“Morris,” a woman’s voice boomed over their merriment.
“Oh, no.” One of the children shot to his feet, dusting off his garments. “That’s my mother.”
The man gave a gentle nod and raked his fingers through his own hair once more. “Which means it’s time for you all to leave, lest you be found with me.”
The custodian smoothed and retucked his smock into his trousers. “Until next time.”
With the spell broken, the children, including the one called Morris, were off in different directions. Sighing, the storyteller adjusted his garments one last time before facing the broom and books, staring between them, until he hauled a stack of tomes into his arms, readying himself to descend into the cellar or wherever he was supposed to be working.
Which was for the best. She had more important things to do than trifle with a custodian. Besides, her grandmother had probably finished. But dust rose as she shifted forward to exit, tickling her nose until she cried out.
The sneeze reverberated through the domed corridor. The young man whirled, dark eyes falling right on her. Isabelle’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.
Ridiculous. It wasn’t her fault she’d sneezed.Someoneshould sweep better if he wanted to prevent that.
Besides, it wasn’t as if she was spying. She just happened to be in his vicinity.
“Good Shabbas,” she called, straightening her shoulders, the Germanic pronunciation slightly awkward on her tongue. “How do you do?” she added in her most appropriate tone—polite and friendly but still a touch aloof—to set suitable, modest boundaries. After all, even if he didn’t suit her particular marital needs, who knew whose ear he had?
The custodian took a step forward, his boot catching on a crack in the old stone floor. In an instant, he and his load were airborne, books and tangled limbs all coming straight at her. With a small shriek she threw her arms over her head and ducked as two bound volumes bounced off her back and shoulders, only to teeter off her feet, right into the somehow-still-standing man’s rather firm chest.
Strong arms encircled her waist, keeping her upright, as her heart beat against her stays. Isabelle glanced up to find herself staring at, upon closer inspection, a not merely attractive but extremely beautiful man. Even his unruly hair added an enticing fierceness to his features. Her breath stuck in her throat for a moment as desire stirred throughout her body.
Which was not what she needed. At least not now.
“I’m so very sorry.” Stepping back from him, she lowered herself onto the floor in the most graceful manner possible, kissing each fallen book and cradling them in her lap. “I would put these away for you, but unfortunately, you’ll have to direct me. And perhaps take half?” She gestured to the rising stack that was threatening to render her legs immobile.
“No, it’s all right.” Grunting, he bent and grabbed the entire load from her arms, not even bothering to brush his now filthy clothes. “You’ve done enough. Just tell me what needs to be cleaned or fixed and I’ll get to it right away. Go have your meal.”
“There’s nothing that needs to be done.” With as much dignity as she could muster, Isabelle glided back to her feet, careful not to stumble, her fashionably short hem swishing against her ankles. “Or at least not anything I know about.” She beat her skirts, and a cloud of dust rose off the silk. “Though I have to say, while I’m sure your cleaning abilities are unparalleled, I couldn’t help but notice you were so skilled with the boys, so compelling . . .”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but there wasn’t anyone else here, only me.” His dark eyes bore into hers from beneath his thick brows, and she shivered, the temperature dropping.
“What?” Isabelle took a step back, shaking her head. “No. I know what I saw.” She gazed around the empty alcove, the scene still fresh in her mind. “There was an entire group of—”
“I don’t have time for this.” He waved a dismissive hand, moving to leave. No—to flee.
Isabelle froze.
Clever, making her question her senses, but Mr. Storyteller-Custodian was an amateur. She saw what she saw. He just didn’t want her to have seen it. He was hiding something.
And suddenly, returning to her plans was not quite as important as satisfying her curiosity. And besting this unexpectedly clever stranger.
At least for the moment.
“Perhaps, but I have a feeling you’re going to make some time.” Isabelle snatched back half the siddurim from his arms, clutching them to her chest. “Now show me where these belong, so we can get better acquainted.” She inhaled, her nerves finally calm at the thought of matching wits with this handsome, rather surprising man. “Unfortunately, I find ladies in towers boring. Witches are far more interesting.”
He gawked at her.
She tapped a finger to her chin as if she were considering the matter and not just delighting in keeping him off balance. “Though you storytellers lack imagination. Why are witches always old and ugly? Even if everyone ages, no one comes out of the womb a crone. I can’t imagine anyone with magical powers not using them for aesthetic purposes. I certainly would.”
The man opened his mouth and closed it before making a low, grumbling sound in his throat, his grip tight. She bit her cheek so as not to giggle.
“Yes, I’m sure there are plenty of powerful, young, attractive women running around fairy-tale forests, making all sorts of trouble.” She snapped her fingers. “Come along—you can tell me what you think while we work.”
She smiled to herself, already feeling a great deal more like the ruler she intended to be—like she would be, once she won.
After all, practice made perfect.
