The Librarian's Spell

by Patricia Rice

  Between them, they hauled George into the library stacks. The chamber was lit only by the lantern Lydia held.

  George glanced around at the shelves and the stairs spiraling out of sight to the invisible ceiling above and shuddered. “No wonder Crowley wants this place demolished. It has to be the lout’s idea of hell.”

  And then he passed out.

  * * *

  Once they’d found Dr. Dare to set George’s broken bones, and Max took himself off to bathe, Lydia allowed her family and friends to sweep her back to her suite. She was too shaken to argue.

  She was an entirely different woman from the one who had left these chambers a few hours ago. Or perhaps not entirely—she had just discovered parts of herself that she hadn’t known existed. She was quite reasonably rattled.

  “You saved the day, O Great Librarian,” Phoebe crowed. “Really, I think we should garb you in royal robes and hand you a broadsword to greet the testers. Did the Vikings have witches? I think you’re a direct descendant.”

  Lydia’s mother muttered about witches but Lydia focused on testers. “The trustees actually sent the testing committee today, why?”

  “We’ll ask later,“ Olivia said briskly. “Let me fix those pins in your hair again so we can attach the veil. The preacher has arrived. The chapel will be filling.”

  Could she repeat what she’d just done? Could she summon any book she needed—or a spirit? She desperately needed to read books on librarians. . .

  Longing to rush back to the journals to see if she might research what she prayed was her new position, Lydia impatiently allowed herself to be pushed and pulled and pinned and dressed in her finery.

  It was extremely fine finery, she had to admit, fingering the satin and lace and admiring the result in the mirror. Her new corset cinched in her waist and raised her breasts, and the delicate, fluttery lace disguised her size—as long as no one stood close to her besides Max. She almost grinned at that.

  Max loved her. Max still wanted to marry her even after she’d turned into some kind of medieval harridan. Max wanted to have children with her. And he would protect them just as he’d protected his dolt of a cousin, because that’s who Max was—a defender. A knight of her own.

  She could easily forget about medieval harridans, testers, crumbling tunnels, and lawsuits as long as she thought about Max.

  “Photograph!” Azmin demanded when the last frill and furbelow was in place.

  “With my ladies-in-waiting, please.” Lydia gestured for her gorgeously garbed friends to surround her. They’d all dressed as they’d pleased and made a colorful peacock display to offset Lydia’s plain vanilla attire. Her only color was her lovely sapphire necklace and blue hydrangea bouquet.

  Azmin glittered with gold jewelry and wore a gauzy sari in iridescent blue, green, and gold. Phoebe had attempted fashion in a raspberry-and-cream striped gown with a dark blue bodice to stay with the wedding’s blue theme. Olivia looked her usual lovely blond self in a sedate gown of soft blue silk that disguised the signs that she was increasing.

  Lydia’s mother and sister fought back tears of joy. Azmin joined the group, then squeezed the bulb to flash her camera light and capture the moment.

  “These are dry plates,” Azmin said, as if that meant anything to anyone. She pulled a plate from the camera, popped it into a wooden box, and produced another from her bag. “Let me take one more of just the bride, in case the chemicals weren’t laid correctly. I do wish they’d hurry and develop the color solution. This would be so gorgeous! I’ll have to touch up the final with paint.”

  After the portrait was done, Lydia’s mother and sister hurried downstairs to warn everyone the bridal party was on its way. Her ladies lifted her train so Lydia could navigate the stone stairs. At the bottom, the servants respectfully lined the corridor, holding a flowered arch for Lydia to walk under. Tears welled as she smiled and thanked each individual.

  This was her day. If she never knew another happy moment, Lydia would remember this one forever. For the first time in her life, people noticed her, instead of the other way around. She didn’t particularly like attention, but for this one moment, she felt lovely and important. She lifted her chin in pride and let all her other problems subside. Today, she married Max, a man who loved her just as she was.

  With the servants trailing behind her like an honor guard, Lydia walked through the towering, paneled great hall, down the art-studded long corridor on the far side, and into the chapel where her guests waited. Lady Agatha had insisted on potted rowans at the altar.

  Admiring the trees, Lydia didn’t worry so much about heads turning to watch her. She wanted to acknowledge each and every guest, but her gaze fixed on the amazing man in elegant tailed coat and slightly crooked cravat waiting at the altar, dwarfing his tailored, aristocratic grooms. Max’s gaze fastened on her as if she were the only person in existence, and excitement danced in his eyes.

  Her heart nearly pounded through her chest, and her smile brightened.

  * * *

  His bride’s smile illuminated the chapel better than light through the stained glass. Max basked in the glory of her happiness. He hadn’t protected Lydia from aggravation, but she still smiled at him as if he had saved the day. How could he not love a woman that understanding?

  For Lydia, he would climb a mountain or swim an ocean. Surely he could manage a few minutes in front of the kind of gathering that had once made him quake in terror.

  Tenser than he’d been while buried in an oubliette, Max had waited until the last minute to walk out in front of dozens of guests, half of them female. He deliberately gazed over the heads of the audience, watching the entrance, hoping his disinterest would fend off any magnetic reactions. If any female looked his way, he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice. Usually, he knew instantly when the magnetism kicked in. Did this mean his magnetic field didn’t work in a church?

  Or because he loved Lydia? And she loved him. Did that mean they were bonded? He didn’t think he’d ever known love before. Disapproval, yes. Disappointment. Resignation. But unconditional love? Never. Women liked to show him off. His mother was proud of him occasionally. But that wasn’t quite the same thing as what he felt in Lydia. The connection between them was strong and true. He prayed that meant she’d never have to worry about his faithfulness.

  Once his lace-bedecked bride entered the chapel, she didn’t hesitate. With her glorious red-gold hair shimmering in the stained-glass light, Lydia strode down the aisle, her joyful smile solely for him. Max thought he might burst his buttons with love and pride. She was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on. The quality of her soul shone from her eyes. The beauty of her character danced on her lips. And if he looked any lower, to that splendidly revealed bosom, he’d cripple himself. He contented himself with imagining removing all that lace.

  He held out his callused hand, the one he’d spent soap and time scrubbing as clean as a civilized gentleman’s, even though he wore gloves now. She clasped his palm eagerly.

  Around them, the women had arranged potted trees. Max knew this symbolized the Malcolm Druidic heritage, so the eccentricity barely registered. He simply prayed nothing stopped this ceremony. He’d never meant to be anchored to one woman or one place, but this felt right. He could relax here, as he had never been able to elsewhere.

  All he had to do was conquer all the challenges waiting for him. Building bridges was easier.

  The preacher spoke the Malcolm vows of love and equality, and Max repeated them without hesitation. He had wanted to order a fancy wedding ring for his bride, but Lydia had wanted them to both wear rings to signify their commitment. So they had chosen plain bands from the village silversmith. Jewelry got tangled in equipment and Max never wore it, but he felt this as a piece of Lydia’s heart and wore it proudly. When he finally kissed his bride, the genteel crowd erupted in cheers, egged on by his incorrigible schoolmates and groomsmen—who tossed flour as well as rice. The mice would have a field day.


  “We have a dungeon I can throw the barbarians down,” he murmured against Lydia’s lips. “You have only to say the word.”

  “They have been celebrating your daring rescue while we dressed. I suspect by evening they will all be drunk enough to pour themselves into the cellar. Why waste your energy when it’s better spent on me?” she suggested, before turning back to the cheering audience and lifting her bouquet in acknowledgment.

  Chuckling, Max led his lovely librarian down the aisle and through the flowered and beribboned arch held by the servants, back to the great hall where a repast had been laid out for the guests.

  With not enough tables to serve a crowd this size, a buffet had been set up. Most of the guests circled it while the wedding party ate at the head of the room, under the arch the servants planted in buckets of soil.

  While Lydia and her ladies fussed with veils and lace and whispered excitedly to each other, Max lifted a glass in toast to the men who had answered his call even after twenty years of absence. “I am far beyond honored that you gentlemen have taken time from your busy lives to aid a prodigal in his time of need. I hope to toast you soon at your own happy nuptials. Who is next? Rainford?”

  The blond marquess grimaced. “The duke has arranged an assortment of exceptionally suitable maidens for my perusal. An heir is essential, so I suppose I’m next.” He glanced at the dark and dashing earl at his side. “You can choose from the ones left over, Ives. My father has excellent taste.”

  Gerard barked a laugh and sipped his champagne. “You forget, my lord, we are related through maternal lines only. I am an Ives and you are a mere Malcolm. We Ives proliferate with males. We have an overabundance of heirs to the marquisate. And the pater will probably live until eternity, so there is no rush at all.”

  “Money, not heirs, drives us,” Bran announced from the far end of the table. “We’ll accept your leftovers, Rainford.”

  The non-talkative twin intervened. “Rainford’s prospects will have no interest in impoverished, untitled sons of diplomats.”

  Max gestured at the array of guests, many of them his mother’s students and teachers. “Look out there, my friends, at some of the finest ladies in the kingdom. If they do not have wealth, they have intelligence and integrity, and that is worth far more than gold.”

  “And they’ve been known to drive men mad with their talk of ghosts and auras and spirits and things that go bump in the night,” Gerard grumbled.

  Lydia whispered in Max’s ears. “Tell him he’s the next one destined to marry a barmy Malcolm. A barmy Malcolm says so.”

  Max laughed and kissed her, in front of friends and family. Their guests cheered and lifted their glasses in unspoken toast.

  “This is the happiest day of my life,” he murmured, touching his crystal glass against hers. “Let us remember this moment forever.”

  “Look this way and smile,” Azmin shouted.

  As they turned in her direction, she flashed her blinding camera lights.

  When Max could see again, he spied his uncle speaking with Hugh Morgan and Miss Trivedi, the team he hoped would be overseeing their financial future, once he talked to the judge. There was the meteor on his sunlit horizon.

  He gulped down the rest of his champagne.

  Twenty-nine

  “I wish we’d had time for a honeymoon,” Max whispered in Lydia’s ear as he removed the pins and lace from her hair later that evening. “I’d take you away from all this, to a place with warm breezes and moonlight and the ocean tide lapping at our feet.”

  “If I’m with you, it does not matter about tides and breezes,” Lydia said, stretching her aching neck as the weight of all the folderol was lifted from her head. Her hair rippled down her chemise—Max had already divested her of her sumptuous gown.

  She did not mention that what she really wanted to do was go into the library and test her new gift. Max might be as pragmatic as she, but this was their wedding night. She would never have another—even if they’d already anticipated their vows these past weeks.

  “You really don’t long for romantic strolls down a sandy beach or a fancy hotel with gilded cherubs?” he asked, kissing her throat. “You are that tied to this castle?”

  “Why do you ask?” She was terrified he meant to ask her to leave the castle—or that he meant to leave.

  “I’ll admit,” he said reluctantly, “That I am not the world’s most romantic person. I was hoping to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

  Lydia muffled a laugh and worked on his shirt studs. “It is not romance I require. It’s you, just as you are, who I admire. But we were discussing honeymoons. Are you saying you do not want a beach but something else?”

  “I want you.” He nibbled her ear, sending a thrill to her midsection. “Never doubt that. But your performance today as a Latin-speaking lady intrigues me more than any beach or gilded cherub. Will that ever happen again, do you think?”

  Filled with joy, Lydia laughed aloud. “I am wondering the same. If it were not our wedding day, I would have buried myself in the stacks in an attempt to raise her again.”

  “We’ve had our wedding night already, and as much as I would love to ravish you now, I am just half-rats enough to think ravishment should wait.”

  “Half-rats?” she asked with curiosity.

  He chuckled. “Tipsy, half-drunk, not thinking straight, as is obvious from my next question. If the solicitors really have sent testers, shouldn’t we practice this exciting new gift you’ve displayed?”

  “I did not think it was possible for me to love you more, but you keep surprising me.” She brought his head down so she could kiss him for his half-rats suggestion.

  Max caressed her breasts and responded with alacrity, then reluctantly set her back. “If that means you wish to explore instead of being ravished, you’d better find a safer way of expressing yourself, my love.”

  It never failed to thrill her to be called his love. She knew this man. Those words did not come to him easily, so she cherished them more.

  “Would we shock the books if we tried both?” she asked teasingly, pleased that he did not mind her forwardness. “I believe the testers drank themselves into a stupor in the cellar, and Mr. Folkston had them carried to Crowley’s carriage, but I fear they will be back tomorrow.”

  “If they come back, it will be after I’ve left for the city,” he said regretfully. “The barrister has arranged to meet with the judge while my cousins and schoolmates are still here to act as my witnesses. We’ll have to leave after breakfast.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “I cannot believe your uncle will continue with this lawsuit. Surely he must admit you are who you are after today.”

  “Not if he and Crowley have other plans for this property. They’d hoped to have you cast out today, it seems. They wanted to settle the matter before the judge rules. I don’t know what they plan next. Since Crowley mines his land, he may have discovered the shale. My uncle may be one of his investors. If they suspect there is oil, they will fight us tooth and nail.” He kissed her temple. “I’m sorry if my woes have complicated yours.”

  “We’re in this together,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow will be a terrible or glorious day. We can celebrate or commiserate here tomorrow night. Let’s use our few spare hours to see what we can do. I really think you’re the one who has given me the confidence to be what I must be.”

  Max kissed her again, then reached for the robes the servants had laid upon the bed. “Wrap yourself up and let us visit our ancestors.”

  “I am so very fortunate that you are a Malcolm as well as an Ives and understand.” She wrapped the robe around her while he lit a lantern.

  He draped an arm over her shoulders and led the way back to the small salon and the stairs. “Do not expect me to always be so understanding. Tonight, I am blotto with drink and love and excitement and cannot give you the attention you deserve. Tomorrow may be a different story.”


  “I like all your stories. Just keep me in them, please.” Lydia held her breath as she stepped through the hidden portal to her secret world. The structure might not be so secret, she supposed, but the contents were known only to her.

  Max held up the light, illuminating the shadows of dark shelves, and she attuned herself to the whispers.

  “I will read you the pertinent passages on the tower’s foundation later,” she said. “If you need more, we can ask again. Right now, I need to know about me.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” he murmured, almost in reverence. “Your Latin lady was quite impressive.”

  “I think she was more likely Scots,” Lydia said. “Just educated. And a bit cynical.” She touched her belly but didn’t mention her hopes and fears. It was much too soon to mention a child who might bear the same bold spirit. “I need to know how librarians are tested and what makes a good librarian.”

  She said it with confidence, because she’d heard these books. She simply had to open herself to them in ways different from Mr. C’s. She was fairly certain no spirit had ever possessed him.

  The books responded to her certainty, calling to her through that part of her mind she opened to them. She could hear disapproval and confusion from some. But one spoke louder than the others, with irritation and impatience. She could hear the voice! Had Mr. C heard voices?

  Smiling, she lifted her robe and hurried down the spiraling stairs to the place where the book pushed out at her. Max followed more slowly, holding up the lantern.

  “If you ever wanted to murder me, you could push me down these steps, and no one would ever find me,” she said absently, letting the book open to relevant pages.

  “Why the devil would you say something like that?” he asked in shock.

  Lydia blinked, reviewed what she’d said, then held up the book. “It has happened. Apparently the lady is speaking.”