The Librarian's Spell Patricia Rice (top 100 novels .txt) 📖

couldn’t sign his name to request funds be transferred. She’d been forging his signature these past months on the castle’s housekeeping accounts, but she refused to use fraud to request more, if there was more. She did not have permission to ask the librarian’s solicitors.

“I’ll have the typewriter carried to the guest parlor,” she promised.

“Most excellent,” he said with a broad smile. “That dusty desert should suffice.”

On that puzzling remark, he departed.

Damn, but that had been awkward.

Max hadn’t realized the castle held any female but the old cook. His whole intent in staying in this out-of-the-way place was to keep his distance from marriageable women of any sort.

Curvaceous, sunset-haired Miss Wystan with her big blue eyes was just the sort he feared.

She had a sultry voice that rang familiar somehow. Had she been one of his mother’s hopes for a daughter-in-law? One of the ones he’d run from as fast as he could go?

He just needed to keep his distance. Maybe he could talk through walls. He snorted at the ridiculousness.

He hurried down the kitchen stairs to find the cook with the keys. Studying a dungeon made more sense than puzzling out the librarian’s secretary.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about her, which was unusual for him. Usually, women appeared in his life and hung around while he worked, until he found them in his bed. This time, he’d deliberately asked her to work with him. Why in all the blazing fires of hell had he done that?

True, Miss Wystan was unlike any woman he’d ever encountered. The women he attracted tended to be of the seductress sort—beribboned and coiffed to the extent of their society’s expectations. In Africa, that might mean plaits and paint. In California, it had been bonnets and bustles. In barren minefields, anything from calico and rouge to layers of lace petticoats and colorful skirts had prevailed. Whatever they wore, the women had petted and coddled him as if he were the only man they’d ever met. They suffocated him.

How did he include that in his journal? He couldn’t. His weird magnetism was more curse than gift.

Miss Wystan, on the other hand, wore baggy old wool to conceal her voluptuous curves and barely acknowledged his existence. He’d been in this lonely castle an entire day, and she hadn’t made any attempt to seek him out. She had the most glorious red-blond hair he’d ever had the privilege to set eyes on, and she’d pulled it tight and jammed it with unsightly pins. And she treated him as if he were little more than a bug on the wall.

He’d actually felt safe in offering to spend hours in a room alone with her.

Now that he was out of her presence, he realized he was out of his friggin’ mind.

Once in the fascinating dungeon that supported the tower, Max forgot the world outside. In awe, he studied the amazing structure his ancestors had created—because there was no question that an Ives had built this. He’d known the castle was one of the many Ives’ residences constructed over the centuries by his scientific family, but he had never actually seen one this old.

The foundation rose up out of what appeared to be an old mine, built on solid rock, supported by a maze of walls to confuse any invader. He might spend a lifetime exploring this subterranean cavern and never know all its secrets.

He almost missed dinner in his fascination.

After a hasty wash to remove the cobwebs and a mental note to send for his trunk so he didn’t look like an uncivilized heathen, Max found the breakfast room again.

He should have asked where the meal would be served, but he’d guessed correctly. The small table had been set for three. The older man Max had originally assumed to be the librarian’s assistant was already seated.

Accustomed to the egalitarian habits of mining towns, Max helped himself to the buffet and took a seat across the table. “Max Ives,” he introduced himself. “Will Mr. Cadwallader be joining us?”

He had been torn between hoping to see Miss Wystan again and fearing the intimacy of dining together. Perhaps this older man was her father?

“Hamish Lloyd,” the fellow said, answering that question. “Mr. C seldom joins us. Miss Wystan does upon occasion, but she’s most likely to take supper in her office.”

Max had the urge to pick up his plate and find her, but that would be rude, and Lloyd might hold secrets Max could use. He applied himself to ferreting them out.

By meals’ end, he wasn’t much wiser than he’d started. The librarian’s staff was as close-mouthed as their employer.

But he’d learned the puzzling Miss Wystan had arrived here years ago and now practically ran the castle on her own. Extraordinary. A woman as steward and secretary. He’d like to know her story.

The fare was plain but hearty, and Mr. Lloyd was a reasonably competent conversationalist. Max appreciated the reminder of civilization.

After the servant excused himself to see if his employer required anything, Max poured a sip of fine Scotch malt from a decanter on the sideboard and set out for the dusty parlor.

Sitting behind a makeshift desk, Miss Wystan was waiting for him. He’d never seen her standing, but he could tell she was not a small woman. He liked his women sturdy.

Max surveyed the changes to the parlor since his last visit and raised his glass in toast. “You have been busy, Miss Wystan. Do you have an army of energetic brownies at your command?”

With surprise, she glanced up from her study of a mechanical contraption. Following his gaze to the uncovered and polished furniture, she shrugged dismissively.

“It’s but a minute’s work to remove covers and run a cloth about. Marta has a long-handled duster for the corners. The draperies and carpets still need beating and the windows washing, but I did not think that necessary for our purposes. I will also need to send to the stationers for paper. Do you have any idea how much will be needed?”

Amazing.