“I wish we’d had time for a honeymoon,” Max whispered in Lydia’s ear as he removed the pins and lace from her hair later that evening. “I’d take you away from all this, to a place with warm breezes and moonlight and the ocean tide lapping at our feet.”
“If I’m with you, it does not matter about tides and breezes,” Lydia said, stretching her aching neck as the weight of all the folderol was lifted from her head. Her hair rippled down her chemise—Max had already divested her of her sumptuous gown.
She did not mention that what she really wanted to do was go into the library and test her new gift. Max might be as pragmatic as she, but this was their wedding night. She would never have another—even if they’d already anticipated their vows these past weeks.
“You really don’t long for romantic strolls down a sandy beach or a fancy hotel with gilded cherubs?” he asked, kissing her throat. “You are that tied to this castle?”
“Why do you ask?” She was terrified he meant to ask her to leave the castle—or that he meant to leave.
“I’ll admit,” he said reluctantly, “That I am not the world’s most romantic person. I was hoping to hear your thoughts on the matter.”
Lydia muffled a laugh and worked on his shirt studs. “It is not romance I require. It’s you, just as you are, who I admire. But we were discussing honeymoons. Are you saying you do not want a beach but something else?”
“I want you.” He nibbled her ear, sending a thrill to her midsection. “Never doubt that. But your performance today as a Latin-speaking lady intrigues me more than any beach or gilded cherub. Will that ever happen again, do you think?”
Filled with joy, Lydia laughed aloud. “I am wondering the same. If it were not our wedding day, I would have buried myself in the stacks in an attempt to raise her again.”
“We’ve had our wedding night already, and as much as I would love to ravish you now, I am just half-rats enough to think ravishment should wait.”
“Half-rats?” she asked with curiosity.
He chuckled. “Tipsy, half-drunk, not thinking straight, as is obvious from my next question. If the solicitors really have sent testers, shouldn’t we practice this exciting new gift you’ve displayed?”
“I did not think it was possible for me to love you more, but you keep surprising me.” She brought his head down so she could kiss him for his half-rats suggestion.
Max caressed her breasts and responded with alacrity, then reluctantly set her back. “If that means you wish to explore instead of being ravished, you’d better find a safer way of expressing yourself, my love.”
It never failed to thrill her to be called his love. She knew this man. Those words did not come to him easily, so she cherished them more.
“Would we shock the books if we tried both?” she asked teasingly, pleased that he did not mind her forwardness. “I believe the testers drank themselves into a stupor in the cellar, and Mr. Folkston had them carried to Crowley’s carriage, but I fear they will be back tomorrow.”
“If they come back, it will be after I’ve left for the city,” he said regretfully. “The barrister has arranged to meet with the judge while my cousins and schoolmates are still here to act as my witnesses. We’ll have to leave after breakfast.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “I cannot believe your uncle will continue with this lawsuit. Surely he must admit you are who you are after today.”
“Not if he and Crowley have other plans for this property. They’d hoped to have you cast out today, it seems. They wanted to settle the matter before the judge rules. I don’t know what they plan next. Since Crowley mines his land, he may have discovered the shale. My uncle may be one of his investors. If they suspect there is oil, they will fight us tooth and nail.” He kissed her temple. “I’m sorry if my woes have complicated yours.”
“We’re in this together,” she said firmly. “Tomorrow will be a terrible or glorious day. We can celebrate or commiserate here tomorrow night. Let’s use our few spare hours to see what we can do. I really think you’re the one who has given me the confidence to be what I must be.”
Max kissed her again, then reached for the robes the servants had laid upon the bed. “Wrap yourself up and let us visit our ancestors.”
“I am so very fortunate that you are a Malcolm as well as an Ives and understand.” She wrapped the robe around her while he lit a lantern.
He draped an arm over her shoulders and led the way back to the small salon and the stairs. “Do not expect me to always be so understanding. Tonight, I am blotto with drink and love and excitement and cannot give you the attention you deserve. Tomorrow may be a different story.”
“I like all your stories. Just keep me in them, please.” Lydia held her breath as she stepped through the hidden portal to her secret world. The structure might not be so secret, she supposed, but the contents were known only to her.
Max held up the light, illuminating the shadows of dark shelves, and she attuned herself to the whispers.
“I will read you the pertinent passages on the tower’s foundation later,” she said. “If you need more, we can ask again. Right now, I need to know about me.”
“Just tell me what to do,” he murmured, almost in reverence. “Your Latin lady was quite impressive.”
“I think she was more likely Scots,” Lydia said. “Just educated. And a bit cynical.” She touched her belly but didn’t mention her hopes and fears. It was much too soon to mention a child who might bear the same bold spirit. “I need to know how librarians are tested and what makes a good librarian.”
She said it with confidence, because she’d heard these books. She simply had to open herself to them in ways different from Mr. C’s. She was fairly certain no spirit had ever possessed him.
The books responded to her certainty, calling to her through that part of her mind she opened to them. She could hear disapproval and confusion from some. But one spoke louder than the others, with irritation and impatience. She could hear the voice! Had Mr. C heard voices?
Smiling, she lifted her robe and hurried down the spiraling stairs to the place where the book pushed out at her. Max followed more slowly, holding up the lantern.
“If you ever wanted to murder me, you could push me down these steps, and no one would ever find me,” she said absently, letting the book open to relevant pages.
“Why the devil would you say something like that?” he asked in shock.
Lydia blinked, reviewed what she’d said, then held up the book. “It has happened. Apparently the lady is speaking.”
Max stared at the book in horror. “That’s what those pages say? Someone was murdered here?”
“It’s a very, very old tower and not always a library. Probably lots of someones have died here,” she said absently, scanning the pages and flipping rapidly, fascinated. “But it is the murdered librarian who interests me. This is the journal of the woman who had to earn her way into the librarian’s position after her predecessor was killed by a jealous stepsister. Apparently, the stepsister thought she could acquire the castle upon her sister’s death or disappearance.”
“She killed her sister and left her body in the library?” Max asked in revulsion, looking over her shoulder at the pages she read.
“It seems so. The younger stepsister had no gift and no interest in the library, but she was financially supported by her older stepsister, who was only interested in books, not the parties the younger one wanted. Or so it is surmised by the Malcolm lady who wrote this. She was the one who heeded the library’s call and traveled many miles to visit the castle.”
“Take it upstairs and read it to me, please. This is why they test librarians now?” He took her arm and helped her up the stairs while she clung to the book.
“Yes, it seems so,” Lydia said excitedly. “The trust’s solicitors were called in. The younger sister claimed the older one had disappeared, so she was taking over the position. But she was not a Malcolm, and ladies who may have been your ancestors warned she wasn’t qualified. Then the owner of this journal appeared, knew how to enter the library because the books told her, and they found the body. It’s all very horrible and sad.”
But it was knowledge. The library was speaking to her!
“Well, they can’t claim you murdered Mr. Cadwallader, but I can see where there might be concern. Do you need any more of these volumes?” He waited, letting her listen.
Lydia shook her head. “I understand now. Let’s go to bed.” She kissed his jaw. “I’ll read you the pages until you fall asleep. I want you well rested so you can be magnificent tomorrow.”
Standing in the entrance of a narrow, dark courtroom, Max squared his shoulders in his fancy new coat, and remembered Lydia’s bedtime tale. It had been as chilling and uplifting as any good novel. He had never considered women to be quite that bloodthirsty.
Their display of swords yesterday should have given him a hint.
He watched as his uncle and his barrister entered from a far door. They didn’t even glance in Max’s direction.
The spectators were mostly men. A few ladies attended—probably some of Max’s nosy relations. None of them seemed abnormally interested in him. He tugged at his cravat and breathed a little easier. Lydia was a miracle worker in more ways than one. He’d feared that not having her by his side would be an invitation to any stray female, but his magnetic ability had apparently fastened on Lydia. He hoped.
If so, he might stay in Scotland! Did he want to? He liked working.
His barrister gestured for Max to take the chair next to him. The men who had traveled all this way to serve as his witnesses began taking seats on the benches. No matter how hungover they might be, his cousins had dressed as gentlemen and sauntered in with the arrogance of the privileged. Except for Dingo, his schoolmates were mostly the ones Max had prevented from being bullied in those long-ago years—not prepossessing sorts but apparently grateful ones. Dingo either wanted another round of fisticuffs or figured he owed Max for not breaking his nose the last time they’d fought.
Once everyone was seated, the judge called both barristers to the stand, where they presented whatever documentation they’d gathered, including witness statements. Max gritted his molars in frustration that he even had to submit to this nonsense. Where was George? After yesterday, his cousin had to know he wasn’t an impostor.
What would happen if he were declared dead in front of all his old friends and family? What would happen to Lydia? He was cursing himself for three times a fool for even thinking he’d be better off declared dead—
A bailiff shouted George’s name.
Heads turned expectantly, anticipating a dramatic entrance perhaps. Max just sank deeper into his seat. His cousin had to think of his own family first, of course. Refusing to testify wouldn’t help anyone but would be typical for the conflict-avoider he remembered. Maybe sitting on his head had taught George a lesson he’d never forgotten.
Grunts of satisfaction emerged from the audience directly behind Max. What had his esteemed, immensely aristocratic reprobates of cousins done now? He refused to express curiosity.
George walked out from the aisle dividing the courtroom benches. Ah, question answered. His cousins must have shoved the coward forward.
He wore one of his flashy suits with the stiff collar and cravat and a vest of black silk with gold embroidery. Max thought he looked like a Western gunfighter, except the black sling on his arm and his hobbling gait ruined any swash and buckle. George had been pretty banged up.
“Mr. Franklin.” The judge’s voice dripped disapproval. “We are pleased you have chosen to grace us with your attendance, however belated.”
“I couldn’t very well sit with my father, now, could I? We’re no longer on the same side. And Max isn’t likely to look on me kindly. But I’m here. Tell me what to do.” George cradled his broken arm, as if he might be in pain.
Max almost sympathized, except he was too shocked.
“The court wishes you to attest to this documentation stating the man claiming to be Maxwell Ives is an impostor, that you have personally—”
George shrugged and grimaced. “Can’t do that.”
The entire courtroom silenced. Max sat up straight and stared. His uncle turned purple. For that matter, so did the judge.
Max had hoped George might simply refuse to commit to one side or another, but he hadn’t hoped for a complete reversal. He studied his step-cousin with wary interest.
“What do you mean, you can’t do that?” the judge asked in tones dripping with ice and sarcasm.
George usually brought out that response in everyone, sooner or later, Max recalled. One would think he’d outgrow the habit of simple declarations without explanation.
“Can’t say Maxie is dead.” George didn’t even glance in Max’s direction as he spoke. “Might wish I could. The man is still an obnoxious bully, and he did nothing to deserve his riches except be born. But it’s Max, all right. I daresay if you care to look, you’ll find he has a scar on his shin where I kicked him with my boot when we weren’t old enough for school. He sat on my head afterward. He remembers that. That’s how I know it’s him.”
“He sat on your head?” The judge glanced incredulously at Max, as did everyone else. “Would you care to bare your shin, sir?” he asked in a tone dry as toast.
“If I may speak?” Max stood and glanced at his barrister for permission. At his nod, he continued. “You might prefer to examine the burn scar on my hand and wrist.” He undid his cufflink to reveal the welt. “I sustained this while attempting to rescue my drawings after the brat flung them in the fire. Had I known scars were admissible evidence, I could bare the one on my derriere from the arrow Dingo shot at me. He’s in the audience and can confirm it. I prefer to hope his testimony of the incident is sufficient.”
The chuckles in the audience grew closer to guffaws.
The judge looked as if he’d suffered enough. Sourly, he flung down the documents he’d been reading and nodded at the bailiff. “This farce is adjourned. Take the arguing parties to my chambers. In the face of witness testimony and evidence, the plaintiff has no case.”
Uncle David stood, enraged. “You can’t do that! You haven’t even heard my side.”
The judge tossed a stack of documents at him in annoyance. “Read these. Your nephew has done just as he promised—produced a marquess, an earl, the head of one of the most esteemed academies in the kingdom. . .”
Percy? Was he talking about the bespectacled bore who had needed Max to prevent him from being regularly beat up?
“. . .and a distinguished representative from one of our wealthiest districts to bear witness in his favor.”
Dingo? Dingo’s parents had royal connections and wealth. Max didn’t dare turn and glare at the bully. Proving this case meant Max would be rich again. He also had aristocratic relations worth cultivating. Appearing to support Max would be just the thing a politician would do. Civilization still had its downside.
But Lydia cancelled all negativity.
“You, on the other hand, Mr. Franklin,” the judge continued, “bring me numbers and testimony from toadies who wish to continue doing business with you. You may appeal, of course, but I recommend you join us in my chambers to determine how and when the estate’s assets are disbursed.”
Max didn’t dare believe it was done so easily, until Rainford slapped him on the shoulder and Ives shook his hand. The stoic Hugh Morgan stood and waited, prepared to follow the judge and begin counting Max’s money.
“It’s all over but the shouting,” the marquess declared, pounding Max once more for good measure. “If you need investment to mine that shale, let us know. Although I’d advise building an easier access road on the slope so people might actually reach the place.”
As everyone crowded out the narrow aisle, Percy came up to congratulate Max. “I talked to your son Bakari yesterday. Quite an interesting lad, more so than you ever were, old chum. When you’re ready to send him off to school, I hope you’ll consider mine. We pride ourselves on an eclectic body of students with the intelligence and background to lead international diplomacy into the next century.”
Dingo joined them, grinning broadly. “I’ll sign his references. We’ll need diplomats in the future who can navigate Egypt’s murky waters.”
“He’s six years old, drat you,” Max cried, pushing them out of the courtroom into the hall. “He can’t even ride a horse yet. And just because his skin is brown doesn’t mean he isn’t as English as. . .”
Dingo grinned and smacked Max on the back. “You don’t have to defend yourself anymore, Dwarf. Just accept our goodwill and kiss your lovely bride for us.”
Shouts of “He has a gun!” rang out in the high-ceilinged hall.
As one, Max’s friends and family pulled weapons from their tailored suits and formed a phalanx to guard Max, as if he were royalty.
They didn’t count on gunshots ricocheting off marble pilasters.