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

than Max, the Earl of Ives and Wystan swung his glass as if he hadn’t downed half a bottle. “If time weren’t so limited, I’d pursue her myself. She is a goddess.”

Max grinned and drank to that. “You’ll have to find your own librarian. My goddess is attached to the castle.”

Max felt that like a hook in his soul. If he didn’t fix the tower, if anything happened to the library. . . Lydia would be more than devastated. He couldn’t begin to imagine how they would go on in such a case.

He loved her. He’d promised to give her a home. But if he couldn’t give her the home she needed—

She’d never said she loved him.

“Tell us the tale of the Roman soldier,” Bran insisted, munching from the fruit tray the staff had delivered.

The Roman soldier? Ah, the distraction Lydia had concocted and he’d offered. He might not read tales, but he’d learned to tell them over long, lonely nights over campfires. “I’m not a historian,” he warned. “The more scholarly among you will have to fill in the blanks.”

“In other words, we should make it up ourselves,” Gerard said with a laugh. “The Romans conquered our blue-faced ancestors back in the first century, when dirt walls made adequate defenses.”

“The savages probably considered any walls as corrals to pen in iron-wearing eccentrics,” the solemn marquess added without inflection to indicate humor or cynicism. “Maybe our pagan ancestors built the tower to keep an eye on the soldiers.”

Max grinned. His family was inclined to view the world through broader perspectives. “I’ve found evidence of a primitive watchtower, although from what I’ve uncovered so far, our more civilized ancestors built on the foundation of an old Roman site. The Romans liked their creature comforts. The original foundation shows a sophisticated construction more suited to Romans than to Picts or Britons. My theory is that a number of those soldiers married our blue-faced ancestors and remained behind to fend off other invaders.”

“They remained behind with a hoard of silver?” the marquess asked. Normally a serious fellow, he was just drunk enough to play along.

“Silver was mined around here.” Gerard waved his long fingers vaguely. “But these days, oil is the new gold. Everyone is hunting it before the Americans corner the market.”

“I thought it was coal they mined here.” Max wondered if the earl was concocting a tale of his own. Oil? Oil could be had in Scotland? His mind drifted back to his tumble earlier—the hole had smelled oily.

“The coal mines have exhausted the easy, lucrative seams. Since everyone wants oil now, deeper coal production is becoming economically unfeasible. Your Romans wouldn’t have known what to do with oil though.” Gerard sipped his brandy.

“Well, they would have burned coal to heat their baths, so they may have mined these hills. But whoever built the vault beneath the ancient part of the tower wasn’t a poor soldier,” Max said, leading them on. “The original tower was built of impenetrable stone, not wood and wattle. It may initially have had wooden stairs, but at some point, they were replaced with iron. There’s an immense cistern, an impregnable well, and a sophisticated drainage system that fertilized and watered the fields.”

“Iron lodestone in these hills too.” Gerard added. “So you think your sophisticated Roman architect—not a soldier from the sound of it—mined silver in his sewage field?”

“Or coal to heat his bath,” Bran added helpfully. “To attract nubile blue-faced maidens. Shouldn’t we visit the maidens instead of talking about them?”

“Even I’m not drunk enough for blue faces,” Max said facetiously. “But if you’re wishing to leave to see Susan, she’s Richard’s mother.” He’d sent his son away once the hard drinking had started. “She’s looking for another rich husband. Except for the new steward, my mother conveniently did not invite any of her nubile maidens to this dinner.” For which he was most grateful.

“Will the maidens be here tomorrow?” Bran asked. “I’m only asking for Brendan. He needs to marry wealth.”

His silent twin punched him.

“I’m fairly certain none of Mother’s students or teachers are wealthy. Malcolms tend to marry money and spread the wealth around.” Max rose, happy to direct his companions to the hall, hoping Lydia would be there.

“Then why the devil did our forefathers and fathers keep marrying them?” Bran complained.

Max pounded his smaller cousin on the back, nearly toppling him. “You’ll find out once you meet the right one. Start earning your own way, my boy. Marrying for riches is outmoded.”

They entered the great hall to find his mother and the married ladies in a huddle, bent over books and writing material, no doubt plotting Max’s future. Lydia wasn’t with them. Neither was the brown wren. Susan, however, looked up eagerly.

Max was pretty certain he felt the tower tremble in warning. He fled in search of Lydia.

The moment Max stepped through the door at the top of the stairs, the wind died and the books settled. Lovely, Lydia thought. She was the cause of the disturbance. If the people who tested librarians saw the ominous wind, they’d heave her out on her head.

Max sat on the narrow step above her. “That gown isn’t really suited for these treads, is it?”

Lydia knew her smile was watery as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I really wasn’t meant for finery. It’s nice to play dress up, but I’m still a steward, if only of the library. I’m not sure what I will do with myself if I hire your mother’s steward.”

“Is that what you’re crying about?” he asked in concern. “We don’t have to hire her. Your butler seems quite capable.”

“The Folkstons are good with the household accounts, but there is apparently far more to the estate than even I know. Have you looked at the maps on the desk?” Lydia untangled her lovely silk from the iron treads and took Max’s hand to stand.

Her heart and soul ached, but she couldn’t disappoint Max with her lack of confidence. Any woman