After dinner, Lydia left Max working with Mr. Morgan and Miss Trivedi on plans to pry financial information from his uncle and cousin. She had a funeral to plan, guests to prepare for, and a stack of books calling to her.
The staff knew what to do. They simply needed to be reassured about the change in circumstances and that Lydia approved of their work. She was a vicar’s daughter, accustomed to church social gatherings, not aristocratic assemblies. Anything the servants suggested was fine with her.
With that task accomplished, she returned to the library, swept up a few tomes from the pile she’d found for Max, and retreated to the hidden study inside the stacks. She didn’t want Max catching her by surprise. She didn’t want to be kissed again—much. She just wanted to be left alone to explore whether or not she might be able to fulfill the librarian’s duties sufficiently to scrape by until she either learned how to hear the books or a more qualified person could be found.
But the tomes meant little to her. She listened to the whispers, found pages mentioning the tower, and marked them with the supply of bookmarks she’d created for Mr. C. She would have to read the pages to Max to see if they meant anything to him.
Discouraged, she set the books aside and wandered into the stacks, concentrating on the words librarian and instructions, to see if that stirred the whispers enough to hear. It didn’t. Ownership did nothing either. She flipped through the ancient directory but mostly it listed the authors of the journals and occasionally made reference to the author’s gift. Nothing screamed This is how you find a librarian. She’d have to hope that the solicitors knew more than she did.
She settled on a step near the shelf containing Mr. C’s journals. Perhaps if she started with reading how he became the librarian. . .
Descending from his tower suite, showing his son the secret passage, Max discovered Lydia sound asleep on the library stairs. One well-turned ankle dangled from below her skirt, a book rested precariously in her lap, and her temple reposed on a stack of tomes. If he could paint, he’d paint Portrait of a Beautiful Librarian.
“She’ll hurt herself,” his son whispered in concern.
It was a long way down if she tried turning over on a circular iron stairway.
Max didn’t know where Lydia’s room was. He supposed he could go down the outer stairs, opening doors to see if any looked likely. But it was far easier to deposit her where she belonged.
She stirred when he lifted her, but she had to be terribly exhausted. She didn’t wake.
Max was unaccustomed to taking care of anyone but himself, but it was becoming obvious that the librarian needed someone to take care of her. She couldn’t do it all—be the librarian and her own assistant and steward of all she surveyed. They’d have to work that out in the morning. For now, he carried her up the stairs and deposited her on the spacious bed obviously intended for her.
“Where will you sleep?” the boy asked, again with concern. The lad had more compassion than Max would ever learn.
“I’ve been sleeping on the ground and on ship decks for years,” he assured him. “I’ll sleep in the other room with you, if that’s all right.”
They caught Lloyd just entering the parlor from the outer stairs, apparently ready for his own bed. Max grimaced. There was a snag.
“I put Miss Wystan on the big bed,” he informed the valet. “She fell asleep on the stairs, and I didn’t know what else to do. If you can direct me to her chamber, I could sleep there, but I don’t know how she’ll react if she wakes up to you and my son in the suite.”
Lloyd nodded and squinted his eyes in thought. “She really does belong here. It’s expected. I can take one of the cubicles. They’re all furnished. I’ll just need to remove my things.” He looked at Max expectantly.
Max could take the guest room he’d been using. It was perfectly adequate. Morgan and Miss Trivedi had been given rooms elsewhere.
But he’d already caught one of the maids turning down his covers and leaving a bottle of whisky on his night table. He really wanted an entire locked tower between him and the household. Besides, their trunks were here.
Max gestured vaguely at the parlor. “I’ll sleep with the boy in here tonight. We’ll work out better arrangements in the morning.”
Lloyd didn’t seem fond of that idea, but ever the obedient servant, he gathered up his few personal articles, carefully locked the door to the little closet leading to Lydia’s bed, and departed. As soon as he was gone, Max picked the lock and opened the door so the boy could use the washroom. Max knew he was an honorable man, in his own way, but he respected that not everyone else appreciated his ability to resist a beautiful woman.
Almost resist—he opened the chamber door and verified that the lady slept soundly.
“She’s like a beautiful princess,” Bakari murmured in awe. “Like in the fairy tales.”
With her golden-sunset hair tumbling over her porcelain cheeks and lace collar, Lydia did indeed resemble an untouchable princess. For perhaps the first time in his life, Max felt regret at walking away.
Lydia blinked awake at her usual hour of dawn. She frowned at the ceiling that had suddenly developed delicate flowers and colorful birds. Finally realizing it was a canopy and not a ceiling, she hurriedly scrambled from a bed almost as large as the room she’d been sleeping in.
How did she end up in Mr. C’s room?
She’d been reading his journals. She’d learned Mr. C’s mother had been a librarian, so he had simply inherited her position. She must have fallen asleep before she read further.
The funeral! She had so much to do. . .
She cast a longing glance at the bath, but she didn’t know how she’d got here or who was on the other side of that wall. She’d run down to her chamber and find fresh clothing. . . except both sets of stairs were in the parlor. Drat. She should have told Lloyd to leave her gowns here. . . except she’d meant for Max to use these rooms while they had guests. Had he even unpacked? She peered into the ornate clothes press, but it was empty.
Fluffing out her skirt as best as she could, she inched open the bathing room door, then crossed to Lloyd’s chamber. The large form in the valet’s bed was quite unmistakably not Lloyd. What was Max doing in here? At least he was wearing a nightshirt and had the covers almost pulled over him, but it was hard to resist looking. He badly needed a shave, and he dwarfed that tiny cot. She’d never been this close to a man in dishabille, and the heat his muscular form engendered embarrassed her.
Covering her eyes from temptation, she tip-toed past and into the study, then safely to the parlor, where Bakari slept on the cot that had been carried up for him. He tossed restlessly, but she sneaked past without disturbing him.
Back to normal! She rushed down the stairs, happy to be in the safety of her own little world again. Her world did not include beds fit for a queen and men who could be kings.
She bathed in the downstairs tub, donned her best black silk, added the gold watch and lace collar, and took a deep breath. Today, she must behave like the Malcolm Librarian for all the world to see. It had been easy enough to do with a man who knew nothing, like Lord Crowley, but in front of perceptive Malcolms. . . She prayed they wouldn’t question on a day like this.
That would happen when they started seeking answers she couldn’t provide.
She rushed down in time to see Miss Trivedi and Mr. Morgan off to the early train heading into the city. Services wouldn’t be until the afternoon, after the return train arrived. Guests needed time to take carts and horses up the rough road to the castle from the train station.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Marta produced a delicate black lace mantle for Lydia to wear. “It was in the wardrobes we cleaned and looks as if it’s meant for you.”
“It’s lovely, like something a real lady would wear,” Lydia exclaimed, wishing she could kiss the cook. The mood in the kitchen lightened considerably as she threw the lacy confection over her shoulders and showed off her new acquisition. “I feel special now, thank you.”
After ascertaining that Marta and her staff were fine, and Mrs. Folkston had the guest rooms in the main house under control, Lydia finally retreated to the guest library to finish working through the books that Max needed.
Max was already there, sipping from a mug of coffee and studying the array of volumes she’d left on the long library table. He contemplated her with what appeared to be interest at her entrance but merely nodded a greeting.
Embarrassed that she’d crept past him while he slept, Lydia nervously held out the oldest volume. “This one has a sketch that appears to show the outer wall being built, but the text is in Gaelic. I can attempt pronunciation but I cannot translate.”
Setting down his mug, he took the volume and examined the drawing. “Nice. They sank the stones deep, so the mine isn’t directly under the foundation as I feared. Attempt pronunciation, please. One of the engineers who taught me spoke Gaelic.”
To her surprise, the words seemed to roll off her tongue as she read the page. She even almost understood them, as much as she might understand anything involving angles and diameters and so forth. It did not appear to say much.
Max frowned in thought but drew some diagrams on a blank piece of paper. “Did a woman write that?”
Lydia verified the title page. “Yes, but she seemed to understand the terms. Or she copied down what someone told her. This is from the 15th century, so it was unusual for women to write, but Malcolm women have always been educated.”
“Which is why they were called witches. Women aren’t supposed to have brains.” He offered her a big smile that almost brought her to her knees. “Men have been idiots for ages. What else do you have in this array of boring tomes?”
Grateful for the table’s distance between them, Lydia settled in a chair and picked up the next volume. “This one is Latin. Do I need to translate as I read?”
“Definitely. I haven’t met any Romans on my journeys. Should I send for tea for you?” He looked around for the bell pull.
“No, don’t. They’re in a tizzy in the kitchen right now, preparing for guests. And neighbors are at the back door with offerings, even though this place has more food than their poor larders can hold. So there will be a crowd well into the evening. You’ll have to stay out of the way. There’s even a chance your mother and aunt might be here. I think they’re the eldest Malcolms in the area.”
He grimaced. “Bakari and I stand forewarned. I assume the city guests will be staying the night. So feed me as much information from these books as you can, and we will make ourselves scarce until we’re told the way is clear.”
“You may have your bed back tonight. I’m sorry I somehow usurped it. How did I end up there?” Lydia tried not to show her anxiety over the question.
“You fell asleep on the stairs, and I didn’t know where to take you. But this works out well. Have Lloyd carry up your clothes and leave him in a cubicle. We won’t disturb you. That chamber is rightfully yours.”
“But I have to go past you to reach the stairs,” she protested. “It’s not at all proper. I’ll have Lloyd remove me to the guest room at the bottom that you were using, and then if I fall asleep again, you’ll know where to put me.” She attempted a smile, waiting to see if he corrected her assumption that he’d put her in the bed.
He didn’t.
He’d carried her up the stairs. . . Lydia’s mind went blank. No one could carry her. She wasn’t small. Those stairs were narrow. Max had carried her. Her heart almost fluttered out of her chest.
Max frowned but didn’t argue with her choice of beds. “At least that’s better than a hole in the wall, I suppose. And we don’t have time to argue. Let’s read through the rest of this.” He gestured at the array of volumes. “My head is likely to explode before we’re done.”
They were hurriedly finishing the last volume just as Bakari ran into the room to warn that carts were coming up the drive. Max had a page of sketches and notes apparently only he could decipher. He shoved the paper in his pocket and pushed back his chair. “I really want to kiss you right now but realize it’s inappropriate.”
He flashed a wide white grin that left Lydia stunned and unable to speak as he ambled out, trailing his son.
How was she supposed to even think after that declaration?