St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  Poor boy, poor lost boy. It still grieved Fitzleger's heart to think on it. What a world of pain and bitter memory the young master concealed beneath his hard and gruff exterior. It would take a very extraordinary and patient woman to pierce the armor in which Anatole had encased his heart. But Septimus believed, nay, he knew all the way down deep to that special corner of his bride-finding soul, that Madeline had to be the one.

  So why, then, did he not feel a greater sense of satisfaction at this moment? Ever since leaving the young couple alone in the church, Fitzleger had been overcome by a sense of melancholy that had only increased as he had laid aside his vestments.

  Perhaps it came from the realization that this might be the last match he would ever be called upon to make. Anatole's cousin, the arrogant young Roman, had a foolish disregard for the old St. Leger ways. Most of the other St. Legers were already happily wed, and Septimus did not expect to live long enough to perform his service for the next generation.

  So, then, who would?

  That very question had worried him for sometime. Neither of his sons evinced the slightest sign that they had inherited his gift. Who would be left to save future St. Legers from disaster and guide them down the path to wedded bliss? No one, Septimus feared.

  For a moment the thought saddened him, but his natural optimism was quick to reassert itself. His youngest daughter-in-law was about to be brought to bed with child again. Perhaps this time it would be a grandson instead of another girl. And perhaps that little chap might prove to be the next Bride Finder.

  Comforted by this notion, Septimus clapped his tricorne upon his head and set off down the well-worn path through the churchyard that led to his snug rectory. But he had gotten no farther than the lych-gate when he was arrested by a sound that disrupted the serenity of the morning, ringing out above the shush of the oak trees being ruffled by the wind.

  The sound of a sob, harsh and deep, as though torn free from the depths of someone's soul. Startled, Fitzleger turned and glanced behind him, trying to track down the source of the distress. As he squinted from the porch steps of the church to the low stone fence that rimmed the yard, he saw nothing at first.

  Then a movement caught his eye, the flutter of an ankle-length cloak that all but obscured the person who mourned over a grave near the back of the church. Hood pulled forward, the coarse brown garment nearly blended with the broad old oak that overshadowed the church, making it small wonder that Fitzleger had failed to notice the poor creature sooner. A woman, he believed it was.

  She bent over one of the headstones, another shuddering sob racking her, the cry as thick with rage as it was with grief.

  Ah, no, Septimus thought sadly. Not poor Bessie Kennack come to weep over her mother's grave again. He'd been worried about the girl for some months now. She was far too consumed with her sorrow and her bitterness, still blaming Master Anatole for predicting Marie's death. Heaven knows, Bess could not curse the man any more than he did himself.

  But clearly the girl was in need of words of comfort, even though Septimus scarce knew what more he could say, how to reason with her. Praying for some divine inspiration, he shuffled back across the churchyard toward where she stood. But he'd not even come within speaking distance when Bess stiffened as though sensing his presence.

  She bolted behind the broad oak with the speed of a frightened fawn.

  "Bessie, wait. Come back," Fitzleger shouted, hastening forward.

  "Bess?" he called more uncertainly this time, puzzled by her behavior and by something else as well. As he had drawn closer to the caped figure, he was no longer sure it was Bess Kennack.

  Reaching the end of the yard, he peered cautiously around the tree to find… no one.

  No alarmed young woman cowering behind the wide trunk. No distressed woman scrambling over the stone fence. No cloaked woman fleeing down the lane. No woman of any kind, anywhere.

  Septimus leaned one hand up against the tree as he glanced uneasily about him, feeling more than a little disconcerted. Such mysterious vanishings he might have taken in stride up in the old hall at Castle Leger, but not in his own tidy little churchyard.

  Where could the creature have got to so fast? Why did she run? And most important of all, who was she? Septimus was fairly certain by now that it had not been Bess. If he were not growing so old and forgetful, he would have remembered that Marie Kennack was not even buried in this part of the churchyard.

  The only one who had been laid to rest in this older section during the past few decades was…

  Fitzleger stiffened, a sudden chill coursing through him. He turned slowly, his gaze tracking past the well-worn monuments to the one that was recent by comparison, the marker that now had a single bloodred rose laid across it.

  The chill inside him deepened, icing all the way to the marrow of his bones. He read the single word carved into the headstone with all the arrogance and infamy of the man who lie buried there.

  A single word… a name.

  Mortmain.

  Chapter 7

  Anatole prowled before the gallery of windows in the dining room. Black hair tumbled dark and wild about his features, his coat and waistcoat discarded across one of the ladder-back chairs. Cravat stripped from his throat, the lace wrenched from his cuffs, he felt more himself than he had all day.

  Forcing open one of the casements, he allowed the breeze to penetrate the stuffy chamber, undoing several of the topmost buttons of his shirt in an effort to cool his heated flesh. The night air seemed heavy with the scent of flowers, the wet tang of the sea, and a hundred nameless longings.

  Beneath the starlit sky the garden stretched out before him, a wilderness of azalea bushes, primroses, bluebells, and rhododendron trees. They had been planted in the last century by the lady, Deidre St. Leger, who had had the uncanny ability to make things grow. Legend had it, the blossoms had been watered by her fierce tears, nourished by the spot where her blood had been spilled.

  The garden continued to thrive in spite of Anatole's neglect. He avoided it for the most part, the fragrance of the flowers like poison to his soul, infecting him with bitter memories and regrets, the mood of black self-pity that he so despised.

  But tonight, for the first time that he could remember, he did not feel weighted down by the past, the strange legacy that haunted his family with tragedy and sorrow.

  Anatole glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. How long had it been since his blushing and nervous bride had vanished upstairs to prepare herself for bed? For his bed. Five minutes ago? Ten?

  Long enough for Will and the other footman Eamon to have nearly cleared away the remains of the bridal supper. Crystal, china, and tarnished silver that had not seen the light of day for years littered the surface of a mahogany table vast enough to have banqueted King Arthur and every one of his blasted knights. Dragging all that finery out had been a waste, along with the many courses of food congealed in the dishes.

  The supper had gone mostly untasted. Madeline had picked at her food like a sparrow. As for himself, Anatole was usually an excellent trencherman, but this evening, he found he had little appetite.

  At least not for food.

  He scooped his brandy glass up from the table. Cradling it between two of his fingers, he took a long swallow. The golden liquid sent a rush of heat through his veins. As if he needed it. His blood had been fired with impatience ever since leaving the church, so much so that he wondered what prevented him from setting all consideration aside and rushing upstairs. Taking his bride the way his thundering pulses demanded that he do.

  His promise, he supposed, and the memory of a pair of wide green eyes, the slight tremor in Madeline's voice when she had complained that he was too rough with his embraces. The criticism had stung him to challenge her into demonstrating her notion of a kiss.

  Damnation! It hadn't even been a proper kiss at all, so chaste, just a hint of what sweet warmth lay beyond the barrier of her sealed lips. Not enough to satisfy a man's hunger, onl
y to tease it. And yet… he'd been strangely moved by her kiss. Other desires had stirred inside him, confusing and unsettling. The urge to gather his delicate bride into his arms and to woo her, to please her, to offer her any manner of rash promises. Like the pledge that they would find some compromise between them. He, who had never compromised with anyone in his life, man or woman.

  To compromise with gentleness? It was not even a vow he was sure he could keep. Anatole drained his brandy glass and set it down with a sharp snap. Christ, he felt so raw and edgy, anyone would think that he was the one about to lose his virginity tonight.

  Perhaps he should have done a few things to ready himself. He rubbed his fingertips along the square line of his jaw, frowning at the hint of bristle, then held both of his large hands palm-upward to examine them. They were more the hands of a groom or a farm laborer than a gentleman. Couldn't he have done something to soften those blasted calluses? Applied a poultice perhaps? And what about a night shift? He was so used to sleeping in the raw, it had never occurred to him to purchase such a garment and—

  And what in sweet hell was he thinking of? Anatole lowered his hands, stunned by the direction his mind had taken, wondering where these fool notions were coming from.

  As if he didn't know, he thought, clenching his jaw. They were coming from her. Madeline. His chosen bride. His woman of flame. If he didn't take care, the next thing he knew—

  Anatole stiffened, checking his discomfiting thoughts about Madeline as his keen inner sense honed in on a fresh disturbance. Footsteps in the outer hall. Someone moving through the castle who did not belong there this time of night. Anatole pressed his fingertips to his forehead, concentrating.

  It was… Fitzleger. Anatole's brow furrowed into a deep scowl. What the deuce was the Bride Finder doing here, tonight of all nights? He tracked Fitzleger's shuffling steps toward the imposing double doors that led to the dining room. With a quick glance Anatole flung open one of them just as the old man reached the other side.

  Will and the other footman looked up from their work, mildly surprised to see the vicar suddenly silhouetted upon the threshold. But most of the servants at Castle Leger were inured to stranger things. With a shrug the two lads went back to their task of loading soiled dishes onto trays.

  After a nod of greeting, Fitzleger skirted past them and headed down to the far end of the chamber where Anatole awaited him with locked arms and a far from welcoming expression.

  Hatless, his wings of hair ruffled by the night wind, the little vicar lacked his usual air of serenity. He appeared ill at ease, bursting out before Anatole could even speak.

  "Your pardon for this intrusion, my lord. I did not like to disturb you, but a matter has arisen that has been worrying me all day. I could not rest easy until I consulted you."

  "Now?" Anatole demanded. "Could it not wait until the morrow? Damn it, man, this is my wedding night."

  "I am aware of that. That is why I am so relieved to have caught your lordship before—before—" A hint of pink stole into Fitzleger's cheeks. "Before you became preoccupied."

  Anatole wished fervently that were the case. His eyes drifted again to the clock. Did Madeline now lie trembling in her bed, her supple warm body pressed between cool sheets?

  He stifled a low curse and heartily wished Fitzleger at the devil. With an exasperated sigh Anatole said, "All right, old man. I can accord you fifteen minutes, but no more."

  "In privacy. If you please," the vicar added meekly.

  Anatole turned toward the footmen and bellowed out, “Will! Eamon!"

  Catching the two lads' attention, he ordered them to finish their work later and motioned them out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, he all but thrust Fitzleger into one of the side chairs at the table and poured him out a glass of wine.

  He barely gave the old man a chance to taste the burgundy liquid before saying, "All right. So what the devil's amiss?"

  "I hope nothing more than an old man's foolish fears, but…"Fitzleger fortified himself with a swallow of the wine before continuing, "Something odd happened at the church this morning."

  "So it did. I was married."

  But Anatole's quip evoked no response from Fitzleger. The vicar stared into his wine cup, shadows darkening his saintly blue eyes, like storm clouds shifting through heaven. The old man was troubled about something. Deeply troubled.

  Anatole drew up a chair beside him and sank into it.

  "Tell me what happened," he commanded in gentler tones.

  Fitzleger set down his cup, a tremor coursing through his frail hands. "After you and Madeline left this morning, my lord, I remarked a strange woman passing through the churchyard. Cloaked, hooded, I never saw her features. Only what she was doing. Mourning over a grave. She left a rose on the marker of Tyrus Mortmain."

  Both of Anatole's brows shot upward. Mortmain—a name he'd been taught to fear and loathe from the cradle, ancient enemies, a treacherous, scurrilous tribe that had ever coveted the lands of Castle Leger. The blood feud between the St. Leger and Mortmain families had become almost legendary, spanning the centuries. Whenever Anatole's grandfather had heard the name mentioned, he'd been wont to turn and spit upon the floor.

  Anatole didn't spit. He merely cursed. "Tyrus Mortmain! That blackhearted bastard? Who would weep over his grave except for a God-cursed fool or—or…"

  "Or another Mortmain," Fitzleger finished the grim thought for him.

  The notion gave Anatole pause for a moment, but he was quick to reject it.

  "Nay, impossible. The Mortmains are all dead, the last of them destroyed years ago. I was always told that after the murder of my Uncle Wyatt, my grandfather tracked Tyrus back to his manor house to put an end to his villainy. You were there yourself that night, Fitzleger were you not?"

  "Aye, I remember too well. Rather than be taken and brought to justice, Tyrus set his own house afire, trapping everyone inside, his servants, even his own wife and daughters."

  "And none could have survived?"

  "From that terrible conflagration?" Fitzleger shuddered. "No, only Tyrus was pulled from the rubble, alive, but badly burned. He lived long enough to repent, asking to be laid to rest in the churchyard. Your grandfather was angry with me for granting the request, but how could I do otherwise?"

  Fitzleger sighed. "I held a simple service for Tyrus to which no one came. So who could this unfortunate creature be that would come sobbing over him now? After all these years. She vanished so quickly when I approached, I almost feared she might be a… a ghost."

  "Unlikely, Fitzleger. My Uncle Hadrian always says that was the only decent thing about Mortmains. When they're dead, they stay that way."

  "Then, who might this woman be?"

  "I don't know." Anatole sagged back in his chair, rubbing a tense spot between his shoulder blades. He'd had enough trouble all these years, just contending with his peculiar St. Leger heritage. But at least he'd been spared dealing with one torment. Mortmains. He was damned if he'd be plagued with them now.

  "The woman was probably no one," he muttered. "Some wandering gypsy or half-witted wench stumbling about the churchyard who couldn't read and found the wrong grave."

  With great reluctance he offered, "But if it makes you feel better, Fitzleger, I will check further into the matter."

  "Thank you, my lord. It would greatly relieve my mind if you did so as soon as possible."

  "I trust you don't require that I set out immediately?" Anatole asked dryly.

  "Ah, no. The morrow will be soon enough." Fitzleger smiled, some of his serenity restored. He shifted to the edge of his chair, preparing to rise. "Now, you will forgive me, my lord. I have kept you away from your good lady long enough."

  "Indeed you have. I ordered her up to bed some time ago."

  Fitzleger sank back in his chair, his eyes flying wide with shock. "You—you ordered her?"

  "Aye."

  "Like one of your servants?"

  Anatole caught the fai
nt note of censure in the vicar's voice and stiffened. "I am accustomed to rapping out commands. I cannot change my habits for one small wife."

  "But, my lord, some things must change when a man marries."

  "Such as?"

  "Well, your household for one. I was most distressed when I heard about the abrupt departure of Madeline's maid and cousin."

  "It wasn't my fault. It's not as if I chased those fool women off with a loaded blunderbuss."

  "I'm sure your lordship didn't need to," Fitzleger murmured. "But you must see that now that you have a wife, you are going to need more servants."

  "I have plenty of servants."

  "I mean female servants."

  "No! I may have been forced to take a bride, but I'm not going to have this castle overrun by hoards of bickering, gossiping women."

  "But you cannot expect Madeline to live in an all male household."

  "Why not? I've managed to do so quite comfortably all these years." But Anatole was being unreasonable, and even he knew it. Resisting the suggestion a moment longer, he conceded with a gesture of defeat. "Very well. One chit from the village if you can find one brave enough to come here. One wench to wait upon Madeline and act as her maid, but that is all."

  He shoved to his feet, casting an impatient glance toward the door. "Now, is there anything else?"

  "Yes, I fear that there is. Much more that you need to understand about ladies, my lord. They are very different from men."

  "Isn't it a little late for this kind of lecture, Fitzleger?" Anatole drawled. "You should have come around with it when I was thirteen."

  "When you were thirteen?" Fitzleger looked aghast. "You mean that was the first time you—Never mind. I don't want to know." The vicar flung up one hand as though to ward off any possible answer.

  "What I am trying to say, my lord, is that when a man is in an amorous mood, to him there is only the present. But a lady's receptiveness at her bedchamber door often depends on how she has been treated during the day."