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The late afternoon sun spilled through the round stained glass window at the top of the library’s far wall, bathing her in an ethereal glow. Her red-blond curls shone, the gold and reddish rays from the window creating a halo around her head.
Ronan’s breath held suspended.
He was afraid to breathe or blink—to do anything to ruin this magical moment. God above. She was utterly radiant—stunning—and his heart pitched into a juddery rhythm as unexpected emotion tightened his throat, warming him to his gut as if he’d taken a hefty gulp of whisky.
Swallowing hard, he remained unmoving, unblinking, simply taking her in.
Mercy brushed away a clingy cobweb and a fine coating of dust, seemingly unaffected by the grime or the telltale sign a hairy, eight-legged creature had once roamed the shelves she explored. There was an excellent likelihood its descendants yet crawled about the neglected tomes.
Ronan couldn’t fault the maids for not scaling the walls and dusting the uppermost shelves. They weren’t hired as acrobats or expected to risk harm to themselves to ensure a few never read books were dust free.
“Debrett’s Peerage, Baronetage, and Knightage, Revised by the Nobility 1800,” Mercy read aloud. Stitching her brows together and her plump lips slightly pursed, she inspected the neat row of nearly identical books above her once more.
“Not, 1800, I don’t think. Perhaps 1794 or 1795?”
She sounded doubtful. Unsure.
Sliding the book back in place, she pulled out three more. “I’ll just have to start here, I suppose. Unless there’s a copy of an Essential Guide to the Peerage or Almanach de Gotha too.”
Holding the trio of books against her chest with one arm, she ascended another rung and leaned to the right, inspecting the books.
Devil it.
Was she trying to kill herself?
In a thrice, Ronan reached the base of the ladder. “What do you think you are doing?”
A startled yelp escaped Mercy. She wobbled unsteadily and dropped the books to clutch at the ladder. They tumbled downward, one nearly cracking Ronan atop his head.
“Good Lord, you scared the crabgrass out of me, Ronan,” she said shakily, her face chalky white. “I nearly fell.”
“I’m sorry, Mercy. I ought to have warned you.” He eyed the abused books. “If it’s any consolation, you almost split my skull with the 1795 edition.”
Her eyes went round, and a little soft “Oh,” part-sigh, part-exclamation, passed her lips.
“I’m sorry, Ronan.”
He shrugged. “It was my own fault.”
“Are the books all right?” She chewed her lower lip, worry creasing her brow.
Ronan gathered the books and stacked them on a nearby round rosewood table where a large Cary’s celestial globe took center stage. “I don’t think they are any worse for the accident.”
One had a slightly bent corner, but she needn’t fret about that. How often did anyone read Debrett’s? Likely, a new edition arrived every year and was promptly relegated to a topmost shelf without ever having the cover cracked open.
Who wanted to read list after list of peers every blasted year?
Ronan put a hand on the ladder’s side rails. “Come down now. I’ll hold the ladder steady.”
A white line yet bracketing her mouth, Mercy nodded and descended. When her feet were level with his chest, she muttered. “I can finish on my own, thank you.”
Ronan stepped away, but not too far in case she lost her balance again. What would’ve happened if she’d done so when no one was here?
Once she was standing firmly on the floor, he asked again, “What were you doing, and please don’t try to convince me those are for lessons.” He flicked his fingers toward the imposing books. “Even my stodgy tutors didn’t require me to memorize aristocratic lineages.”
“No, of course not.” Color flamed across Mercy’s cheeks. “I did hope to find a copy of Robinson Crusoe to read to the girls. They enjoy adventures for our story time before bed.”
So she read to them each night even though they were capable of reading themselves. Not a duty but a choice because she loved Arabelle and Bellamy. In truth, she was in all ways, except biologically, their mother.
