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

“These old places need a lot of cash. I can do this cheaply as any man in the kingdom, but I’m not a magician.”

“All the plumbing?” she asked in desperation. “Perhaps if we just closed the tower bath. . .”

He shook his head. “If it was the well, yes, but that’s elsewhere. The sewage all goes through one ancient tunnel, and it’s in a state of collapse. Mr. Crowley’s mines might be responsible, but those vaults are old enough to be Roman.”

The library might sit on a nearly two-thousand-year-old foundation, right. Her knees quaked, and she thought she ought to sit down. But Max looked like Atlas, admiring the world he was about to take on. The dratted man enjoyed this!

“Should I be thinking about moving the books to the main portion of the house?” she asked, trying not to sound weak and terrified.

He looked startled. “What? No, of course not. The Romans built to last. You couldn’t find a stronger foundation anywhere. It was the tinkering with the plumbing and possibly Crowley’s miners using dynamite that interfered with the original workmanship. You only need worry about raising the funds to pay for the repairs.”

She swayed, possibly with relief—or terror. “If you could provide an estimate?”

Crowley’s carriage raced down the winding drive in the distance. He’d been right. She didn’t know how to run a business.

She must learn.

“I’ll see what I can do once I know the price of supplies.” Max watched her with what might almost be admiration. “Most women would have fallen into my arms, weeping, after I gave them bad news.”

Lydia smiled weakly. “Most women have more gowns than I do. Falling into filthy arms is not a direction I can afford.”

Max laughed, flashing white teeth.

She could have a man like that for husband? What was she waiting for? A god?

To maintain her equilibrium, she added, “If we married, would that make you responsible for repairs?”

And then she strolled away as if her knees weren’t weak as water and her spine a column of jelly.

Max shrugged into his dinner coat later that evening, still pondering Lydia’s question. He didn’t much fret over the part about being responsible for this money pit. He was fairly certain the library’s trust would pay for that, and the vast array of wealthy Malcolms would donate to the cause. If he had his hands on his own funds, he could donate as well.

The part tripping him was the “If we married. . .”

Was she really considering marrying a roaming heathen like him? Madness definitely must be infectious.

Nervous energy had him jerking at his cravat and attempting to look the part of gentleman. Bakari watched him with interest. Lloyd finally gave in and took the tie from Max’s hands, swiftly wrapping it into a neat knot.

“Are we expecting the queen?” Lloyd asked with pointed sarcasm. “For Miss Lydia will not notice if you wore frogs at your throat.”

“I’m pretty sure she’d notice frogs.” Max stepped away from the mirror. “But knots, probably not, you’re right.” He just felt as if he were strangling. He couldn’t say that aloud.

He should have taken the coward’s way out and eaten in his room with Bakari and Lloyd. He’d be far more comfortable there. But he couldn’t leave Lydia to his mother. And he needed to know if Lydia had made any decisions about his rather badly done proposal.

He’d proposed. He’d actually proposed to a woman. He wasn’t quite over the shock. Did other men feel this unmitigated terror at a lifetime commitment?

Should he go into the city and buy a ring and try properly on bended knee?

How badly did he want Lydia to say yes?

As he took the tower steps down, Max attempted to analyze all possible answers to that daunting question. By the time he reached the dining room, he’d decided all the advantages were his in this match. He was pretty damned certain he was hoping for a yes.

He just wasn’t expecting one. After a lifetime of humiliation, he supposed he could withstand one more rejection. He was made of sturdy stuff these days.

He had a niggling notion that now that he knew what he wanted, he wouldn’t walk away without trying again. And again. That’s when he knew he was doomed.

He tugged at his cravat once more before he entered. He’d let his dotty mother send him down this impossible path. That proved he needed to clear his head and escape.

He entered to discover Lydia and his mother already at the table. Well, he was late, as usual. That was to be expected.

What wasn’t to be expected was a guest—a male one who looked a great deal like his own image in a mirror, only a lot skinnier and younger.

“Richard?” he asked, not because he didn’t know the answer but just to confirm he could still speak.

The lad was studying Max equally avidly. He nodded and with a great deal of effort replied, “Do I call you Father or Mr. Ives?”

Eighteen

Watching Max pacing the length of the small parlor later that evening, Lydia wondered if one might harness his energy and put it to good use. He could probably illuminate the entire castle.

They’d let Richard choose a room for himself, and he’d instinctively taken one in the section of the house designed for male guests. It was a very small section, proving this had always been a Malcolm stronghold.

“His mother was twenty when we met,” Max was trying to explain. “Married to a man who wasn’t interested in women, if you know what I mean.”

Lydia had read a great deal of personal information these past years. She also had some memory of a gentleman in her family’s village for which such a thing was said. She didn’t completely comprehend, but she nodded so as not to interrupt Max’s thoughts.

He ran his hand through already rumpled curls. “I didn’t understand at the time. I only learned it later when she told me she was carrying my child. I thought she was experienced and understood these matters.