"What do you think I've been doing to Madeline? Beating her?"
"That would have been difficult, since I gather that you were not even with her this afternoon." Fitzleger eyed him sternly. "You went out riding, sir."
"Have you set spies upon me now, old man?"
"No, my sexton happened to notice you galloping along the shore and mentioned the fact to me."
"What of it? I often do so."
"But on your wedding day? To thus abandon your bride?"
"I might have been able to take her along with me," Anatole reminded him tersely, "if you had found me a bride that wasn't terrified of horses. Instead you brought me one whose idea of a pleasant afternoon is sipping tea and discussing dead poets. I don't have the least notion what to do with a female like that—well, except for one thing. But I hardly think you would have wished me to cart Madeline upstairs and set upon her like a rutting stag in the middle of the day."
"I wouldn't want you setting upon her that way at any time," Fitzleger replied.
Since that was the thought uppermost in Anatole's mind at the moment, he felt a guilty flush sting his cheeks. He paced down the length of the table, smacking the backs of the chairs with his palm.
"What more do you want from me, Fitzleger? You know Madeline was never the sort of bride I wanted, but I went through with the marriage anyway. I even gave her the damned sword."
That at least appeared to please the old man. "And how did Madeline respond?"
"She was damned surprised, as any woman in her right mind would be." Anatole was forced to add with a certain grudging respect, "However, I'll wager she was the first St. Leger bride who ever had the wit to ask for the scabbard to go along with it."
Fitzleger beamed. "Ah! There, you see. I told you Madeline was possessed of a great, good sense. You must realize now that all your fears about revealing to her your family heritage were groundless."
Anatole compressed his lips, avoiding the old man's eyes.
"My lord?" Fitzleger asked anxiously. "You did finally tell her everything… didn't you?"
"I tried. But it didn't do a damn bit of good. The cursed woman has an answer for everything. She doesn't believe a word I say."
"Your lordship has the means to make her believe."
"I didn't see any reason for forcing the issue."
"Didn't see any reason? My lord, if you continue to guard your secrets, keep your distance, how do you expect Madeline to learn to love you?"
"I have no desire to be loved! It will be enough if she doesn't fear me."
Anatole rounded on the old man. "Don't you see that Madeline's skepticism can be a good thing? It might protect her from ever having to deal with this St. Leger madness. Her disbelief will act as her shield."
"Her shield or your mask?"
A most gently voiced question, but Fitzleger's eyes were far too perceptive, probing deeper into the truth of Anatole's motives than he wished to go himself.
"Have done, Fitzleger. You fulfilled your part of the bargain. You found me my bride. How I choose to deal with her is my concern."
Signaling that he wished to hear no more, Anatole flung the door open and preceded Fitzleger through it. Snatching up a lantern, he lighted the way out to the stable yard himself, pausing to frown up at the sky. Strange what lectures and mention of Mortmains could do to blacken a man's mood.
The night that had seemed velvet with promise suddenly appeared vast and threatening, the moon's brilliance dimmed by smokelike wisps of clouds. Even the stars looked cold and unfriendly.
Anatole ordered one of his burly grooms to saddle up and escort the vicar home. The rutted path to the village could be treacherous enough at the best of times.
Not, he assured himself, because he was the least worried about the old man. No, he just wanted to make sure Fitzleger and his infernal sermons were returned safely to the rectory and stayed there.
Even as he helped the vicar into the saddle, the little clergyman had to have one last word.
"You will try to be gentle with the girl?" Fitzleger pleaded.
"As much as my nature will allow," Anatole slapped the mare on the rump and sent the vicar lurching into the night, hard followed by Anatole's groom. As Fitzleger vanished into the darkness, Anatole wondered what had really brought the Bride Finder to his door tonight? Concern about Mortmains? Or concern for Madeline?
Shaking his head, Anatole returned to the house, extinguishing the lantern and setting it on the side table. The hall was almost eerily silent at this hour. Madeline of a certainty must be ready for him by now. In fact… Anatole grimaced. He'd be fortunate if she hadn't fallen asleep waiting.
As he strode toward the stairs, he heard the soft clicking of paws on the marble floor behind him. He glanced around to find Ranger hard on his heels.
Like Fitzleger, it was a rare thing for the old dog to stir himself from his position by the fireside at this time of night. Safe from prying eyes, Anatole hunkered down to indulge the animal with a show of attention. Scratching the hound behind his shaggy ear, he said gruffly, "What do you want, eh?"
Ranger gazed up at him, a world of devotion and canine wisdom gleaming through his single good eye.
Anatole's cousin Roman St. Leger had recommended more than once that the old hound be put to cliff. But as Ranger's tongue bathed his hand with rough affection, Anatole smiled and thought that he'd far rather tie the all too elegant Roman in a sack and toss him into the sea.
He rumpled the dog's dome-shaped head and murmured, "So I suppose you too have come after me with advice on how I should be handling my bride."
"Oh, no, my lord. I would never presume." Will Sparkins's startled voice echoed down the hall as the lad emerged from the back stairs leading to the servant's quarters.
"I was talking to the dog, Will," Anatole said, straightening and feeling foolish.
But the earnest young footman only gave a solemn nod. "I heard tell how Mr. Caleb St. Leger often speaks to animals."
"Yes, but the alarming thing about my cousin is that he insists they answer him back."
Will grinned, then asked, "Is it all right if I finish clearing off the dining table now, sir?"
"Yes, I was just on my way upstairs."
"Aye, I figured you'd be heading up to bed soon. To—to sleep," Will added hastily. One of the older boys or the stable hands would likely have risked a smirk. Young Will merely blushed fire red.
Anatole wondered irritably if everyone at Castle Leger and in the village was taking such keen interest in the master bedding his bride tonight. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he ordered Will to keep Ranger from following him. As Will collared the dog, Anatole turned to mount the stairs. He had not gone more than a few steps when he felt a tingling sensation.
A sensation that had nothing to do with his anticipation of Madeline's charms, but one that was all too familiar and far more disturbing. An ominous prickling behind his eyes. A warning. And this time the source of it was… Will.
No! Not now, damn it! Anatole ground his fingertips against his eyes. He could not be going to experience another bout of his curse. Not tonight of all nights.
He took another step up the next riser, determined to ignore it. But the feeling only intensified, pins and needles of fire jabbing inside his head.
"Will!"
The lad was urging Ranger toward the dining room, but he froze at once, glancing back. "Sir?"
Anatole glanced down into his youthful features and knew a sense of sick dread. Let the boy go, a voice inside him pleaded. Whatever was to be, Anatole would as soon not know. The pain would recede after a while if he could but just ignore it.
But it was like trying to ignore the need to breathe. Anatole trudged back down the steps and spoke in a voice dulled with the resignation of bitter experience.
"Come here, lad."
The footman approached and stood before Anatole as trustingly as Ranger would have done. Anatole brushed Will's straw-colored hair from his eyes, the ach
e now more in Anatole's heart than in his mind.
It needed the crystal and a deliberate effort on his part to see his own future. But for others, the visions often took him unaware, and he had to look no further for the devil's medium than his own fingertips.
Laying his hand upon Will's brow, Anatole brought his gaze into focus, delving deep into the pupils of the boy's eyes. Prospero was said to have had the power to mesmerize this way, to take over the mind. Anatole's talent was more simple and more devastating. To rob someone of their future.
He felt himself dwindling, telescoping into Will's eyes, and then the vision came hard and fast in a sickening blur. Will at the woodpile. The sharp gleam of the axblade. The slip of the fingers. Will's shriek of agony. The crimson stain blossoming over his leg.
As the image faded, Anatole felt drained. His hand shook as he dropped it from the boy's brow.
"Stay away from the woodpile," he rasped.
Will paled, but asked for no explanations. None of Anatole's servants would have dared to do so. The lad wrung his ungainly hands and quavered, "But—but, sir, Mr. Trigghorne will have my hide if I don't tend to my chores, chopping wood and—"
"Damn you, boy. I'll have your hide if you disobey me." Anatole seized Will by his shirtfront, hauling him close until the lad's frightened face was only inches from his own. "If you set one foot near an ax, I'll take a whip to you. I'll lock you in the tower until you're an old man. I'll—"
Anatole paused for breath, the wildness of his threats only equaled by his despair, by the knowledge that no matter what he did, what commands he gave, nothing could be prevented. He had as much chance of saving Will's leg as he'd had of saving the life of Marie Kennack.
The fury ebbed out of him as quickly as it had come, leaving only the sense of helplessness. He released Will's shirt, smoothing out the coarse linen, his unsteady fingers coming to rest on the boy's shoulder.
"Just do as I tell you," Anatole said hoarsely. "All right?"
Will stepped back and nodded, his fearful eyes never leaving Anatole's face as he stumbled away, disappearing into the dining room to finish his chores. Only when Will had gone did Anatole permit his fierce facade to crumble, sagging against the newel post of the stair for support, burying his face against his arm.
He was just damn glad no one else had been about to witness his weakness or this most recent display of his damnable St. Leger gift. Especially not his bride. He'd meant what he'd said to Fitzleger earlier. He intended to protect Madeline from this aspect of himself for as long as he could.
But the Bride Finder's question came back to haunt him.
"Her shield or your mask?"
Aye, his mask, then, Anatole admitted bitterly. For it was clear he needed one. What manner of man was he to be possessed of such black powers?
Not a man at all, but a monster. He had that on the best authority. His own mother.
Something cold nudged Anatole's hand, and he became aware of Ranger beside him, whining softly, bewildered, but trying to offer comfort.
Anatole thrust the dog away from him. All he wanted was Madeline. Needed her with a depth and ache that alarmed even him, needed to drown himself in the sweet, clear reason of her eyes. To lose himself in the soft smiles of a woman too rational to believe in ghosts, legends, or family curses. To pretend for just a little while that she was right.
Bolting up the stairs, Anatole stalked through the upper hall. As he paused outside Madeline's bedchamber door, it was all he could do not to thrust it open.
He forced himself to knock instead and waited, his pulse quickening.
But there was no answer.
He knocked again, a little more sharply this time. Still no response. He scowled, trying to probe past the barrier with the power of his mind, but he had no more luck divining Madeline that way than he had ever had.
The only presence he detected was Trigghorne's, the surly old servant lurking at the far end of the hall, watching him.
"Your lady ain't in there, master," Trigg called out, sounding somewhat surprised and reproachful. "I thought you'd have known that."
Anatole turned to glower at him. "What do you mean she's not in there? Where else would she be?"
Trigg stepped forward, his scrawny chest puffing out with righteous indignation. "Why, she's gone back to where she spent most of the afternoon. The library. Your lady is book mad. I heard tell about such Lunnon women. They're called bluestockings, young master, and if you don't put a stop to such nonsense right now—"
"I don't need any more advice from anyone regarding my wife," Anatole bit out through clenched teeth. Shoving past Trigg, he charged back down the hall.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he descended, humiliation fueling his mounting anger. He'd spent all this time, pacing, waiting, curbing his impatience. And all the while, Madeline had been off somewhere, her nose shoved in a book. Well, that's what a man got for attempting to be sensitive and considerate. Damnation!
Storming toward the back of the house, Anatole fetched up outside the library, the door looming up before him like a wall of bitter memory. It was a room he seldom entered, that selfsame door too often in the past shut in his face.
After his mother's death, the library had become his father's refuge, the place where Lyndon St. Leger had hid himself from the world, but mostly from his own son.
The words of accusation had never been spoken, but Anatole had always seen it there, darkening his father's eyes.
"If not for you, your mother might have lived…"
But the gentle Lyndon had never been one to rage, to pour out his grief and sorrow. He had merely retreated from life, shutting himself up with his books, closing Anatole out.
It had been painful enough having his father do that, Anatole thought, clenching his jaw. He'd be damned if he was going to have a wife who did the same thing.
Chapter 8
The library was an unexpected treasure trove of shelves reaching from floor to ceiling, books crammed into every available wall space, even above the doorway. The place filled Madeline with the first delight she'd known since her arrival at Castle Leger. Despite the stale odor that clung to the chamber, the cobwebs of neglect clinging to the volumes, she felt at home here, surrounded by old and trusted friends. Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare, Dante…
From now on she'd make certain the room was aired, a fire lit here every day, the books dusted. But for tonight… She cast an anxious glance toward the candles flickering in the wall sconce, burning lower, burning her time away along with them.
Perched on the top of a tall ladder, she yanked down another volume, the dust tickling her nostrils. She ran her hand lovingly, almost reverently, down the leather-bound spine. Books, her best companions, the one true solace through much of her life.
But she had a sinking feeling that for once the knowledge she sought was not to be found pressed between any of these pages. A simple basic knowledge such as exactly what was a woman to do with an ardent bridegroom on their wedding night? The question alone was enough to stir flutterings in her stomach, a stomach largely empty.
She'd spent most of supper with her hands clenched in her lap, sitting in state opposite her new husband. Anatole had been lost at the far end of that incredibly long table, making a natural flow of conversation impossible.
As if it wouldn't have been in any case. Her husband was a man of few words, but he'd spoken volumes with his eyes. Those uncanny eyes of his that had never seemed to leave her face throughout the meal. Dark, hungry, searching, rousing an odd warmth in her, dewing her skin with a fine sheen of perspiration. Even though her mind had no notion what to do with such a bold, strapping man, it was as if her body possessed a knowledge all of its own.
Now, if only her body would be good enough to share that information in more specific terms. A wry smile crooked Madeline's lips. Her sister Juliette had warned her she'd come to this pass eventually. Juliette had always teased, "You're going to be sorry someday, Mad. Wasting all your tim
e reading instead of paying attention to more worldly matters. Someday you're going to need to know things that aren't stuffed in one of your precious books."
Incredibly it seemed that Juliette had been right. Madeline skimmed through the pages of Rabelais with despair, her eyes no longer focusing on the words. If only she'd had the comfort of one other woman in the house tonight. Preferably an older, more experienced female.
Or, Madeline thought even more wistfully, if only Anatole had turned out to be the gentle bridegroom Madeline had expected. Ah, but he hadn't, and she was foolish to keep fretting over that fact. She squared her shoulders. The man was what he was, and she would have to learn to deal with him as such. He was not the complete ogre she'd initially thought him to be.
There had been that fleeting moment in the church after that strange sword ceremony when Anatole had been almost gentle. The kiss they'd shared had been soft, sweet, and even though Anatole had complained about it, he'd said that they could find some manner of compromise between his fierce ways and her need for tenderness.
That thought was all that kept her from fleeing into the night in a state of total panic. Sighing, Madeline replaced the Rabelais, but she couldn't resist trying just one more volume. A folio of Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.
She was easing the book from the shelf when the library door flew open with a loud crash. The reverberations caused the ladder to tremble beneath her. Madeline clutched at both the book and the topmost rung to keep her balance.
Her gaze flew to the doorway, and her heart turned over. Her bridegroom loomed in the threshold, casting a long shadow into the room.
And the expression on his face looked far from compromising.
"Anatole," she gasped.
He stepped inside the room, his black hair flowing back from the taut angles of his face, his heavy brows crashed together like a peal of thunder. The door seemed to slam closed behind him of its own accord.
"What the devil are you doing in here?" he asked.
"Why, I—I—" Madeline stammered, feeling as guilty as though she'd been caught stealing books. She knew an absurd urge to hide the one she held behind her back. "I am doing what one usually does in a library, my lord."
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