Whisper of Magic (25 page)

The road wound through more woods, along a stream, and into
a meadow surrounding a hill topped by an enormous stone structure. At first
glimpse of a real medieval castle—or its remains—Celeste halted her horse and
sat back to study it.

“It is very tall,” she said in awe. Several rows of windows
indicated a number of floors topped by crenellations and a guard tower.

“The better to see the enemy. I was told my
great-grandfather enjoyed astronomy, like Theo, and he set up his telescopes on
that top floor. I suppose in earlier times, height was the best way of studying
the stars as well as the countryside. If it hadn’t been for Duncan’s injury and
all the women staying here, Theo might have settled up here with Aster. We’re a
little over a day’s ride from her home.”

“If all the Malcolm ladies are as nice as Lady Aster, I
shall enjoy this visit.” She pressed her mount into a walk again.

“The ones I’ve met range from rude and overbearing to sweet
and giggly. I don’t think they’re much different from anyone else, except they
like to pretend they’re witches.”

She reached over to swat him, but he rode ahead.

“What do they call male witches?” she called after him.

“Insane,” he called back.

***

Erran considered his off-hand comment later and thought
perhaps he hadn’t been too far off the mark—he must have been insane to come
here.

There were only three enceinte females in residence, but
they’d come accompanied by an assortment of maids, sisters, mothers, children,
and midwives. The arrival of fresh fodder for the gossip mill filled the
ancient hall with a swirl of high-pitched voices, fragile females, and delicate
frippery. Feeling uncomfortably like a bull in a china shop, Erran wanted
nothing more than to escape to the library with a decanter of brandy.

He introduced Celeste to the only vaguely familiar relation
and let her be swept off in a gaggle of women, all talking at once. She didn’t
seem unhappy with the attention.

He consumed a platter of sandwiches and other bite-sized comestibles
while he waited to be assigned a room. He could probably make a bed on the top
floor, but he had the need to know where they’d place Celeste.

Which was foolish of him, he realized, swallowing a tiny
cake and discovering the tray to be empty. He had no need to protect her in his
family home while she was surrounded by other females. She was perfectly safe
here.

If he could not retrieve her inheritance, she would be quite
happy here, he suspected. She didn’t need him. She’d said so.

She only needed a friend.

Since he had no notion of how to be a friend to a
lady—although he was pretty certain it didn’t involve making mad, passionate
love to her—he would do best to try to find the information they sought and
send her back to Jamaica, where she would be even happier, and justice would be
served. Then Duncan could have his whole townhouse back and Erran could take
rooms there in hopes of finding some place for himself on his brother’s
payroll.

Or he could bellow and send all these frippery females
scurrying and take Celeste up to bed and be the bully his size allowed him to
be. A pity he was too civilized for that. He should have been born in a
different century.

Imagining shining armor and ladies swooning at his feet—no
doubt in horror—he set down his lemonade, located the nearest exit, and strode
into the next room. From there, he worked his way through the maze to the
library. He was studying the index to discover the filing system when a
familiar scent wafted around him.

“Thank goodness,” the lady said, studying the towering walls
of shelves with interest. “I thought we’d never make it out alive.”

He almost laughed, if only because he was relieved to have
her with him again. That way definitely lay madness, but he couldn’t be less
than honest with himself. He enjoyed her company. And he’d rather be anywhere
than explore a Malcolm library. He’d studied law more in the courtroom than in
books, preferring action to sitting still. Her presence made his task more
agreeable.

He pointed at the catalog. “I found the page where they’ve
indexed your family’s journals.” He gestured at towering, two-story walls of
books. “It just may take me a while to determine their filing system.”

“Oh, my.” Obviously entranced, she tilted her head back to
admire the layers of walnut shelving, books, railings, and ladders. Stained
glass windows offered the only natural light.

Erran had lit oil lamps on the table to better read the
index’s penmanship. The glow illumined Celeste in a halo, and he could scarcely
tear his gaze away. He was in deadly danger here. She’d said she could
love
a man like him. What the devil did
that mean? He couldn’t remember anyone ever bothering to love him, so he didn’t
grasp the concept.

It didn’t matter what it meant. He had no means to marry, no
other talents than working in English law—from which he was currently
banned—and she wanted to return to an island where he would be useless. He had
no interest in taking up sailing and trade or even raising cane. And if he ever
did create a useful invention, the patent courts and industries were here, not
half way around the world.

He didn’t even know why he was thinking like this. Maybe he
should start believing in Aster’s foolishness about magic castles.

Celeste lit another lamp and carried it to the first section
of ground floor shelving. “What are the catalog directions?”

“Eccentric,” he muttered, tearing his gaze from her slender
form and back to the book. “We must look for family branch name—from the
sixteenth century, apparently. In your case, that would be Hermione Wystan
Malcolm if I’m following these charts. Then we trace down through Hermione’s
descendants until we reach the one who married a Rochester.”

She cast him a look of dismay over her shoulder, arching her
lovely brows. “How does one find anything with a catalog like that?”

“If one isn’t the family librarian, like Aster, one starts
on the Hermione bookcase, presumably.” Erran consulted a library map and
pointed at the fourth case to the right. “Logically, the oldest volumes will be
on the bottom shelf, and the more recent ones at the top.” He pointed up the
ladder to the balcony tier.

She crouched down to examine the volumes on the bottom
shelf. She had to pull one out to read the title page. “I fear you are
correct,” she said in awe as she turned yellowed pages. “This is in Latin, I
think. Hermione must have been a scholar.”

“Hermione had any number of descendants named after her, so
presumably she was a decent sort. If you’ll read down this list, I’ll climb up
to the top and try to find your shelf. It may spread over more bookcases as it
goes higher.”

Staring up at shelf after shelf of their ancestors’ books,
she shook her head in awe. “Does anyone ever read these?”

“We’re about to. Libraries are repositories of information
and collected wisdom. Aster claims the journals are here so history needn’t
keep repeating itself, so we can learn from the past. Unfortunately, no one has
come up with a subject list for journals other than the name of the author.” He
pointed out the column he was following on the page of her family’s tomes as
she returned to his side. They both smelled of horses, but he could still
detect that subtle exotic scent that was all hers. His hunger for her hadn’t
abated. He needed to step out of the reach of temptation. Ladder climbing
should do it.

“Well, if we’re dealing with magical families, I’m certain
there must be someone who can magically locate the required volume, if
necessary,” she said with amusement, placing her slender fingers on the page
near his.

Erran clenched his thick fingers rather than reach to cover
hers. He backed off in the direction of the ladder. “Aster calls herself a
librarian, so she must assume that’s her task. But she’s mostly interested in
genealogy and astrology.”

She glanced up at him with those velvet-lashed eyes that
haunted him. “Perhaps if she and Theo were allowed to live here, she might do
more. Usually, one must
practice
talents for them to improve.”

Erran felt the impact of that declaration like a blow below
the belt. He wasn’t about to practice voice manipulation or levitation.
Refusing to acknowledge what she was telling him, he climbed the ladder to the
next level and started checking dates on the upper shelves.

“If I’m reading this correctly, the year of my father’s
second marriage is the fourth level down in the second block to the left,” she
called up to him as he reached the balcony.

Holding up the oil lamp, Erran began scanning volumes until
he found the year. “I’m going to take out all the volumes from that year, the
one prior, and the one after. From the looks of it, your parents had a lot to
say. This could take forever.” He set the lamp on a shelf and gathered up an
armload of slim volumes.

“If I my memory doesn’t fail, my father rewrote his will
after my mother’s death,” she said, scanning the catalog. “Shall we check that
year to see what he says about it? That shelf should be two shelves above where
you are now.”

Erran grabbed that stack as well. As he began carrying down
his prizes, the housekeeper rapped and entered.

“Your rooms are prepared, my lord, miss.” She bobbed a
curtsy. “The spirits are in a turmoil, so we expect Lady Octavia to have her
lying-in during the night. We have taken the liberty of placing you in the
guest rooms on this floor so you won’t be disturbed by the coming and going.”

“The spirits?” Celeste whispered as Erran reach the bottom
of the ladder with the last load of books.

“Malcolms,” he whispered back, holding a stack of books
under one arm and offering his other so they might follow the housekeeper.
“Expect the weird.”

She lifted another stack of books instead of taking his arm.
“That makes
us
weird. You may reject
this fascinating family, but I do not.” she said curtly, striding off ahead of
him.

Which left him to admire the graceful sway of her hips as
they traversed the insane maze of public rooms back to a quiet corner behind
what appeared to be a billiard parlor/game room and a small sitting room
littered with books and papers and various needlework projects.

“I hope this will be satisfactory,” the servant said,
opening a heavy panel door for Celeste. “I’ll send Abigail to help you dress
for dinner.”

She took Celeste’s stack of books and set them on a table
inside, then nodded down the corridor. “If you would, my lord, the next chamber
is prepared for you. I fear we don’t have a valet in residence.”

Celeste raised her eyebrows in warning—reminding him of
Aster’s accursed admonition about sleeping on different floors. He would be
damned before he listened to such foolery. He was reluctant to abandon Celeste
in this towering hall of emptiness. He pretended not to understand her question
and waited outside her door until he saw that she was settled.

“If you don’t mind,” she told the housekeeper, opening one
of the books. “I’m very weary from the journey. I would much rather have a bath
and a cold collation in here than join the ladies. Could you make my
apologies?”

By Jove, she was a woman after his own mind! Relieved that
he did not have to argue over the rooms, Erran imagined an evening reading
through this muddle of journals. With any luck at all, they’d have what they
needed by morning.

“I’ll give you good evening then, Miss Rochester,” he said,
bowing.

Immersed in the book, she nodded dismissively, and the
housekeeper closed the door between them.

Directed to his own room, Erran immediately noted the
connecting door. Insanely, he felt better knowing he could reach her easily.

All he had to do was resist the temptation to open it unless
she invited him in.

Celeste could barely wait for the maid to empty the last
bucket of hot water into a tub, help her with her gown, and depart. She
stripped off the rest of her clothing and slid into the warm water with relief.

She ached. She smelled. She had barely been able to tolerate
herself as they worked in the library. Thank goodness Erran had been almost as
disreputable as she or she’d never be able to hold her head up in his presence
again.

She smiled at the realization that he’d forgotten his wilted
attire—apparently an intellectual challenge overcame his preference for
pristine fashion.

The maid had carried off her riding garb with a promise to
clean it. Unfortunately, they still had the return journey, and after that
horrible inn, she knew she couldn’t count on bathing again until they were
home. She savored the luxury while she had it.

She really was spoiled, as Erran had so impolitely pointed
out. How would she learn to live in poverty if they didn’t find evidence of her
father’s will or her birth? She wouldn’t have maids to bring her baths or
pretty soaps to wash with.

She could
survive
,
she knew. They had learned to live without many things these past months. She
was proud that they had done so, but Erran’s aggressive approach to life showed
that there was much more to living than survival. She needed the ability to go
into society without shame, to make a difference, and the independence to go
her own way. Without those, she would be worse than worthless. She might be weak,
but there wasn’t a subservient bone in her body.

Without the authority of her wealth and good name, she could
not return to Jamaica to save the plantation and their people. That thought was
too depressing to consider.

So she enjoyed the hedonistic luxury of soaking her hair
clean before wrapping it in a towel and abandoning this momentary pleasure for
the work ahead.

She donned the nightshift and robe the maid had left out. A
tray of meats and cheeses awaited, and a kettle boiled over the grate. She
settled into a wing chair prepared to spend the entire evening reading through
journals.