The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

in his desk drawer every quarter for wages—until he became ill and couldn’t go into town. I am hoping I will have use of the same funds. A place this size cannot be maintained without an army.”

“If you don’t entertain, why does it matter? You seemed to be doing fine without help.” Max didn’t want to embarrass himself even more by arguing from his own perspective—an army of women was dangerous to his vow to never father another bastard. He might be stronger than he was as a youth, but when women offered, it often seemed rude to say no. He was a man, after all. He wasn’t averse to pleasure.

She gestured at Mary to go back to work. “Half the town will be here tomorrow for Mr. C’s funeral. And we once had lots of visitors. Any Malcolms traveling to the area used to pay their respects. Others wanted to research. We’ve had to turn them away this past year. It wasn’t as if Mr. C needed much.”

Mary didn’t return to her work. Sally wasn’t cleaning pots. The unidentified one was heading toward him with the pint he’d refused and a gleam in her eye. Max backed up two more stairs.

Lydia eyed his retreat warily. “Are visitors a problem? You needn’t attend the service.”

With a degree of panic, Max glanced at the three young women circling the table, drawing closer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to feed the boy while I see if our trunks have arrived. Tell this Beryl I’ll take care of my own room. I don’t wish to be burden. We’ll leave in the morning.”

He fled.

Seven

Nonplussed, Lydia watched Max flee as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. What on earth had set him off?

Mary abruptly returned to mixing, Sally to scrubbing pots. Lydia frowned, trying to remember what they’d been doing while Max was present. She looked to Marta for answers. The cook merely raised a questioning eyebrow. Lydia wasn’t good at reading non-verbal communication. She wanted to ask What had just happened here? But she felt ignorant in asking.

Shaking her head, she turned back to Bakari. The boy was hungrily shoving down oatcakes and honey and ignoring his fruit. She spooned some berries on the oatmeal rounds with the honey. He liked that too. “Maybe some milk?” she suggested.

Mary set down a full glass. “My little brother likes sausage. Shall I fetch some? And maybe take something up to Mr. Ives?”

“Mr. Ives will eat when everyone else does,” Marta said sharply. “Finish that pudding before it’s ruined.”

Lydia cut off a piece of cheese. The boy eyed it skeptically but apparently trusting her, took a bite. He nodded, then dipped it in honey too.

She’d need to hire the beekeeper back to look after the old hives. She needed someone with authority to handle servants. “Does anyone know if there is any chance Mr. and Mrs. Folkston will return? Or should I start looking for a new butler and housekeeper?”

While Marta suggested the older couple might have retired to their cottage or gone to relations, Mary sulked. The other two maids kept glancing at the stairs, as if expecting the arrival of good King Wenceslaus.

Or Max.

Surely not. He was a guest. He shouldn’t have been down here at all. That was her fault. But these were good girls. They weren’t the kind of women who hung about mining camps, looking for trouble.

But just in case, she wiped Bakari’s chin when he finished his milk and led him upstairs herself.

She found Max pacing in his room.

“I didn’t know you’d have servants!” he practically shouted. “I’ll have to leave now.”

That caused Lydia a pain too great to analyze. Not that she wasted time analyzing anyway.

“Mr. Cadwallader said I would have privacy—” Max halted as he realized what he’d said. “You promised to follow his orders for privacy.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about you when I hired them back. I just knew how much their families need the money. And I wanted Mr. C to have a proper service. I hadn’t realized servants bothered you.” She helped Bakari out of his suit jacket.

He was a beautiful little boy with a thick mop of dark hair like his father’s and lovely bronze coloring, presumably like his mother’s. He would grow up to be a heartbreaker.

“Civilization bothers me,” Max said grumpily. “I don’t fit in here. I’m not much of a father either. I didn’t even think he’d be hungry.”

“You have no practice at raising children and I do. I’ve been told growing boys are always hungry. You should know that better than I, though. My siblings were girls.” Lydia helped the boy between the covers. The child’s lids were so heavy, he could barely keep them open. “We should step outside and let him sleep.”

“Thank you for helping with him. I know I’ve been a curmudgeon.” Visibly disgruntled, Max held open the door.

Lydia had to brush past him to reach the corridor. She tried not to notice his male aroma of horses and shaving soap and something more. . . primal. . . but it appealed to her senses.

“Experience has taught me my limitations,” he said with a male growl that tingled her down to her toes as he closed the door.

What on earth was wrong with her? She never noticed men, but this one felt as if he were inside her skin. “You’ll need to stay with your son so he doesn’t wake up alone,” she warned.

Max was standing much too close, but they were whispering, and she couldn’t back away. His chest looked so broad and sturdy— She tucked her hands behind her back.

“I’ll lock the door and hide in my room until we go,” he muttered. “I really wanted to take another look at the tower before I left. I could swear I saw Mr. Cadwallader down there last night. He walked straight through a stone wall.”

“Mr. C? That’s impossible! He couldn’t walk—” Lydia swallowed hard. She wasn’t good at deception. Did she tell him he’d