“The ones I’ve met range from rude and overbearing to sweet and giggly. I don’t think they’re much different from anyone else, except they like to pretend they’re witches.”
She reached over to swat him, but he rode ahead.
“What do they call male witches?” she called after him.
“Insane,” he called back.
***
Erran considered his off-hand comment later and thought perhaps he hadn’t been too far off the mark—he must have been insane to come here.
There were only three enceinte females in residence, but they’d come accompanied by an assortment of maids, sisters, mothers, children, and midwives. The arrival of fresh fodder for the gossip mill filled the ancient hall with a swirl of high-pitched voices, fragile females, and delicate frippery. Feeling uncomfortably like a bull in a china shop, Erran wanted nothing more than to escape to the library with a decanter of brandy.
He introduced Celeste to the only vaguely familiar relation and let her be swept off in a gaggle of women, all talking at once. She didn’t seem unhappy with the attention.
He consumed a platter of sandwiches and other bite-sized comestibles while he waited to be assigned a room. He could probably make a bed on the top floor, but he had the need to know where they’d place Celeste.
Which was foolish of him, he realized, swallowing a tiny cake and discovering the tray to be empty. He had no need to protect her in his family home while she was surrounded by other females. She was perfectly safe here.
If he could not retrieve her inheritance, she would be quite happy here, he suspected. She didn’t need him. She’d said so.
She only needed a friend.
Since he had no notion of how to be a friend to a lady—although he was pretty certain it didn’t involve making mad, passionate love to her—he would do best to try to find the information they sought and send her back to Jamaica, where she would be even happier, and justice would be served. Then Duncan could have his whole townhouse back and Erran could take rooms there in hopes of finding some place for himself on his brother’s payroll.
Or he could bellow and send all these frippery females scurrying and take Celeste up to bed and be the bully his size allowed him to be. A pity he was too civilized for that. He should have been born in a different century.
Imagining shining armor and ladies swooning at his feet—no doubt in horror—he set down his lemonade, located the nearest exit, and strode into the next room. From there, he worked his way through the maze to the library. He was studying the index to discover the filing system when a familiar scent wafted around him.
“Thank goodness,” the lady said, studying the towering walls of shelves with interest. “I thought we’d never make it out alive.”
He almost laughed, if only because he was relieved to have her with him again. That way definitely lay madness, but he couldn’t be less than honest with himself. He enjoyed her company. And he’d rather be anywhere than explore a Malcolm library. He’d studied law more in the courtroom than in books, preferring action to sitting still. Her presence made his task more agreeable.
He pointed at the catalog. “I found the page where they’ve indexed your family’s journals.” He gestured at towering, two-story walls of books. “It just may take me a while to determine their filing system.”
“Oh, my.” Obviously entranced, she tilted her head back to admire the layers of walnut shelving, books, railings, and ladders. Stained glass windows offered the only natural light.
Erran had lit oil lamps on the table to better read the index’s penmanship. The glow illumined Celeste in a halo, and he could scarcely tear his gaze away. He was in deadly danger here. She’d said she could love a man like him. What the devil did that mean? He couldn’t remember anyone ever bothering to love him, so he didn’t grasp the concept.
It didn’t matter what it meant. He had no means to marry, no other talents than working in English law—from which he was currently banned—and she wanted to return to an island where he would be useless. He had no interest in taking up sailing and trade or even raising cane. And if he ever did create a useful invention, the patent courts and industries were here, not half way around the world.
He didn’t even know why he was thinking like this. Maybe he should start believing in Aster’s foolishness about magic castles.
Celeste lit another lamp and carried it to the first section of ground floor shelving. “What are the catalog directions?”
“Eccentric,” he muttered, tearing his gaze from her slender form and back to the book. “We must look for family branch name—from the sixteenth century, apparently. In your case, that would be Hermione Wystan Malcolm if I’m following these charts. Then we trace down through Hermione’s descendants until we reach the one who married a Rochester.”
She cast him a look of dismay over her shoulder, arching her lovely brows. “How does one find anything with a catalog like that?”
“If one isn’t the family librarian, like Aster, one starts on the Hermione bookcase, presumably.” Erran consulted a library map and pointed at the fourth case to the right. “Logically, the oldest volumes will be on the bottom shelf, and the more recent ones at the top.” He pointed up the ladder to the balcony tier.
She crouched down to examine the volumes on the bottom shelf. She had to pull one out to read the title page. “I fear you are correct,” she said in awe as she turned yellowed pages. “This is in Latin, I think. Hermione must have been a scholar.”
“Hermione had any number of descendants named after her, so presumably she was a decent sort. If you’ll read down this list, I’ll climb up to the top and try to find your shelf. It may spread over more bookcases as it goes higher.”
Staring up at shelf after shelf of their ancestors’ books, she shook her head in awe. “Does anyone ever read these?”
“We’re about to. Libraries are repositories of information and collected wisdom. Aster claims the journals are here so history needn’t keep repeating itself, so we can learn from the past. Unfortunately, no one has come up with a subject list for journals other than the name of the author.” He pointed out the column he was following on the page of her family’s tomes as she returned to his side. They both smelled of horses, but he could still detect that subtle exotic scent that was all hers. His hunger for her hadn’t abated. He needed to step out of the reach of temptation. Ladder climbing should do it.
“Well, if we’re dealing with magical families, I’m certain there must be someone who can magically locate the required volume, if necessary,” she said with amusement, placing her slender fingers on the page near his.
Erran clenched his thick fingers rather than reach to cover hers. He backed off in the direction of the ladder. “Aster calls herself a librarian, so she must assume that’s her task. But she’s mostly interested in genealogy and astrology.”
She glanced up at him with those velvet-lashed eyes that haunted him. “Perhaps if she and Theo were allowed to live here, she might do more. Usually, one must practice talents for them to improve.”
Erran felt the impact of that declaration like a blow below the belt. He wasn’t about to practice voice manipulation or levitation. Refusing to acknowledge what she was telling him, he climbed the ladder to the next level and started checking dates on the upper shelves.
“If I’m reading this correctly, the year of my father’s second marriage is the fourth level down in the second block to the left,” she called up to him as he reached the balcony.
Holding up the oil lamp, Erran began scanning volumes until he found the year. “I’m going to take out all the volumes from that year, the one prior, and the one after. From the looks of it, your parents had a lot to say. This could take forever.” He set the lamp on a shelf and gathered up an armload of slim volumes.
“If I my memory doesn’t fail, my father rewrote his will after my mother’s death,” she said, scanning the catalog. “Shall we check that year to see what he says abo
ut it? That shelf should be two shelves above where you are now.”
Erran grabbed that stack as well. As he began carrying down his prizes, the housekeeper rapped and entered.
“Your rooms are prepared, my lord, miss.” She bobbed a curtsy. “The spirits are in a turmoil, so we expect Lady Octavia to have her lying-in during the night. We have taken the liberty of placing you in the guest rooms on this floor so you won’t be disturbed by the coming and going.”
“The spirits?” Celeste whispered as Erran reach the bottom of the ladder with the last load of books.
“Malcolms,” he whispered back, holding a stack of books under one arm and offering his other so they might follow the housekeeper. “Expect the weird.”
She lifted another stack of books instead of taking his arm. “That makes us weird. You may reject this fascinating family, but I do not.” she said curtly, striding off ahead of him.
Which left him to admire the graceful sway of her hips as they traversed the insane maze of public rooms back to a quiet corner behind what appeared to be a billiard parlor/game room and a small sitting room littered with books and papers and various needlework projects.
“I hope this will be satisfactory,” the servant said, opening a heavy panel door for Celeste. “I’ll send Abigail to help you dress for dinner.”
She took Celeste’s stack of books and set them on a table inside, then nodded down the corridor. “If you would, my lord, the next chamber is prepared for you. I fear we don’t have a valet in residence.”
Celeste raised her eyebrows in warning—reminding him of Aster’s accursed admonition about sleeping on different floors. He would be damned before he listened to such foolery. He was reluctant to abandon Celeste in this towering hall of emptiness. He pretended not to understand her question and waited outside her door until he saw that she was settled.
“If you don’t mind,” she told the housekeeper, opening one of the books. “I’m very weary from the journey. I would much rather have a bath and a cold collation in here than join the ladies. Could you make my apologies?”
By Jove, she was a woman after his own mind! Relieved that he did not have to argue over the rooms, Erran imagined an evening reading through this muddle of journals. With any luck at all, they’d have what they needed by morning.
“I’ll give you good evening then, Miss Rochester,” he said, bowing.
Immersed in the book, she nodded dismissively, and the housekeeper closed the door between them.
Directed to his own room, Erran immediately noted the connecting door. Insanely, he felt better knowing he could reach her easily.
All he had to do was resist the temptation to open it unless she invited him in.
Twenty-two
Celeste could barely wait for the maid to empty the last bucket of hot water into a tub, help her with her gown, and depart. She stripped off the rest of her clothing and slid into the warm water with relief.
She ached. She smelled. She had barely been able to tolerate herself as they worked in the library. Thank goodness Erran had been almost as disreputable as she or she’d never be able to hold her head up in his presence again.
She smiled at the realization that he’d forgotten his wilted attire—apparently an intellectual challenge overcame his preference for pristine fashion.
The maid had carried off her riding garb with a promise to clean it. Unfortunately, they still had the return journey, and after that horrible inn, she knew she couldn’t count on bathing again until they were home. She savored the luxury while she had it.
She really was spoiled, as Erran had so impolitely pointed out. How would she learn to live in poverty if they didn’t find evidence of her father’s will or her birth? She wouldn’t have maids to bring her baths or pretty soaps to wash with.
She could survive, she knew. They had learned to live without many things these past months. She was proud that they had done so, but Erran’s aggressive approach to life showed that there was much more to living than survival. She needed the ability to go into society without shame, to make a difference, and the independence to go her own way. Without those, she would be worse than worthless. She might be weak, but there wasn’t a subservient bone in her body.
Without the authority of her wealth and good name, she could not return to Jamaica to save the plantation and their people. That thought was too depressing to consider.
So she enjoyed the hedonistic luxury of soaking her hair clean before wrapping it in a towel and abandoning this momentary pleasure for the work ahead.
She donned the nightshift and robe the maid had left out. A tray of meats and cheeses awaited, and a kettle boiled over the grate. She settled into a wing chair prepared to spend the entire evening reading through journals.
Outside her door, the house seemed peculiarly . . . busy . . . wasn’t quite the right word. Astir, possibly. The wind had picked up, and it carried voices on the drafts through the old stone walls and down the chimneys. There were apparently stairs nearby, and she could hear feet pattering up and down. She hadn’t met Lady Octavia but hoped her lying-in was comfortable.
She did her best to pretend she’d never heard Lady Aster’s warning to sleep on a separate floor from Erran. That was superstitious nonsense, although these drafty, medieval, stone walls opened themselves to old tales and legends.
Restlessly, she sorted through the journals stacked on the table beside her tray. She stroked pages of her mother’s penmanship with a pang of longing, remembering long ago days when they’d both sat in the sunny parlor, writing their thoughts. She missed her parents dreadfully and would always associate them with sun and warm breezes. Would she ever see her home again?
Fighting loneliness and an impractical homesickness, she nibbled from her supper tray while skimming through the journals. Erran had distracted her from moroseness these last nights. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed his company so much.
The wind whistling under the door said she lied to herself.
She wrapped a blanket over her shoulders and kept reading.
She had the early books, the ones that spoke of courtship, marriage, and pregnancy. She sighed in longing over the words of love in the writing of both her parents. She marked the pages with dates of their marriage. She couldn’t find the earlier tome mentioning how her father learned of his first wife’s death. She’d have to go back to the library to find that date.
Her birth was almost nine months to the day from their marriage. Their mutual joy spilled onto the pages. How could anyone doubt her father’s integrity or her mother’s virtue? It was all right here.
When she encountered mention of sending the journals to Wystan, she read closer.
The knock on the door at the rear of the room startled her, and she nearly dropped the book. Before she could gather her wits, she heard Erran’s excited voice, and without a second thought, she invited him in.
He was still dressed, although he’d abandoned his rumpled neckcloth and had unfastened his coat and waistcoat. Still sitting in her chair, she shouldn’t notice how nicely he fit his trousers, but his hips were practically at eye level. She had to look up to see the book he was waving at her.
“This says your father sent copies of all his documents here to Wystan for safekeeping. He had doubts about the honesty of his English relations! There’s apparently been bad blood between the branches of the family for generations.”
She shrugged out of her blanket and stood to grab the book he was swinging so exuberantly. She laughed as he lifted it out of her reach, making her jump for it. “You should be happy more often. It becomes you. You’re at risk of becoming a stuffy bore.”
“A stuffy bore!” he cried, grabbing her by the waist and dancing her across the floor. “That’s what lawyers are supposed to be.”
She loved his arms around her too much. She wanted him to be happy like this always. Which was arrogant presumption.
She shoved from his arms and clasped her robe tighter to keep her heart fro
m leaping from her chest. “You mad man! You dived straight into work and didn’t bathe. There’s a tub behind the screen and hot water on the grate. You have earned a celebration. Shall I call for brandy?”
His eyes lit as he glanced from her to the dressing screen. She didn’t want to know what was happening in that powerful brain of his. Or if he’d gone as brainless as she had. She pointed at the screen. “After you fetch your clean clothes, I’ll go in your room to give you privacy while you wash.”
“You are a woman of rare understanding.” He kissed her forehead, grabbed the last of her sandwiches, and leaving the precious book in her hands, returned to his room.
She hugged the book against her chest and let joy course through her. He liked her!
And soon, she would have the documents to allow her to return to Jamaica and save the plantation.
With the provocative male smell of him still clinging to her, she felt her heart begin to rip in two.
***
Knowing Celeste was only one room away, Erran bathed quickly, using his own soap to overcome the floral scent of hers. Her laughter sang in his ears. The joy in her eyes at his triumphant discovery lightened his heart. And the memory of her graceful, barely-clad figure in his arms would keep him awake forever.
He scrubbed at his hair and rubbed ruefully at his whiskers. No wonder she had shoved him toward the tub. He smelled and looked like a ruffian—but he’d wanted the proof to beat Lansdowne into the ground and had put work first.
He’d had the devil of a time concentrating on reading, knowing Celeste was only one wall away. He’d listened for every movement and heard only the howl of the wind. He’d wanted to check just to see if she were still alive.
That wasn’t normal for him. His concentration had always been formidable.
She’d accused him of turning into a stuffy bore—and she was right.
Since he’d yelled a courtroom into obeisance, he’d kept his mouth shut and his nose to the grindstone. Duncan’s blindness had only made life grimmer. Tonight had been the first night in forever that he’d felt like himself again.
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