The Librarian's Spell

by Patricia Rice

  “It’s hard to imagine you’re in charge of all this,” Sara said in awe as they descended the main stairs. “Will you show us your library? I’d love to see journals on rearing children who imagine ghosts and goblins.”

  Lydia had dreaded the moment when a guest asked her to find a specific book. She put it off now. “Perhaps there will be time later. You haven’t talked young Geordie out of monsters under the bed yet?”

  “Not monsters. He’s quite convinced he’s talking to Papa’s ghost. And there is a spirit in the cemetery of a young girl he likes to play with. Play with, mind you. He’ll be labeled strange if he does not give it up.” Sara didn’t hurry down the stairs but stopped at each bend to admire the scenery from the windows and to examine the open cubicles.

  Their mother hadn’t encouraged any of them to develop their various Malcolm abilities for fear their father’s parishioners would call them witches.

  Perhaps that fear held her back? Lydia cast a longing look at the wall concealing her secret library, but she couldn’t leave Max fending off relatives on his own.

  Feeling like Boudicca off to do battle, she led her troops onward and prayed she was doing the right thing with this wedding.

  Twenty-three

  Garbed in one of the new suits he’d ordered so he didn’t shame Lydia, hoping he could pay for them soon, Max lingered at the entrance of the great hall, studying the occupants. He recognized his aunt and few others. A new female he didn’t know—surely she wasn’t part of the wedding party?—glanced up. He avoided looking directly at her.

  Not seeing Lydia, Max steeled himself for the moment of truth. By the windows waited a tall group of males who could only be family. If he couldn’t convince them of his identity, his goose was cooked. He stalked past the females as if they weren’t there.

  His tension eased as he thought he recognized the men his mother had chosen to stand up with him tomorrow. They watched him expectantly, testing. One was obviously a tall, dark Ives. The shorter twins were several years older and auburn, like their mother.

  He acknowledged a fourth, slender, blond man and his higher title first. “Rainford. How’s the duke faring? Did he prevail and you’re a physician these days?”

  The marquess grimaced. “Don’t ask. That’s a topic for a night of drinking, not a wedding.” He glanced at his companions waiting for Max to identify them.

  Max shook his head at the lot of them. “It may be over twenty years, but you really don’t think I’d forget the clowns who nearly drowned me, did you? And for honesty’s sake, if I were a real fraud, I could easily have had someone research everyone my mother invited. It’s not as if any of you are monks.”

  “We taught you to swim while drowning you, didn’t we?” Rainford asked.

  “There are easier ways of learning,” Max replied dryly.

  The others remained silent, waiting, simply because they were obstinate that way.

  With a sigh of exasperation, he nodded at the dark-haired earl who stood taller than he. “Ives, your proboscis is still larger than mine.” He turned to the auburn twins. “Bran, Brendan, I can still tell the two of you apart because Bran squints.”

  “It’s him,” Bran said in disgust. “I was hoping for an imposter we could pound into pulp and dump down an oubliette.”

  “This is a Malcolm fortress. You don’t really believe the women had an oubliette, do you?” Max asked, fighting a grin of extreme relief. “I’m hoping to uncover a hypocaust and prove the Romans were here first.”

  “How did you persuade the women to even allow us on the premises?” Bran asked, still the mouthpiece for the twins. “Will they allow us to explore?”

  Max shrugged. “I didn’t know it was sacred ground. I’ve roamed everywhere. It’s all about books and not very interesting, except for the tower.”

  The questions started to fly. Max could almost shut his eyes and pretend he was twelve and summering in Surrey with his cousins again. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from the entrance. The image of Lydia kept him company all day as he dug and hauled and calculated. Lydia, laughing. Lydia, with fire in her eyes. Lydia, naked in his bed. He was obsessed by a woman in the same way he’d once been obsessed by engineering designs. Lydia wasn’t a bridge or railroad, but she was the gateway to his uncertain future just as physical structures once had been.

  She rewarded his anticipation in spectacular fashion. Wearing a dark blue gown to match her eyes and emphasize her curves, her long elegant throat enhanced by a circle of sapphires from the family jewels, and her sun-goddess hair adorned with glittering pins, Lydia drew every eye in the room.

  “My word, Maxwellian,” Gerard, the Earl of Ives and Wystan murmured, using an old sobriquet. “She’s a veritable Valkyrie. You have met your match.”

  The men with him murmured their appreciation. With eyes only for Lydia, Max didn’t listen or notice the approach of danger until she was upon him.

  Richard’s mother grasped his cravat, stood on her toes, and kissed his jaw. “Our son didn’t mention that you’d grown into such a handsome man, Maxwell,” she purred.

  Fascinated by Lydia and not the pouter pigeon clutching his chest, Max watched his intended’s expression with trepidation twisting his gut. From experience, he knew most women would be furious at seeing him mauled by a voluptuous beauty. Others might turn cold and walk away. Lydia, his contrary Lydia, grinned broadly at his predicament and steered her companions toward the other ladies, confident he could deal with his own problems.

  From the color of their hair, Max gathered the women with Lydia were her family. Their first sight of him was of a diamond-bedecked lady pawing him. Far from being humiliated, Lydia laughed. At him, of course.

  He loved that woman. He loved her with all his heart and soul and not just the part of him that had noticed her first. He’d fight tooth and nail to make her feel as he did right now, like he would explode with happiness and anticipation.

  To that purpose, he had to learn to deal with his magnetic disability. He glanced down at the woman who had carried his first-born son. “Susan, you look charming this evening. Why don’t you introduce yourself to the earl and marquess while I speak to my bride?”

  He hadn’t seen Susan in sixteen years, but he still recognized her fluttery lashes and pout. They no longer made his heart pound. He left her without a qualm to cross the room to his betrothed.

  * * *

  Lydia was a little shaky as she introduced her family to Lady Agnes and her cadre. She’d been terrified of meeting Max’s friends, of being asked to find books she couldn’t, of introducing her critical family to the more eccentric, aristocratic Malcolms. The books had been calling seductively to her all day, promising escape. What if they finally wished to speak to her?

  But she couldn’t abandon their guests, even when she entered her own drawing room to see a gorgeous lady in Max’s arms. The sight had shaken all her other fears away.

  But then Max had beamed at her as if she were the sun and moon and stars, and her world had righted again. A man who could do that could surely tilt the tower back in place.

  She knew the instant Max came up behind her. She stepped back to be closer. He placed a large, reassuring hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “What the devil is Richard’s mother doing here?”

  She almost laughed again. Nervous laughter, perhaps, but Max did have a way of keeping her feet on the ground. “Invited herself, I understand,” she murmured, “to see that Richard isn’t being locked in a dungeon.”

  In a louder voice, she said, “Mother, Sara, this is Maxwell Ives, my betrothed. Max, Mrs. Lovell Wystan and Mrs. Ralph Brown, my mother and sister.”

  Seeing Max through her family’s eyes, Lydia could understand why they might doubt he was interested in dowdy, plain her. Dressed in a tailored black dinner suit with crisp starched linen, glittering studs in his cuffs, a fresh cravat over his elegantly embroidered silver waistcoat, Max gave every appearance of wealth and aristocracy. They’d never se
en him in a three-day-old beard, reeking of excrement, and coated in filth.

  By the time pleasantries were exchanged, dinner was ready. Max caught Lydia’s elbow and held her back while his mother happily arranged the guests in order of precedence.

  “My cousins recognize me,” he said in relief. “Have you been introduced to Rainford and Ives yet?”

  “When they arrived,” she whispered back. “You have an interesting family. They didn’t ask about the library but wondered if they could visit the roof.”

  Max snorted inelegantly. “Give them an inch of permission, and they’ll take a mile. You’ll find them in your library soon enough. I just wanted to thank you for not making a scene over Susan. She’s always been forward.”

  Daringly, Lydia stood on her toes and kissed his freshly-shaved cheek. “I have high expectation that your tastes in women have improved greatly since you were eighteen. I’m sure she was just admiring your fine tailoring.” She smoothed his lapels.

  She needed Max’s assurance to survive her wedding dinner. She was dining with an earl and a marquess! The men who would be standing up for Max were even more intimidating than Max with their suave good looks and elegant London attire.

  “Who’s the brown wren on the other side of the epergne?” Max whispered, leading her into the dining room. He maneuvered into the chair beside Lydia, discarding his mother’s carefully arranged place cards.

  “Belle Malcolm. She has been teaching at the school but her experience is with running a large estate. Your mother brought her here to be our steward. I’m sure there’s a story there, but I haven’t had time to learn it. If she bothers you, we will send her back with your mother.”

  The new steward mostly kept her gaze on her plate, Lydia noticed. That wasn’t the best test—especially with the epergne hiding Max—but perhaps Miss Malcolm was not a woman who liked men.

  Susan was happily entertaining Max’s bachelor cousins. Richard’s mother was still in her thirties and beautiful. Lydia was grateful Max didn’t seem interested in her sophisticated looks and flirtation.

  “The moment I saw you laughing at my predicament with Susan, Cupid’s arrow struck. I swear it did,” Max told her, as if saying the day had been warm. He cut off a particularly succulent bite of his roast and placed it on her plate. “I’ve never loved anyone before. I thought I did a time or two, but that was infatuation and lust.”

  Lydia felt a warm tingle in her midsection that she blamed on Max’s proximity. She associated the seductive rumble of his voice with his hands kneading her breasts, and it caused terrifying flutters in the vicinity of her heart. “Gratitude,” she murmured. “You’re just grateful I didn’t murder you.”

  He chuckled. “That, too. I am most exceedingly grateful for your patience and understanding. But that’s part of the whole. I love your beauty. I love the way you respond in bed—those are more parts of the whole. But what I feel is more, as if a silver chain binds our hearts.”

  The tingle in her middle became a raging wildfire. She had never thought of herself as particularly lovable. She might, on occasion, be indispensable. Mostly, she thought of herself as practical, a convenience. She loved her family in a compartmentalized way, because they were family. How did she, in her narrow, confining realm, love an expansive man like Max, one who seemed to encompass the entire world?

  Before she could formulate any sensible reply, the marquess of Rainford stood up and raised his glass in toast. The other gentlemen took turns doing the same. With a little coaching from his mother, even Richard stood to say a few words at his first adult dinner.

  By the time they finished their toasts and plates of Marta’s delicacies, Lydia was feeling a little lightheaded, even though she’d imbibed only watered wine.

  “I think this is where I’m supposed to lead the ladies away so you may carouse with your friends,” she whispered to Max. “Do not leave me alone too long or I may run and hide.”

  He patted her hand. “I make no promises. They have hard heads and years of joshing me to catch up on.”

  “Oh dear, no.” Lydia set down her napkin. “I cannot do it all alone. I love the company, but I am not a night owl, and I am out of energy. Are couples supposed to walk to the altar exhausted?”

  “Probably prevents one or both from running,” he said with a laugh. “They’re too hungover to think and too fatigued to fight their families. Shall I announce the gentlemen are leaving when you do?”

  The warmth in her midsection spread at his understanding. “I don’t suppose telling them there are reports of a ghost of a Roman soldier guarding his hoard of silver would distract them?”

  “It would,” he crowed. “But do you really want drunken guests on the ramparts at this hour? You’re the librarian. You’re allowed to be elusive and eccentric. Flee. Leave the others to do as they please.”

  “You won’t mind?” she asked a little too eagerly. She might not believe herself the Malcolm Librarian, but she would love to pretend for one evening.

  “If you will trust me to handle Susan and the wren, I will trust you not to find some excuse in your books to call off the wedding.” He leaned over and kissed her nose.

  The library was definitely calling to her, and hope pattered in her heart. “My turn to be grateful for your understanding,” she whispered back, before standing and making her announcement that it was time for the ladies to withdraw.

  The guests stood. One of the auburn twins protested and suggested the men join the ladies.

  “That’s Bran,” Max murmured. “He doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. And he’s angling for Susan’s attention.”

  Lydia nodded understanding and addressed the protester. “And deny the ladies a chance to gossip about you? Shame on you, Mr. Pascoe. Enjoy your brandies and reunion. We’ll see you in a little while.”

  Since there was no small withdrawing parlor in the main block, Lydia led the way back to the great hall where tea trays had been laid out and the sconces turned up. As if she were accustomed to being the lady of the house and doing as she pleased, she saw her guests settled, then excused herself for business.

  Her own inhibited family murmured objections, but Max’s Malcolm relations quite took it in stride and waved her off. She should probably worry about what mischief they were up to, but she heeded the call of the books.

  Maybe, finally, they would open to her?

  Eagerly, she slipped through the concealed door in her office and lit an oil lamp.

  An ominous wind whistled up the stairs as it never had before. Pages rustled. Books shifted uneasily. She climbed upward, hoping to see a misplaced volume or two push out at her.

  Nothing. They told her nothing.

  She sat at the top of the stairs, with the wind tossing her hair, and cried.

  If anything, the books were telling her she would lose them all.

  Twenty-four

  Max did his best to abstain from drinking more than a sip for each toast, but even his head for liquor was feeling it as Gerard lifted his glass once more.

  “To your magnificent bride.” Taller and more elegantly lean than Max, the Earl of Ives and Wystan swung his glass as if he hadn’t downed half a bottle. “If time weren’t so limited, I’d pursue her myself. She is a goddess.”

  Max grinned and drank to that. “You’ll have to find your own librarian. My goddess is attached to the castle.”

  Max felt that like a hook in his soul. If he didn’t fix the tower, if anything happened to the library. . . Lydia would be more than devastated. He couldn’t begin to imagine how they would go on in such a case.

  He loved her. He’d promised to give her a home. But if he couldn’t give her the home she needed—

  She’d never said she loved him.

  “Tell us the tale of the Roman soldier,” Bran insisted, munching from the fruit tray the staff had delivered.

  The Roman soldier? Ah, the distraction Lydia had concocted and he’d offered. He might not read tales, but he’d learned
to tell them over long, lonely nights over campfires. “I’m not a historian,” he warned. “The more scholarly among you will have to fill in the blanks.”

  “In other words, we should make it up ourselves,” Gerard said with a laugh. “The Romans conquered our blue-faced ancestors back in the first century, when dirt walls made adequate defenses.”

  “The savages probably considered any walls as corrals to pen in iron-wearing eccentrics,” the solemn marquess added without inflection to indicate humor or cynicism. “Maybe our pagan ancestors built the tower to keep an eye on the soldiers.”

  Max grinned. His family was inclined to view the world through broader perspectives. “I’ve found evidence of a primitive watchtower, although from what I’ve uncovered so far, our more civilized ancestors built on the foundation of an old Roman site. The Romans liked their creature comforts. The original foundation shows a sophisticated construction more suited to Romans than to Picts or Britons. My theory is that a number of those soldiers married our blue-faced ancestors and remained behind to fend off other invaders.”

  “They remained behind with a hoard of silver?” the marquess asked. Normally a serious fellow, he was just drunk enough to play along.

  “Silver was mined around here.” Gerard waved his long fingers vaguely. “But these days, oil is the new gold. Everyone is hunting it before the Americans corner the market.”

  “I thought it was coal they mined here.” Max wondered if the earl was concocting a tale of his own. Oil? Oil could be had in Scotland? His mind drifted back to his tumble earlier—the hole had smelled oily.

  “The coal mines have exhausted the easy, lucrative seams. Since everyone wants oil now, deeper coal production is becoming economically unfeasible. Your Romans wouldn’t have known what to do with oil though.” Gerard sipped his brandy.