The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (ebook offline reader TXT) 📗

man as a young, confused boy, but her imagination wasn’t that good. “I have read a great many books,” she reminded him. “I may live outside society, but I’m aware of everything you describe. There are no surprises here. I assume you became too entangled with eligible young ladies and removed yourself to a period of decadence.”

He sent her an amused, almost relieved look. “Something like that. Boys that age have a lot of energy. I found a good way of expending it until I found it easier to settle down to one mistress, but even that couldn’t last. Whatever this is that draws women to me continued no matter what I did. I couldn’t walk down the street without women I’d known slapping me or confronting me or flirting with me. I threatened to become a monk.”

“And then you realized a ship full of men was even better than a monastery,” she suggested, trying not to laugh. “I can’t say I’ve ever read about anyone with that much magnetism. Perhaps it has worn off? I do not feel compelled to attack you.”

“Which is a relief beyond measure,” he said, not coming any closer. “I just like to believe I’ve become wiser in avoiding the problem. I gave up and left Edinburgh after my first son was born. He’s sixteen now and will be attending the university in the fall. I’m supporting two others, at last count. The youngest is six. He’s the one coming to me from Egypt. Perhaps I’ve learned to be more cautious with age.”

“You have a son right here in Scotland and you weren’t planning on seeing him?” Shocked and appalled, Lydia wanted to heave a heavy book at his empty head, but he was too far out of range.

A large man gesturing helplessly was an impressive sight. “Richard has a mother and stepfather. He doesn’t need me. I provide for him with my travels. It’s not as if I know anything about raising children.”

He was probably right. An only child, growing up in boarding school, expecting nannies to take care of the young. . . Lydia almost felt sorry for him and others like him. But he had a son who needed him now, and he needed encouragement to do the right thing.

“I should read you the journals of some of your ancestors,” Lydia said. “You are not the first and will not be the last of the Ives to raise a cadre of bastards. Of course, in earlier times, they were far more callous about them than you seem to be.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, I’m still a callous bastard, all right. What I want to do right now is invite you to my room so I can see if your hair is as hot to the touch as it looks.”

Five

Max cursed his penchant for speaking to the red-headed secretary as if she were a man. Her sensible suggestions and prosaic tone had relaxed his guard. When he had his back to her, he could almost believe she was Mr. Cadwallader listening to his tale.

And then he’d turn and those haunting, deep blue eyes would fix on him and that voluptuous figure beckoned and. . . He turned into a monster not fit for polite society. He’d made a lewd suggestion to a lady!

And the truly odd thing was that he never said things like that to other women. He’d never had to. They simply took his arm and went home with him, no encouragement necessary.

He might as well be eighteen all over.

After his indecent proposition escaped his mouth, the lady’s eyes widened in shock. Then amazingly, her brow puckered in thought. Lydia Wystan was a work of art comparable to the Mona Lisa when she fell still like that.

He waited for the scathing blast he deserved.

Instead, a little V formed between her eyes. “That is a very strange suggestion, Mr. Ives. I am not a ravishing beauty. I do not flirt or tease. I merely sit here behind this typewriter like a tool meant to be used. You complain of women who throw themselves at you, yet when one does not, you are disappointed?”

“Even I cannot analyze my behavior, Miss Wystan. I take it we are back on formal terms? I am very good at analyzing most situations, but somehow, you’ve . . . No, I can’t blame you. You’re right. You’ve done nothing to give me any notion that you’d be receptive to my suggestion. It just fell out of my mouth, bypassing what I’ve always considered to be a formidable brain. I’ll go now.” He started for the door on the far end of the parlor where he didn’t need to pass by her.

“Mr. Ives.”

Her tone brought him up short.

“Perhaps while you are analyzing your behavior, you might consider that your mind scrambles women the same way that your eyes scramble letters. You need focus.”

“Thank you for that thought, Miss Wystan. I deserved it. If you will excuse me, I mean to soak my head in water to see if that cleans out my filthy mind.”

Max didn’t, however, go to his room. He went outside to wander around the tower, hoping to prove his mind had better purposes than insulting maidens.

He was quite sure that Miss Lydia Wystan was a virgin who had probably never been kissed.

What on earth was the matter with him? The first woman who hadn’t used her big blue eyes—

Malcolm eyes. Max thumped his head—hard—at his stupidity. Lydia Wystan’s name was on that foundation. She was working in a Malcolm library. Her family name was on a friggin’ Malcolm castle.

She was a Malcolm, just like his mother. He’d known that. He just hadn’t comprehended the consequences.

He was an Ives, like his father.

Like magnetism, they attracted and repelled with equal force.

He needed to get the hell out of here first thing in the morning. He’d stay in town, meet the boy at the station, and take him directly to school. He had plenty of time to catch the Burma ship.

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