The Librarian's Spell

by Patricia Rice

  “I have this overpowering urge to make a child with you,” he whispered against her mouth. “A daughter this time, one like you, with sunset hair and a laughing smile and caring nature. Marry me, Lydia. I will do everything in my power to be faithful.”

  He might believe that now. . .

  But what she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her. Instead, she had every certainty that she might die if she never knew what it was like to share this man’s bed.

  “You will make your mother a very happy woman,” she whispered, refusing to give him power over her. She had to go into this the same way he did—logical, practical, lustful, but not in the least bit romantic. She would not swoon at his feet like the others.

  Max carried his kisses down her throat. “I am likely to make you a very unhappy woman. You stand forewarned.”

  Fear churned in her stomach. His honesty in this allowed her to be very clear that this was not a true marriage, in any sense of the word she knew. But she’d been destined to lead a lonely life anyway. Why not enjoy this brief affair while it lasted?

  “I am likely to haunt you around the world to force you to accept your responsibilities,” she warned, in all fairness.

  Carrying his kisses as far as they could go, he began untangling the ribbons and buttons she hid behind. “If haunting is the price I must pay, it’s worth it. Believe me when I say I have never felt like this, I have never attempted to seduce a woman, and I most certainly never ever proposed marriage. You are driving me mad, not my mother. Say yes, Lydia, and do us both a favor.”

  She wanted to say Prove lovemaking is worth marriage, but that was no different than falling into his bed like every other woman. Did she have the strength to resist. . . ?

  He lifted her to the table and ran his hand under her skirt. Heat flooded her senses when he found the flesh at the top of her garter and beneath the lace edge of her drawers. He untied the ribbons and pulled down her stocking so his bare hand stroked bare skin while he kissed her.

  Lydia nearly slid off.

  “Say yes, Lydia. Say yes and make us both miserable.” His big, callused hand slid up her thigh as far as her drawers would allow.

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, not entirely certain which question she answered, his proposal of misery or his seduction.

  “For this one night, I will make you the happiest of women,” he crowed.

  Before she had any idea what he was about, he lifted her and carried her out of the parlor, straight to the guest bedchamber she had taken for her own. Carried. Her. As if she were no more than a child. For that alone, she’d forgive him almost anything. Breathless, she clung to his neck and tried to protest, but he simply kissed her senseless.

  Max laid her against the turned-down covers, continuing with kisses in places no man should touch. He was so close. . . She inhaled him with the air she breathed, felt his weight more strongly than the bed beneath her.

  Only when he stepped back to shed his coat did Lydia dare exhale, and then the vision of raw Max emerging from his civilized clothing swept her breath away again. He cast his waistcoat to join his coat. In shirt sleeves, his cravat untied to reveal the brown bare throat beneath, the linen barely concealing his muscled torso, Max was the image of every Greek god she’d ever imagined.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, insensibly, because she could see what he was doing.

  “I have found inexperienced ladies are too slow to figure out a man’s fastenings.” He tugged his shirt from the band of his trousers. “And I want your hands on me sooner rather than later.”

  “My hands. . . ?” But now that he said it, that was precisely what she wanted—her hands on him and vice versa. How very odd. She’d never noticed a craving to touch bare flesh before.

  He kneeled over her, his bare torso above her, his knees pressing down the mattress on either side. With deft expertise, he began unfastening her bodice. “All ladies should wear their buttons in front. As a husband, am I allowed to decree that?”

  Shattered by a vast expanse of bronzed male chest and. . . broad brown nipples, Lydia could only respond in kind. “I have no maid to help me dress. Do husbands do that?”

  He untied the ribbons of her corset cover and unknotted her front-tying corset. “This husband would dispense with whalebone entirely, if given a choice. The other pretty lacy things can be enticing. And perhaps gowns I can tug off your shoulders need not fasten in front.” He leaned over and ran kisses over the naked flesh he’d exposed.

  Her plain linen shift still covered her breasts, but she could feel the heat of his mouth clear to her soul. And other more physical places. In fact, places she had never thought about began to ache and pulse. If he only came home once a year to do this. . .

  His tongue sampled the tip of her breast, wetting the thin cloth. Lydia surrendered any pretense of thought and simply fought swooning from sensation. She ran her hands over his chest, touched his nipples as he did hers, and longed for his lips again. To that end, she slid her hands around his neck and tugged his mouth back to hers.

  He obliged, plunging his tongue between her teeth with a demand that echoed lower cravings. Lydia pushed aside her vague knowledge of what happened between a man and a woman and surrendered to desire.

  Somehow, his rough hands—those hands that worked so well on worldly problems—removed her bodice, tugging it from her shoulders and arms, allowing her corset to fall open. Her breasts spilled wantonly into those large palms. She shuddered with need as he played her like a fine instrument, dispensing with her final frail garment.

  Rolling over, Max placed her astride of him. Lydia gasped and tried to hide her nakedness with her arm. He laughed and pushed her skirt and petticoat past her hips. “You are Juno, goddess of marriage and childbirth, queen of all. Do not conceal your beauty, my goddess. Cast your spell on me.”

  He half sat to suckle at her now bare breasts. Lydia clung to his hard shoulders, aware of strong thighs beneath her bottom, and of a pressure. . .

  Goddess of childbirth. . . He wanted babies. And babies came from that place that ached with need.

  He had her skirts off and her under him again, with only her drawers as protection.

  * * *

  Max thoroughly enjoyed Lydia’s startled, excited responses. He didn’t feel in the least pressured into this act. He was the one eagerly tearing off her clothes, not the other way around. Admittedly, he’d done his fair share of clothes-tearing in the past, but only out of jaded experience, because it had been expected. He’d never enjoyed this heightened degree of lust for one woman, a woman who evidently enjoyed what he was doing and did her inexpert best to offer him the same pleasures. Lydia filled his vision, his thoughts, and his hands. His desire to claim her extinguished all other considerations. He rubbed his erection against her drawers, increasing the pressure, and her feminine moan was sweet music to his ears.

  She wasn’t delicate, so he didn’t need to feel like a rutting bull on top of her. Still, once he’d wrestled her down to her drawers, he slid to one side so his weight wasn’t too suffocating. Her sighs as he lapped at her extended—rosy pink—nipples engorged him to the extent that he had to undo his trousers. He retained enough sense to know he should go slow with a virgin, but he could smell her desire, feel her moisture as he rubbed between her thighs. Everything male in him reacted when her hips rose into his questing hands. He slid a finger inside to calm her while he continued their head-spinning kisses.

  She went still at the invasion, but he’d learned a thing or three about the female body over the years. He tickled the nub of her sex, inserted another finger, and she was writhing with willingness in seconds. With gratitude that this desirable woman wanted this as much as he did, Max slid down her drawers.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders and kissed him fiercely. He gloried in her physical response. His Juno was no shrinking violet, but a woman with needs as strong as his own. Reassured, he shoved off his trousers. He wasn’t wearing drawers.

&nb
sp; Kissing, stroking, he parted her beautiful thighs, answering another of his questions—her moist hair was a darker red in this place untouched by sunshine.

  “I vow to take thee in love, honor, and equality.” He murmured the wedding vows as he positioned himself.

  “Love?” she murmured weakly, before crying out as he pushed his cock into her narrow passage.

  He’d said love. He’d never said that before. It was probably just his lust speaking.

  Beyond words now, Max drank of Lydia’s strawberry-scented lips, stroked her incredible breasts, and ripped past the barrier of her maidenhood. She was his now, now and forever.

  The realization momentarily scared him, but his animal body didn’t care. He drove deeper.

  She bit his shoulder as he drove her to the heights of ecstasy, moaning and writhing. She was already on the brink of release. He need only. . . touch her. Her climax fed his, and he lost his mind to bliss.

  Later, when he regained consciousness, Max held her shuddering and weeping into his shoulder and contemplated the enormity of this commitment.

  He would not see Burma anytime soon. He had to fix a tower, win back his father’s estate, and if he planted a child in these next few weeks, he’d have to linger to see it born. After that. . .

  Lydia might be glad to see the back of him.

  Nineteen

  Lydia woke with the dawn, as always. A man’s naked body lay sprawled half on top of her, his weight crushing her into the mattress.

  Max. She rather enjoyed the intimacy of male flesh on hers.

  Will she, nil she, she was married. Well, she hadn’t repeated the vows, but she’d behaved as if she had, and now a child might come of it. So, yes, she was very married in her own mind. She’d chosen this uncivilized heathen as her mate for life. . .

  Because his mother had said they were fated. That part didn’t make a great deal of sense, but the physical part. . . Yes, that made good sense. She’d never felt better. Well, she was sore, but she was curious and interested in exploring more. Her breasts seemed to swell with the need to be touched. She thought the manly part stiffening against her thigh might indicate Max was interested as well.

  The tower rumbled as if it had just awakened too.

  Max grumbled into her shoulder, kissed her cheek, and pried himself out of the pillow. “Thunder?”

  Lydia gestured at the window. “No clouds. The tower.”

  “Cripes.” He nibbled her shoulder and caressed her hair over her breast. “You are my sunshine, but I fear the tower is my mistress for now. I’m ordering the bricks. We’ll figure out how to pay for them later.”

  “Such a romantic,” she whispered, daring to caress his broad chest. How extremely odd that she felt comfortable doing this, as if he’d always been in her bed. Is that what his mother had seen? That their souls were somehow connected? Or their bodies, anyway.

  “I’ve never had to romance a woman, just swive them.” He leered down at her, rolling over her so his swelling sword pushed at the sore place between her legs. “And as much as I would like to repeat last night, I will respect your ravaged virtue. Will you allow me to come to your bed again tonight?”

  “Could I stop you?” she asked with interest, lifting her hips to indicate a little soreness might be healed easily.

  “No,” he answered succinctly, accepting her invitation.

  Lydia closed her eyes and succumbed to the bliss of his powerful thrusts. He was a big man and filled her in ways she had never dreamed. She bit back her screams as he plunged deeper than he had the night before, igniting an explosion that rattled her more thoroughly than the trembling tower.

  His muscled arms strained on either side of her head as he spilled deep inside her, shuddering with the power of his release. They both muffled their cries. They would need to move to the tower tonight, and send Lloyd and Bakari elsewhere. She wanted the freedom to explore this new adventure without condemnation from anyone overhearing them.

  “Magical,” he grunted, collapsing on top of her. “I should have sought a Malcolm sooner. I will never want another woman again.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean other women won’t want you,” she warned. But his words warmed her as much as his body did, even if she knew this wasn’t a promise, just a wish.

  The shuddering tower shook them awake again. This time, Max sprang out of bed, yanking on his trousers and shirt and hastily buttoning. “I’d better shore up that wall until the bricks arrive. I’d hoped to explore the underground foundation more.”

  “Do I need to find out if it was built on the bones of saints or dragons?” Lydia asked sleepily, admiring muscled buttocks and lamenting when he covered them. She had never known she was a wanton.

  “I doubt you’ll find thousand-year-old journals to tell you. But you might want to peek at the oldest books, just in case.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you. I need to practice saying that.”

  “You need to practice feeling that,” she said dryly, pulling the covers over her breasts. “I am told that lust and love are not the same.”

  “That is why I love you,” he crowed. “You are a sensible woman.”

  He dashed out. She could hear him running up the stairs to his room. Lydia would like to hear him explain his state of undress to Lloyd.

  She’d like to explain to herself why she had just agreed to share her life with a man who would forget her as soon as he sailed away.

  She supposed, in a way, it made sense. While all was confusion and travail, she could pretend she was the Malcolm Librarian, and Max could pretend he was the marrying kind. For this moment in time, they could support each other’s fantasies. She would treasure this bliss she had never expected to know when the time came to part.

  She bathed in the guest bath, wondering if she was eroding the foundation as she did so. She dressed in her plainest gown, prepared to tackle her chores and not reveal her new status as fallen woman. Besides the chafing between her legs, she didn’t feel fallen. She felt as if she glowed inside and the whole world would notice.

  Richard was at the breakfast table alone when Lydia entered. That shook her a little. She’d have to learn to live with Max’s sons. Plural. She’d never even had a brother.

  “Good morning, sir. Shall I call you Master Richard or just Richard?” she asked as she filled her plate.

  “My mother just calls me Dick,” he said, somewhat diffidently. “But I prefer Richard. Lady Agnes says you are to be my stepmother.”

  Lydia refrained from rolling her eyes and declaring the lady an interfering witch. Everyone who knew Lady Agnes knew that anyway. “We will see about that, but if you prefer Richard, then Richard it shall be. Where is Lady Agnes this morning?”

  “Writing letters. She writes lots of letters. She brought her own paper with her. It has gold cherubs in the corner. She used to send me letters when I was at school.” Richard dug into his stacked plate of oatcakes and sausages.

  “That was kind of her. I believe knowing she has a bright grandson like you has made her very happy.” While Max had made her very unhappy. Lydia didn’t see the need to mention that.

  She carried her plate to the seat across from him. She had some understanding of why Mr. C had preferred eating in his tower. One never knew who would be at the table, and conversing with strangers was difficult. But this was Max’s son. She was Max’s wife, almost. She needed to remember how one behaved around family. It had been years since she’d seen hers.

  The boy shrugged and lapsed into silence after his brief burst of speech.

  “Have you met Bakari yet?” she asked, not knowing what webs Lady Agnes had been weaving.

  Richard nodded. “He’s not British.”

  “Your father is British. Bakari’s mother is Egyptian, which is a nationality even older than ours. So Bakari is the best of two fascinating countries. Admittedly, that might make it difficult for him in school since some people are not as worldly as your father.” Lydia tried to
sound as if she were worldly too, but mostly, she read a lot.

  Richard frowned a little as if he were considering this. “He’s small. He’ll be bullied.”

  “I’m afraid so. I am hoping we may find him a tutor until he’s a little stronger. He must be very excited to have a big brother.” My word, the responsibilities for this family kept growing. Would she be able to manage?

  Especially if she got booted from the castle.

  The boy nodded uncertainly. “I suppose. I wanted brothers, but he’s pretty young. Are you really marrying my father?”

  Lady Agnes shouldn’t be raising the hopes of young boys on the basis of prescience. But after last night. . . she and Max were for all intents and purposes, married.

  “It does appear so,” Lydia admitted, not feeling as if the possibility were real quite yet. She’d only met the man. But she’d known him for years through his correspondence. She knew how Max’s mind worked, even if she often disapproved of its workings. But now she had a tiny glimpse of why he was the way he was. “Will that matter to you since you’ve just met him?”

  Richard shook his head. “I’m going to university. I don’t need parents.”

  Lydia wanted to laugh at that. “You sound like your father. Whether you need us or not, we still walk this world and would appreciate being acknowledged upon occasion. Although I understand why you would consider me insignificant. Still, everyone needs a home. This one will always be open to you. I shall try to be helpful and not too parental.”

  He finished chewing his toast, then pushed aside his plate, obviously eager to be off. “Do you think I might see what my father is working on?”

  “You have full run of the place, just as he has. But you might want to listen to his cautions. Some of the walls appear to be in a precarious state.”

  Richard flashed a slight grin just like his father’s. “I believe I noticed. Thank you, ma’am.” He ran off.