel, and it’s in a state of collapse. Mr. Crowley’s mines might be responsible, but those vaults are old enough to be Roman.”

  The library m
ight sit on a nearly two-thousand-year-old foundation, right. Her knees quaked, and she thought she ought to sit down. But Max looked like Atlas, admiring the world he was about to take on. The dratted man enjoyed this!

  “Should I be thinking about moving the books to the main portion of the house?” she asked, trying not to sound weak and terrified.

  He looked startled. “What? No, of course not. The Romans built to last. You couldn’t find a stronger foundation anywhere. It was the tinkering with the plumbing and possibly Crowley’s miners using dynamite that interfered with the original workmanship. You only need worry about raising the funds to pay for the repairs.”

  She swayed, possibly with relief—or terror. “If you could provide an estimate?”

  Crowley’s carriage raced down the winding drive in the distance. He’d been right. She didn’t know how to run a business.

  She must learn.

  “I’ll see what I can do once I know the price of supplies.” Max watched her with what might almost be admiration. “Most women would have fallen into my arms, weeping, after I gave them bad news.”

  Lydia smiled weakly. “Most women have more gowns than I do. Falling into filthy arms is not a direction I can afford.”

  Max laughed, flashing white teeth.

  She could have a man like that for husband? What was she waiting for? A god?

  To maintain her equilibrium, she added, “If we married, would that make you responsible for repairs?”

  And then she strolled away as if her knees weren’t weak as water and her spine a column of jelly.

  * * *

  Max shrugged into his dinner coat later that evening, still pondering Lydia’s question. He didn’t much fret over the part about being responsible for this money pit. He was fairly certain the library’s trust would pay for that, and the vast array of wealthy Malcolms would donate to the cause. If he had his hands on his own funds, he could donate as well.

  The part tripping him was the “If we married. . .”

  Was she really considering marrying a roaming heathen like him? Madness definitely must be infectious.

  Nervous energy had him jerking at his cravat and attempting to look the part of gentleman. Bakari watched him with interest. Lloyd finally gave in and took the tie from Max’s hands, swiftly wrapping it into a neat knot.

  “Are we expecting the queen?” Lloyd asked with pointed sarcasm. “For Miss Lydia will not notice if you wore frogs at your throat.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’d notice frogs.” Max stepped away from the mirror. “But knots, probably not, you’re right.” He just felt as if he were strangling. He couldn’t say that aloud.

  He should have taken the coward’s way out and eaten in his room with Bakari and Lloyd. He’d be far more comfortable there. But he couldn’t leave Lydia to his mother. And he needed to know if Lydia had made any decisions about his rather badly done proposal.

  He’d proposed. He’d actually proposed to a woman. He wasn’t quite over the shock. Did other men feel this unmitigated terror at a lifetime commitment?

  Should he go into the city and buy a ring and try properly on bended knee?

  How badly did he want Lydia to say yes?

  As he took the tower steps down, Max attempted to analyze all possible answers to that daunting question. By the time he reached the dining room, he’d decided all the advantages were his in this match. He was pretty damned certain he was hoping for a yes.

  He just wasn’t expecting one. After a lifetime of humiliation, he supposed he could withstand one more rejection. He was made of sturdy stuff these days.

  He had a niggling notion that now that he knew what he wanted, he wouldn’t walk away without trying again. And again. That’s when he knew he was doomed.

  He tugged at his cravat once more before he entered. He’d let his dotty mother send him down this impossible path. That proved he needed to clear his head and escape.

  He entered to discover Lydia and his mother already at the table. Well, he was late, as usual. That was to be expected.

  What wasn’t to be expected was a guest—a male one who looked a great deal like his own image in a mirror, only a lot skinnier and younger.

  “Richard?” he asked, not because he didn’t know the answer but just to confirm he could still speak.

  The lad was studying Max equally avidly. He nodded and with a great deal of effort replied, “Do I call you Father or Mr. Ives?”

  Eighteen

  Watching Max pacing the length of the small parlor later that evening, Lydia wondered if one might harness his energy and put it to good use. He could probably illuminate the entire castle.

  They’d let Richard choose a room for himself, and he’d instinctively taken one in the section of the house designed for male guests. It was a very small section, proving this had always been a Malcolm stronghold.

  “His mother was twenty when we met,” Max was trying to explain. “Married to a man who wasn’t interested in women, if you know what I mean.”

  Lydia had read a great deal of personal information these past years. She also had some memory of a gentleman in her family’s village for which such a thing was said. She didn’t completely comprehend, but she nodded so as not to interrupt Max’s thoughts.

  He ran his hand through already rumpled curls. “I didn’t understand at the time. I only learned it later when she told me she was carrying my child. I thought she was experienced and understood these matters. I was eighteen and knew nothing at all. I thought her husband would kill me. Instead, a child gave his marriage legitimacy. He was willing to support Richard if I set aside funds for his future.”

  “But you left the instant Richard was born, so you’d not be tempted again?” Lydia wasn’t entirely sure how to handle this conversation, except as commentary for his journal. Was he saying he wouldn’t produce any more illegitimate children, that he had more experience now? Except he had two more mistakes to his name.

  “The marriage wouldn’t look legitimate if Susan continued to fall into my bed,” he said dryly. “Any time we saw each other. . . Edinburgh is much smaller than you realize, and I hadn’t learned how to say no to a beautiful woman. And this wretched magnetism assured that she wasn’t the only one latching on to me. I was too green to finesse the ugly scenes. I had to leave. I’m not sure Richard understands that, and there is no way I can explain it to him.”

  “He’ll believe whatever his mother told him anyway. It’s interesting that once her husband died, she told her son the truth. There doesn’t seem to be any resentment that I can see. He is a very fine, level-headed lad.” Lydia jotted notes, but she was more fascinated by the man than her work.

  “Susan and her husband were both blond and small. Richard is dark and tall, like an Ives.” Max shrugged. “I’m sure he had questions. He might never have asked them if Susan hadn’t gone to my mother and demanded support after her husband died.”

  Lydia smiled at that. “Your mother would not have taken that news lightly. Did you hear the thunder on the other side of the world?”

  “When the letters caught up with me, they filled a mail bag,” he admitted with a laugh. “I’m rather amazed that she has not removed my head for not telling her about the others.”

  “She has been living on the dream of one son who never comes home. To have three grandsons she might coddle. . . She will collect them all, one way or another. It’s an interesting way for her to visit the world through their eyes.”

  “You are not any more upset than my mother.” He stopped in front of the table where she took notes of this conversation.

  “Had I been married to you, I would have cut your throat,” she said wryly. “I’m a vicar’s daughter. I believe in vows and faithfulness and all that. Have you ever heard the Malcolm marriage vow? I vow to love, honor, and take thee in equality for so long as we both shall live. . . ? Equality means the wife doesn’t have to put up with a straying husband.”

  But he would stray once he left here, she kn
ew. It was inevitable. She had to think straight and not let his masculine proximity undermine her resolve.

  Max placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward until their noses nearly touched, and her pulse escalated. His was a rather large and manly nose.

  “Equality is a concept I understand better than love and honor. My father may have been a brilliant investor and my mother a dotty socialite, but he listened to her and used what he learned from her to make us all richer. That’s what a partnership is about—respecting and understanding each other’s differences. That only happens if both partners are equal.”

  Considering she fraudulently held her position, Lydia didn’t feel very equal. And Max was the educated grandson of an earl, while her education and origins were much humbler.

  “I have no problem with equality,” he continued, dismissing her fear as if he truly believed they were matched. “If only I could control the behavior of others. . .”

  “And control your own behavior,” Lydia reminded him forcefully, leaning forward until their noses did touch. “It takes two to make a child.”

  He tilted his head and kissed her.

  She could no more resist his kiss than he apparently could resist the women who fell into his bed. She caught his rough cheeks between her hands and kissed him back.

  Shoving aside all her neatly stacked papers, Max sat on the table. Accepting her invitation, he threaded his fingers through her hair and plunged his tongue inside her mouth.

  He’d taught her this heated exchange last night. Hot lava flowed through her blood. Unbalanced, Lydia grasped his shoulders—his muscled, steady shoulders that held her as if she were a wisp of nothing.

  Max swung his legs over to her side of the table and yanked her fully against him, until she inhaled earth and shaving soap and masculine musk and nearly swooned in his arms. She ran her hands under his coat and pushed up his waistcoat so she could feel the ripple of muscle in the same way he touched her. She gasped when he reached her breast, but her corset was impervious. She wanted out of it, right now.