Bruised and shaken from the fall, Max reveled in the beauty of Lydia’s screams, knowing they meant that someone cared.
He grabbed his cousin before the dolt toppled, then shouted at the light ahead. “We’re fine, my love. You’re brilliant. We may need a helping hand to haul the idiot up. He seems to have injured himself.”
His betrothed didn’t disapprove of his thick-headedness. She’d said she loved him. He could topple mountains with that knowledge.
Max had never really understood what love was. He still didn’t. He just knew Lydia filled him with joy.
Since his prim Lydia was uncharacteristically shouting some of the Latin lady’s obscenities, he thought maybe he’d unleashed the passion she’d only shown him in bed. He could live with that. She had every right to be furious with him for ruining their wedding day.
She left the light and disappeared from view.
For a moment, a gray shimmering phantasm hovered between him and the library. Max froze. Was that the old librarian?
I told you, she’s more valuable than she understands, the ghost whispered. Be good to her.
The shimmering image evaporated, exposing the iron rail in the wall. Relieved that he didn’t have to battle a ghost, Max caught a rung, but George was clinging to him like a limpet, one arm dangling uselessly at his side. Sore all over, Max couldn’t see a good way of hauling him out without help. Ghosts were bloody well useless.
Richard appeared in the entry above. “Father! They’re forming a party to dig you out.”
“I sent the ladies to inform them otherwise,” Lydia said in her normal pragmatic voice, returning to hold up the lantern. “Richard was at the door, and I thought him trustworthy enough to introduce to the library.”
The library, of course. She couldn’t haul in just anyone. “Excellent thinking, my love. Rich, I think if you can grasp George’s coat just at the shoulder—watch his arm—we can guide him up. How steady are you on your feet, Cuz?”
“Steadier than when you’re sitting on my head, Cuz,” George grumbled.
“Your head needs sitting on if you thought we were hiding silver in a dungeon,” Max said with scorn. “I only dirtied your shirt last time. Test me again, and I’ll break both arms.”
Between them, they hauled George into the library stacks. The chamber was lit only by the lantern Lydia held.
George glanced around at the shelves and the stairs spiraling out of sight to the invisible ceiling above and shuddered. “No wonder Crowley wants this place demolished. It has to be the lout’s idea of hell.”
And then he passed out.
Once they’d found Dr. Dare to set George’s broken bones, and Max took himself off to bathe, Lydia allowed her family and friends to sweep her back to her suite. She was too shaken to argue.
She was an entirely different woman from the one who had left these chambers a few hours ago. Or perhaps not entirely—she had just discovered parts of herself that she hadn’t known existed. She was quite reasonably rattled.
“You saved the day, O Great Librarian,” Phoebe crowed. “Really, I think we should garb you in royal robes and hand you a broadsword to greet the testers. Did the Vikings have witches? I think you’re a direct descendant.”
Lydia’s mother muttered about witches but Lydia focused on testers. “The trustees actually sent the testing committee today, why?”
“We’ll ask later,“ Olivia said briskly. “Let me fix those pins in your hair again so we can attach the veil. The preacher has arrived. The chapel will be filling.”
Could she repeat what she’d just done? Could she summon any book she needed—or a spirit? She desperately needed to read books on librarians. . .
Longing to rush back to the journals to see if she might research what she prayed was her new position, Lydia impatiently allowed herself to be pushed and pulled and pinned and dressed in her finery.
It was extremely fine finery, she had to admit, fingering the satin and lace and admiring the result in the mirror. Her new corset cinched in her waist and raised her breasts, and the delicate, fluttery lace disguised her size—as long as no one stood close to her besides Max. She almost grinned at that.
Max loved her. Max still wanted to marry her even after she’d turned into some kind of medieval harridan. Max wanted to have children with her. And he would protect them just as he’d protected his dolt of a cousin, because that’s who Max was—a defender. A knight of her own.
She could easily forget about medieval harridans, testers, crumbling tunnels, and lawsuits as long as she thought about Max.
“Photograph!” Azmin demanded when the last frill and furbelow was in place.
“With my ladies-in-waiting, please.” Lydia gestured for her gorgeously garbed friends to surround her. They’d all dressed as they’d pleased and made a colorful peacock display to offset Lydia’s plain vanilla attire. Her only color was her lovely sapphire necklace and blue hydrangea bouquet.
Azmin glittered with gold jewelry and wore a gauzy sari in iridescent blue, green, and gold. Phoebe had attempted fashion in a raspberry-and-cream striped gown with a dark blue bodice to stay with the wedding’s blue theme. Olivia looked her usual lovely blond self in a sedate gown of soft blue silk that disguised the signs that she was increasing.
Lydia’s mother and sister fought back tears of joy. Azmin joined the group, then squeezed the bulb to flash her camera light and capture the moment.
“These are dry plates,” Azmin said, as if that meant anything to anyone. She pulled a plate from the camera, popped it into a wooden box, and produced another from her bag. “Let me take one more of just the bride, in case the chemicals weren’t laid correctly. I do wish they’d hurry and develop the color solution. This would be so gorgeous! I’ll have to touch up the final with paint.”
After the portrait was done, Lydia’s mother and sister hurried downstairs to warn everyone the bridal party was on its way. Her ladies lifted her train so Lydia could navigate the stone stairs. At the bottom, the servants respectfully lined the corridor, holding a flowered arch for Lydia to walk under. Tears welled as she smiled and thanked each individual.
This was her day. If she never knew another happy moment, Lydia would remember this one forever. For the first time in her life, people noticed her, instead of the other way around. She didn’t particularly like attention, but for this one moment, she felt lovely and important. She lifted her chin in pride and let all her other problems subside. Today, she married Max, a man who loved her just as she was.
With the servants trailing behind her like an honor guard, Lydia walked through the towering, paneled great hall, down the art-studded long corridor on the far side, and into the chapel where her guests waited. Lady Agatha had insisted on potted rowans at the altar.
Admiring the trees, Lydia didn’t worry so much about heads turning to watch her. She wanted to acknowledge each and every guest, but her gaze fixed on the amazing man in elegant tailed coat and slightly crooked cravat waiting at the altar, dwarfing his tailored, aristocratic grooms. Max’s gaze fastened on her as if she were the only person in existence, and excitement danced in his eyes.
Her heart nearly pounded through her chest, and her smile brightened.
His bride’s smile illuminated the chapel better than light through the stained glass. Max basked in the glory of her happiness. He hadn’t protected Lydia from aggravation, but she still smiled at him as if he had saved the day. How could he not love a woman that understanding?
For Lydia, he would climb a mountain or swim an ocean. Surely he could manage a few minutes in front of the kind of gathering that had once made him quake in terror.
Tenser than he’d been while buried in an oubliette, Max had waited until the last minute to walk out in front of dozens of guests, half of them female. He deliberately gazed over the heads of the audience, watching the entrance, hoping his disinterest would fend off any magnetic reactions. If any female looked his way, he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice. Usually, he knew instantly when the magnetism kicked in. Did this mean his magnetic field didn’t work in a church?
Or because he loved Lydia? And she loved him. Did that mean they were bonded? He didn’t think he’d ever known love before. Disapproval, yes. Disappointment. Resignation. But unconditional love? Never. Women liked to show him off. His mother was proud of him occasionally. But that wasn’t quite the same thing as what he felt in Lydia. The connection between them was strong and true. He prayed that meant she’d never have to worry about his faithfulness.
Once his lace-bedecked bride entered the chapel, she didn’t hesitate. With her glorious red-gold hair shimmering in the stained-glass light, Lydia strode down the aisle, her joyful smile solely for him. Max thought he might burst his buttons with love and pride. She was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on. The quality of her soul shone from her eyes. The beauty of her character danced on her lips. And if he looked any lower, to that splendidly revealed bosom, he’d cripple himself. He contented himself with imagining removing all that lace.
He held out his callused hand, the one he’d spent soap and time scrubbing as clean as a civilized gentleman’s, even though he wore gloves now. She clasped his palm eagerly.
Around them, the women had arranged potted trees. Max knew this symbolized the Malcolm Druidic heritage, so the eccentricity barely registered. He simply prayed nothing stopped this ceremony. He’d never meant to be anchored to one woman or one place, but this felt right. He could relax here, as he had never been able to elsewhere.
All he had to do was conquer all the challenges waiting for him. Building bridges was easier.
The preacher spoke the Malcolm vows of love and equality, and Max repeated them without hesitation. He had wanted to order a fancy wedding ring for his bride, but Lydia had wanted them to both wear rings to signify their commitment. So they had chosen plain bands from the village silversmith. Jewelry got tangled in equipment and Max never wore it, but he felt this as a piece of Lydia’s heart and wore it proudly. When he finally kissed his bride, the genteel crowd erupted in cheers, egged on by his incorrigible schoolmates and groomsmen—who tossed flour as well as rice. The mice would have a field day.
“We have a dungeon I can throw the barbarians down,” he murmured against Lydia’s lips. “You have only to say the word.”
“They have been celebrating your daring rescue while we dressed. I suspect by evening they will all be drunk enough to pour themselves into the cellar. Why waste your energy when it’s better spent on me?” she suggested, before turning back to the cheering audience and lifting her bouquet in acknowledgment.
Chuckling, Max led his lovely librarian down the aisle and through the flowered and beribboned arch held by the servants, back to the great hall where a repast had been laid out for the guests.
With not enough tables to serve a crowd this size, a buffet had been set up. Most of the guests circled it while the wedding party ate at the head of the room, under the arch the servants planted in buckets of soil.
While Lydia and her ladies fussed with veils and lace and whispered excitedly to each other, Max lifted a glass in toast to the men who had answered his call even after twenty years of absence. “I am far beyond honored that you gentlemen have taken time from your busy lives to aid a prodigal in his time of need. I hope to toast you soon at your own happy nuptials. Who is next? Rainford?”
The blond marquess grimaced. “The duke has arranged an assortment of exceptionally suitable maidens for my perusal. An heir is essential, so I suppose I’m next.” He glanced at the dark and dashing earl at his side. “You can choose from the ones left over, Ives. My father has excellent taste.”
Gerard barked a laugh and sipped his champagne. “You forget, my lord, we are related through maternal lines only. I am an Ives and you are a mere Malcolm. We Ives proliferate with males. We have an overabundance of heirs to the marquisate. And the pater will probably live until eternity, so there is no rush at all.”
“Money, not heirs, drives us,” Bran announced from the far end of the table. “We’ll accept your leftovers, Rainford.”
The non-talkative twin intervened. “Rainford’s prospects will have no interest in impoverished, untitled sons of diplomats.”
Max gestured at the array of guests, many of them his mother’s students and teachers. “Look out there, my friends, at some of the finest ladies in the kingdom. If they do not have wealth, they have intelligence and integrity, and that is worth far more than gold.”
“And they’ve been known to drive men mad with their talk of ghosts and auras and spirits and things that go bump in the night,” Gerard grumbled.
Lydia whispered in Max’s ears. “Tell him he’s the next one destined to marry a barmy Malcolm. A barmy Malcolm says so.”
Max laughed and kissed her, in front of friends and family. Their guests cheered and lifted their glasses in unspoken toast.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” he murmured, touching his crystal glass against hers. “Let us remember this moment forever.”
“Look this way and smile,” Azmin shouted.
As they turned in her direction, she flashed her blinding camera lights.
When Max could see again, he spied his uncle speaking with Hugh Morgan and Miss Trivedi, the team he hoped would be overseeing their financial future, once he talked to the judge. There was the meteor on his sunlit horizon.
He gulped down the rest of his champagne.