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

he’d not inserted into his coat. Max hugged her against him and relaxed. He was finally home. “How did your day go, my dear?”

She huffed and pinched him through his shirt and backed off to study his arm. “I believe I am officially the Malcolm Librarian. Lord Crowley’s minions have been cowed and routed. Miss Trivedi will be transferring the trust to more female-friendly solicitors.”

“I knew you could do it!” Max crowed, hugging her again. He ruffled Bakari’s hair, pointed out a digging machine, and sent the boys off to question strangers. They’d be safe and might even learn a thing or two.

“Did you have to fight your way out of the courthouse?” his beautiful wife asked, studying his face.

He kissed her for good measure.

“Something like that. Should we go inside where I can lie to all the ladies at once? Then you won’t know the difference and won’t have to pretend. You’re not a very good liar.” Capturing her waist with his good arm, he headed for the stairs, waiting for Lydia to bite off his ear.

“You can tell them the truth,” she foolishly insisted. “But first, you must tell us the outcome of your uncle’s lawsuit. I am gathering from the plethora of equipment that you are now enormously wealthy and have money to waste.”

“Not wasting. It takes money to make money. I mean to provide an income for your castle for decades to come. Maintenance will eat through your funds otherwise.” Max stepped into the towering foyer with satisfaction. If he must settle down, it should be to a place that required his talents.

Lydia tugged him into the great hall, where his mother, aunt, cousins, and who-the-hell-knew else waited. Max wished for the Ives males to balance this sea of femininity, but they’d wisely opted to visit men of commerce in the city to avoid this scene.

Although it seemed now he could enjoy the company of women without fear of consequences. He could learn to appreciate that. He hugged Lydia for all to see.

“I trust there is an explanation?” his mother asked from her comfortable seat in front of the windows, where she was working on her knitting.

“This is Max’s home,” Lydia reminded her. “He needn’t explain anything he doesn’t wish.”

She spoiled the effect by taking his hand and turning to him anxiously. “But please tell us no one was killed.”

Max laughed. He couldn’t help it. Bloodthirsty women, he had to remember. He kissed her nose, then helped himself to the whisky decanter. His home. This was his home. He gazed at the enormous hall and decided it was quite large and eccentric enough to suit him.

“Uncle David went off his nut a bit before George and I settled him down. A gun accidentally went off, and I was nicked, but no harm done. Hugh Morgan is quite happy to work with a court-appointed attorney to divide up the estate in some equitable manner. All is well, and I have my brilliant mother and lovely wife to thank.”

Lydia clutched his good arm and whispered, “That was the lie, right? You had all your cousins with you. There had to have been a brawl that will be recounted for years to come.”

“And will grow ever more improbable in the telling,” he agreed. “But I really am fine.”

The ladies clucked and chattered. Max deftly dodged pointed questions. And as soon as he finished his drink, he steered Lydia toward the door. “I thank you for taking care of Lydia and being our support through all this, but we’re newlyweds. You’ll forgive us if we have a little private time.”

Regretting that his injured arm wouldn’t allow him to sweep Lydia off her feet, Max ushered her into the tower and threw the bolt.

Thirty-one

Lydia carefully unfastened the bandage around Max’s arm as he soaked in their tub. Aware that she wore only a thin robe over her chemise and Max was spending more time gazing at her breasts than washing, she warmed all over. “Now tell me the real story. This is a nasty gash.”

“But that’s all it is, a gash. It probably hurt worse when George kicked my shin.” He sank deeper into the bubbles she’d added.

“Your uncle really lost his mind?” she asked, prying information out of him the same way she pried off the bandage.

“Mad as hops, at least. He brandished a gun. People objected. George tried to take it away, and my uncle started shooting cherubs off the ceiling. I got nicked by flying marble. So did a few others.” He shrugged. “It’s not a badge of honor. The real surprise was my cousins flocking to save me from being murdered.”

Lydia breathed easier, from his tale and from examining the wound. It was nasty and someone had added a few stitches, but it didn’t seem red after the strain he must have put on it riding up here. “I must find some way to thank them from keeping you away from a brawl.”

“Oh, well, there was a bit of a collie-shangles, if I’m to be totally honest.” He checked the wound and scrubbed around it.

“Collie-shangles?” Lydia asked weakly. “A gun sounds like a little more than a quarrel.”

“Someone had to stop more lead from ricocheting into the crowd,” he replied pragmatically. “Do you know the place on your elbow that almost paralyzes your arm if you bang it wrong?”

Lydia winced and patted his wound dry so she could wrap it fresh. “It hurts awfully.”

“Well, the quickest way to make someone drop something is to whack that bone. So I borrowed a walking stick and hit the old. . .” He cut off the word he meant to say and said instead, “Gentleman.”

“Oh, dear. And then?”

“He lost his grip on the gun. It hit the floor. The bullet in the chamber went off and nicked someone else, and before long, we had a little contretemps going. Jolly good fun and all that, but the coppers looked poorly on it. Uncle David got hauled off. But I was bleeding all