The Librarian's Spell Page 8

  The deed was done. It was apparently now up to her to make all the decisions, even if they were wrong. She took a deep breath—and felt Max’s gaze on her.

  Lydia swung around and saw his frankly admiring look. She wanted to smack him for making her self-conscious when she needed to think clearly.

  “The suite should suit you and Bakari while you stay here. There is a lock on this door.” She could almost hear Max’s question, so she forestalled it. She didn’t know how to lie properly, so she had to tell him about the library, somehow. “Marta and Lloyd, however, have keys.”

  “And they turn invisible and climb the stairs right past us to set up teapots and fires?” he asked with humor, nailing her problem at once.

  “You’re a guest,” she muttered. “You’re threatening to leave tomorrow. I’m still learning what the librarian must do, and I’m following Mr. C’s example as best as I can. I don’t know how much leeway I have until I find an instruction book or something useful. I don’t know how much to tell you.”

  “This should be your suite,” he said emphatically. “You do not have to tell me anything. Maybe there’s a door on one of the corridors in the main block I can lock. I’d explore, but you said I need to stay with the boy until he wakes. If I stay, I’ll need to hire a manservant to look after him while I work—I could hire Lloyd!”

  She looked at him with suspicion. “Lloyd as a nursemaid?”

  He shrugged and studied the tapestry concealing the library door. “He’ll be wanting a position. Would he make a suitable tutor?”

  “You’re staying?” she asked, still not quite trusting him.

  “I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But it seems my responsibilities are growing greater than my itchy feet can carry. Bakari isn’t ready for school,” he admitted with a sigh. “I was twice his size at that age and could defend myself. And I had my Ives cousins to step up when the taunting became unmerciful. I have no idea if he has Ives cousins near his age. I’ve not kept in touch.”

  She nodded, breathing a little easier now that one uncertainty was almost arranged. “I can check your family tree. Bakari should know his cousins—and his brothers.” She shouldn’t have said that, but she’d been raised in a closely-knit family and couldn’t imagine not knowing them.

  She gestured at the parlor. “This suite is ideal for your purposes. We could move the cot up here. You’d have privacy. Lloyd is used to sleeping in the valet’s room. I’d hate to put him out. He could act as your valet and perhaps tutor Bakari a little.”

  Max frowned and lifted the tapestry. “If we do this, it will only be for a very little while, until I learn what’s happening with the tower and figure out what to do with the boy.”

  “And your mother,” she insisted. “How long will it be until your friend answers your inquiry?”

  That would give her a little breathing space. She could stay in her usual routine for a little while, add tasks to her list as they came up, not leap into anything like this beautiful suite which should belong to the real librarian. Despite Mr. C’s promise, she didn’t think she qualified.

  She watched uneasily as Max tapped on the wall. He knew. He was an engineer. He knew the other tower was behind there. He had no use for books, so it shouldn’t matter one way or another if she let him in.

  “Morgan? He’s usually pretty prompt.” Max began pushing against an unseen seam. “It just depends on what else he’s doing and how much time he has. How long will it take for you to determine if Bakari has cousins his age?”

  “It depends on how complete Mr. C left the genealogy before his illness. Push two blocks down and one block over from the painting.” If he stayed in the tower, he’d find the door sooner or later.

  Max shot her a smile that nearly brought her to her knees. No wonder women flocked to him. With that large nose, he wasn’t really handsome, just. . . compelling.

  “I was wondering when you’d trust me.” He pushed the designated block, and the wall slid to one side. He stuck his head through and grunted in disappointment. “More books. I should have known.”

  Lydia almost laughed. “Light the lantern on the stand. You’ll enjoy the architecture.”

  He studied the high ceiling in the parlor, ducked through the door, and stood upright on the landing on the other side. “Holy flying monkeys,” he said in awe.

  The books whispered and beckoned, like a wind whistling through leaves. Lydia couldn’t translate whispers any more than she could wind. She was aware of how disastrous it would be if she couldn’t find the books people needed. The family would realize she wasn’t a real librarian. A call would go out and others would come to take her place. She shivered and stepped through the doorway to join him. In her mind, the library breathed like a sentient being. She simply couldn’t communicate.

  Lloyd had left Mr. C’s stack of journals on a table evidently set there for this purpose. The servant didn’t know how to file them. Books waited for her to shelve.

  Unless she’d seen them removed, she had no idea where they belonged.

  “They improved on the original broch’s spiral staircase and galleries,” Max said in awe, studying the wrought iron galleries and stairs. “This place is completely protected from the elements. Your chamber must be right over the ceiling.” He leaned over the rail to see upward. “This inner tower is the ideal place to store books.”

  “There are other libraries,” she said diffidently. “I think the oldest one is in Wystan Castle in Northumberland. There’s another, newer one, forming near the Highlands. I’m not exactly certain of its location. I believe there is one forming in China as well. I’ve had a letter from them and replied, but that’s all I know.”

  “China.” He whistled in surprise. “Chinese Malcolms. I cannot imagine. . . They speak English?” He took several stairs down.

  “The librarian does, at least.”

  “I’d like to know if there are books about the building of these towers.” He stopped to study the journals on the nearest shelf.

  As if passing straight from Max’s thoughts, some of the whispers grew louder, clearer. Tower. Spiral. Broch.

  Lydia’s head spun. She staggered and gripped Max’s arm for support. She curled her fingers around the rail as well. Tower. Spiral. Broch. Steadying herself , she concentrated on the clearest whisper.

  Max slid his arm around her waist and held her upright with a look of concern. His support let her breathe a little easier as she tried to orient herself and the odd vibrations in her head.

  She scanned the library, locating the closest source. “There.” She picked up one of the books on the table. It felt right. It felt similar to the one Mr. C had showed her the other day. Pulling free of Max’s grip, she started down the stairs. The oldest books were near the bottom of the tower. The more contemporary ones were nearby. She reached for another calling to her.

  With Max trailing behind, she continued downward, occasionally halting to determine the direction of a call and adding another book to her collection. At one point, she handed the stack to Max. By the time she had another pile, they had reached the hidden study at the bottom.

  “Books mentioning towers and brochs,” she told him briskly, as if she did this every day and wasn’t secretly screaming with joy. She proceeded past Mr. C’s study to the door that would take them to her outer office. “We’ll put them in the guest library where we can work on them.”

  “It’s easier for me to take tower measurements than read journals,” he grumbled. “I thought you couldn’t find books?”

  “I can’t. I couldn’t. I don’t know what happened.” Exhausted, head spinning, she hurried through her office and down the corridor to the library where guests worked. The glassed bookcases held reference books, not Malcolm journals.

  She dumped her load on the long, polished mahogany library table and Max did the same. “I know you don’t want to read these. I can. I don’t know if I can go directly to the right page or not. But just being able to find the books
. . .” She closed her eyes and offered a prayer of gratitude to Whoever was watching over her.

  “Combining resources,” he said in admiration. “I like it. I hate taking up your time. I saw all that correspondence on your desk. . .”

  She waved away the thought. “I read quickly. You need to go back to your son, while I look for Lloyd and see if I can persuade him to be a temporary tutor. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and there will be visitors everywhere. You might want to hide beneath the tower or in your suite.”

  Max caught her waist and spun her around. Without any warning, he dipped his head—

  And kissed her.

  * * *

  Bliss, absolute bliss. Max savored the sweet taste of lips that had nibbled on oatcakes and berries, inhaled the spring freshness of lavender, and fell into a cauldron of desire before he knew he was tipping over. He pulled the librarian tighter, relished feminine curves crushed against him, and ran his hands over her unencumbered backside. He hated bustles. She was all woman beneath his hands—a woman who melted into him as if she belonged there, who didn’t push away his whiskered jaw or complain that he stank of horse, which he probably did. She kissed him with enthusiasm and with every appearance of enjoying the moment as much as he did.

  A loud harrumph brought him back to his senses. Cursing, Max glanced over his shoulder—a large, bespectacled business man stood there. That could only be Hugh Morgan.

  “Perhaps we should wait in the parlor, Mr. Morgan.” A feminine voice confirmed Max’s supposition.

  Lydia shoved away, brushing her hair from her face, and ducking her head to hide her blushing cheeks. Max wanted to smack his associate and whisk Lydia away and. . . He rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Morgan,” he snarled. “Maybe you should wait in the parlor.”

  “Don’t be rude.” Lydia straightened her gown and her shoulders.

  Stepping past Max to greet their guests, Lydia looked like a regal queen—Elizabeth came to mind, with all the royal red hair. A relation to the Tudor dynasty might explain his hostess’s ruthlessness in emerging from an abyss of pleasure with no evidence of the confusion Max felt.

  “Hugh Morgan? I’ve heard of you from Lady Phoebe. Pleased to meet you. I’m Lydia Wystan.” She held out her hand.

  Morgan took it. Uncouth Glaswegian that he was, he didn’t look certain whether to shake or kiss it.

  Lydia shook his hand and turned to his companion. “I don’t suppose you’d be Miss Trivedi? The ladies have told me of you and your admirable mathematical expertise. Perhaps if we return to the parlor, I can call for tea. You must have traveled quickly!”

  “Back to the parlor,” Max muttered, punching Morgan’s shoulder. “And thanks for bringing a female with you. You might as well have brought my mother and her entire contingent.”

  “Miss Trivedi isn’t a Malcolm. She’s an accountant. And you need an accountant who can explain things better than I can. You’re in bigger trouble than you know.” Morgan turned and followed the women, taking no umbrage at Max’s accusation.

  “And you ascertained that in what, a single day? You’ve developed my mother’s prescience?” Max stopped and peered into his room, where his son slept soundly, his pillow scrunched beneath his face. He left the door open so he could hear if the boy called.

  “I’ve been looking into your mother’s affairs ever since Lady Phoebe mentioned a problem. I just couldn’t do anything while you were gallivanting the world. Everything is tied up, and you’re the only one who can step in. Have you decided to return from the dead?”

  Max hadn’t decided any such thing, but Morgan had loyally kept his secret all this time, so he shouldn’t begrudge the question.

  Lydia pulled the bell rope. Max cringed, hoping Lloyd or a footman would heed the call.

  He waited until the ladies had taken their seats. He’d been yanked from bliss to hell in a few short seconds. He needed time to regroup. Lydia spread her skirt on a settee. After waiting to see where Miss Trivedi sat, Max took the seat beside Lydia on the opposite side of the fireplace. He needed her solid proximity to remind him the world wasn’t entirely insane. He had a wild hope that she might act as his magnetic shield.

  Morgan settled his large frame beside Miss Trivedi. That lady studied Max with interest, but she seemed firmly affixed to Morgan. It happened that way sometimes. Max breathed a little easier and warily watched the door for maids.

  “I’m sorry you’ve come this distance at a time like this,” Lydia apologized. “Mr. Cadwallader passed away last night, and we’re making funeral arrangements. We’re not at our best, I fear.”

  To Max’s relief, Marta appeared with a tea tray as if she’d been lurking close by.

  “Is Beryl busy?” Lydia asked her cook in surprise. “You shouldn’t have to be waiting on us.”

  “I had a moment, miss, and thought it best.” The servant cast Max a glance, and he vowed to tip her well.

  Apparently, older women didn’t fall under his weird spell. Maybe he could arrange to live in a house with old crones and never go outside.

  At least he hadn’t had to answer Morgan’s question yet. It seemed forgotten over the traditional distribution of cups and cakes. He could see Lydia fretting and surmised it was over where to put their visitors for the night.

  “I should check to see if my trunks have arrived. I’ll carry them up to the tower, as you suggested,” Max murmured as he took his teacup. “Morgan can have my room.”

  “I don’t wish to put Miss Trivedi in a cubicle,” she whispered back. “I need to have another room opened and cleaned.”

  She turned to Marta. “Do we have anyone who can open up a couple of rooms in the main house? Our guests will be spending the night.”

  Marta nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. Folkston just arrived. They came for the funeral and said they’d stay to help awhile. They’ll see to the rooms.”

  Max had a feeling Morgan and Miss Trivedi would prefer a room together, but of course, one couldn’t say that in front of the servants. He was re-learning the customs of civilization.

  “I should greet them.” Lydia rose.

  Max suffered a moment’s panic but shoved it deep down inside. He didn’t think Miss Trivedi or Marta would be attacking him. He stood up with Lydia. “I know I’m taking too much of your time, but I hope you’ll help me with the books when you can.”

  She had reacted so well to Morgan’s arrival that he hoped she’d excuse his earlier abysmal behavior. But for a brief moment, he saw her confusion and knew he’d done that to the intrepid librarian.

  She squeezed his hand, nodded, and sailed out after Marta.

  With their departure, Morgan instantly returned to his subject. “You’ll have to return from the dead, appear in court, and testify that David and George Franklin are fraudulently having you declared dead in order to cover up the theft of your estate.”

  Max felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  Nine

  He’d kissed her. Maxwell Ives had kissed her—as if he really meant it.

  And she’d liked it. She’d liked it a lot.

  Had he liked her kiss? How would she know? Why was she even thinking about it?

  Lydia hurried down to the kitchen to greet the returning butler and housekeeper. She enthusiastically welcomed them back and apprised them of the current financial situation. They assured her that money didn’t matter for this week of mourning. They had their little nest egg and a cottage elsewhere. But they would enjoy working again if matters turned out right.

  The couple immediately set the maids to cleaning rooms for guests. Lydia felt almost giddy at the idea of visitors. Or was that the result of Max’s kiss?

  She approved Marta’s menu, then located Lloyd polishing the silver.

  “I’m thinking of temporarily putting Mr. Ives in Mr. C’s room. He needs privacy and time to study the tower from inside and out.” She made that part up to ease the frown of disapproval forming on Lloyd’s brow. “Perhaps you could act as his manservant?” she ask
ed tentatively, waiting to see how the man accepted these changes.

  Lloyd continued polishing while he pondered. “It’s the only home I know, miss,” he finally said. “I reckoned I’d have to move out of the tower when you moved in. I wouldn’t mind keeping my little room a while longer. Mayhap it will make it easier to accept Mr. C’s absence?” he asked, sounding uncertain.

  “I’m not sure anything can help with that,” she replied unhappily. “But the little boy should brighten our days a bit. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about teaching, would you? The poor child can’t be sent to school until he’s a little bigger and knows his way around better.”

  Lloyd pondered and polished some more. “Seems to me, the lad being a foreigner, that he needs a little education in being a Scotsman. I might help with that. Show him his manners and such. And Laddie could teach him to ride a pony.”

  “Or a mule, since we don’t have a pony,” Lydia agreed with a smile. “That’s a truly brilliant idea. Once Bakari has a little more confidence, and he’s more comfortable with Mr. Ives, then we can decide what he needs next.”

  “Roughhousing,” Lloyd said succinctly. “Boy that size needs to defend himself.”

  “That, I will leave to you and Mr. Ives. I know nothing of fisticuffs. Thank you so much, sir. And know you will always have a place here. We’re family.” She thought Lloyd’s normally gloomy expression brightened just a little.

  “I’ll move your things back to your room,” he agreed reluctantly, setting down the polish.

  Lydia knew she was putting off the journals waiting in the library. She didn’t understand why she’d suddenly started hearing words instead of whispers. Well, she heard the whispers, too, but the words Max needed had just appeared in her head. And she’d located the volumes by following the sound. It had been an extremely odd experience.