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

do. I’ve asked one of my teachers to join us. She’ll make a good steward so you needn’t worry over household details. You have quite enough to do.”

Lydia felt her ample stomach sink to her feet. “A female steward will never do,” she murmured. “Really, my lady, you must quit interfering, or you’ll drive Max away again.”

His mother held up a string of pearls and eyed it critically. “She’s a Malcolm, dear. She’ll be fine. Do you think you should wear pearls to match the ivory or would you prefer a contrast? Your eyes are such a deep blue that I don’t know if sapphires will do them justice.”

“I’ll have hydrangeas for my bouquet, so blue will do.” Lydia fidgeted, needing to escape this suffocating room. She could practically hear the correspondence on her desk screaming to be answered. And she wanted to remind Max to crawl out of the tunnel he’d discovered before the wedding party arrived.

As far as she was concerned, this wedding wasn’t even real. It was a show Lady Agnes was staging to convince everyone that Max was her son.

Given what she and Max had been doing every night these past weeks, formal vows merely proved any child she might bear was legitimate. She’d not realized how much she’d longed for a child of her own to love, until she started counting days while fretting that Max would feel trapped into staying.

She hadn’t realized a great many things, and now she was making a lifetime commitment to a man she scarcely knew, in front of people who might declare her a fraud, while a court might declare her new husband officially dead. She might as well stand on the edge of a cliff and wait for a strong wind.

“The tower is trembling again, dear,” Lady Agnes said, sifting through her box for sapphires. “I do hope Max knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, cripes,” Max swore as he slid downward in a rush of dirt and stone through a hole in the collapsing floor.

His sons shouted in terror. With the forethought of experience, Max had already established a framework for such incidences. He caught one of the braces and let the stones rush on without him. Straining his arms to lift himself up, he swung his legs back to more stable ground before anything else could give way.

He was already covered in filth from head to toe anyway. He peered down into the black stream far below, assessing the walls that could be seen in the dim light. “We may need to consider Portland cement, iron pipes, and a pumping station if the rocks are this unstable.”

“It must almost be time for the dinner guests,” Richard said, a little nervously. “Perhaps we should stop now and clean up?”

Max grimaced. He’d far rather explore what was down below. But he understood his son’s concern.

“First, we put up boards blocking this passage and add warning signs. Some of our guests have inquiring minds.” He crossed two big timbers over the hole, then two more to block entrance to this part of the corridor. “Do we have anything to create a Keep-Out sign?”

Bakari produced a charcoal pencil from his pocket. “Will this work?”

Richard propped a thin board between the timbers and wrote letters on it. For good measure, he drew a skull and crossbones. “That’s for people who can’t read,” he said in satisfaction. “That’s why tavern signs have drawings on them.”

“He knows history,” Max muttered, gesturing for them to head out. He didn’t know whether Richard realized his father couldn’t read, but it didn’t seem to matter to the boys. They just wanted to dig in dirt and drive nails for fun.

Soaked in smelly slime, Max emerged from the cellar just as the first guests arrived—his wedding party arriving early for tonight’s dinner.

Thrilled at the sight of fancy thoroughbreds, the boys ran for the stable. Max scowled and aimed for the garden door before someone took him for the night soil man—except his clothes reeked more of oil than sewage. Interesting.

He had this next week to present witnesses in court that he was the same ignorant boy his relations had known nearly twenty years ago. After his uncle’s insults, Max thought maybe he should greet his guests in all his filth and prove he hadn’t learned a thing. Irritated at his own thoughts, he took the path behind the kitchen hedges and pushed at the garden door.

It didn’t open. For the first time in the weeks he’d been living here, someone had bolted the damned tower door.

Now what did he do? Stalk through the front door with the guests? Go through the kitchen in all his stinking dirt and traipse through the entire house? There was only one corridor to his tower chamber and that was at the front.

Had he been in any of the primitive outposts where he was most comfortable, he would have found a bathhouse or a lake or a pump and just sluiced himself off. No one would have cared that he was wet and dirty. Here, men were supposed to be immaculate and smell of expensive shaving soaps.

He didn’t want to bring shame on Lydia. . . Except, he realized, Lydia would simply look at him, laugh, and point at the bathing room.

This was about him. He was the one harboring a childish memory of being laughed at, taunted, and made to feel like an ass.

He’d faced lions, savages, and floods since then. He could handle a few pampered dandies, especially if he thought of Lydia’s castle as his home. In his own home, he could do as he damned well pleased. If his guests were offended, they could leave. Max stopped and savored the sweet taste of power.

If this was his home and the choice was his, he’d rinse off before dripping through the kitchens. Max strode off to the stable and lowered himself into a horse trough. He should install pumps once he had the tower repaired. Maybe an outdoor shower for the stable