The thought filled her with awe. Her eyelids grew heavier, and she yawned, imagining a bright-eyed child. One child swiftly became half a dozen precocious moppets, clustered about her knee. She would superintend their education herself, of course, rewarding her darlings with sweetmeats and sugar nuts as they lisped out their Latin verbs and recited Homer in flawless Greek.
Madeline's lashes drifted down, and she fell asleep dreaming of her scholarly brood of children all staring up at her with their father's magnificent dark eyes.
She slept on, unaware when Anatole crept back into her room hours later. Although dawn had yet to fully lighten the sky, he already stood booted, dressed, his riding cape slung over his arm as he prepared to slip out to the stables to saddle his horse. The last minutes of the night he'd anticipated for so long ticked relentlessly away, his wedding night slipping quietly toward morning.
But what had he expected, he thought with a scowl. Roman candles? Sky rockets? Cannon fire? No, he hadn't been that much of a fool.
But he had expected surcease from the dull aches, the loneliness, the longings that had plagued him all these months. Yet the restlessness, the emptiness, the torment that kept him awake and pacing like a caged beast for the better part of the night were still there.
He wanted to curse the day he'd ever sent Fitzleger to find him a bride, the fate or the folly, whichever it was, that had brought Madeline Breton to his doorstep.
But as he gazed down at his sleeping bride, somehow he couldn't. She'd kicked off the covers in her sleep and lay curled on her stomach, her head pillowed on her arms. Her hair shimmered, a softer fire now, curtaining the smooth white skin of her shoulders. She was laid out for his hungry eyes in all her naked beauty.
He'd begged the fates for an ordinary woman, and instead destiny had mocked him and sent Anatole a faery queen.
Aye, he thought. That's exactly how he would have painted Madeline. That is, if he had not given up his painting long ago as an occupation fit only for a foolish dream-ridden boy, not suited to the harder nature of a man.
But if he did still wield his brush, he would have painted her as a fairy, gossamer wings rising out of her back as she slept soundly curled up on a flower, innocent in her nakedness. But nothing so fragile as a primrose or lily. Not for his practical Madeline. Oh, no, she would have selected for herself a nice sturdy dandelion.
Anatole smiled ruefully at his own nonsense, but he was coming to know his little bride rather better in spite of himself. And he ought to have been satisfied with her. So she wasn't the great, strapping wench he'd hoped for. But for all her air of delicacy, she had borne up pretty well under him.
She hadn't wept. She hadn't shrieked for him not to touch her. She'd steeled her courage and endured their mating. And that's all he'd ever asked for in a wife, wasn't it?
That's what he'd told Fitzleger. That it would be enough for Anatole if Madeline learned not to fear him.
I have no desire to be loved, he'd insisted.
"And I still don't," Anatole told himself fiercely. But the words rang strangely hollow, as the predawn darkness hung like a gray curtain outside the window, as Madeline slept on, blissfully unaware of his existence. Five o'clock in the morning…
What a desperately lonely hour to discover that he had lied.
Chapter 9
Morning mist drifted in from the sea, enveloping Castle Leger in a world of white. The fog half obscured the path that cut through the cliff face, the surf pounding against the jagged rocks below the dizzying heights where Anatole guided his mount.
But he urged the stallion forward with an iron hand at the reins and the confidence of one long familiar with every rock, every crevice that marked his lands. He'd often played along this cliff side as a boy, alone, but then the rugged path had been dotted with a hundred imagined companions, pirates, and smugglers, knives clutched in their teeth as they had scaled upward to where he'd waited, brandishing a willow sword.
Or sometimes he had retreated into the wild garden of primroses and bluebells that tumbled almost to the cliff's edge, hiding behind the rhododendron trees, playing at seek and dare with the elves who lived in the heather.
That, however, had been before his mother's life ended in such tragic fashion, taking away with her both pirate king and elfin lord forever, ending his boyish delight in such imaginings, in the terrible beauty of his own lands, the cruel rocks, vast sea and sky.
But in all the years since he'd become master of this place, he'd never once been driven to flee Castle Leger as he was doing now. Riding out. Running away. From her.
Madeline. His bride. His lady of flame.
Anatole reined in his horse, glancing back in spite of himself. The home that he both loved and hated was still visible in the distance. The towering battlements and ancient turrets rose up from the haze as though the castle were no more than a shimmering image conjured from a wizard's book of spells.
He could barely make out the window behind which his bride still lay sleeping, another part of the enchantment, her flame-colored hair spilled against the pillow, the memory of her beauty tempting him to return. Calling to him like a siren's song, beckoning him back to her bedchamber. To kiss her gently awake, take her in his arms, and…
And do what? a voice inside him mocked. Repeat the failure of last night? He still didn't have the slightest idea how to move her, to inspire her with the great passion and undying devotion a St. Leger bride was supposed to feel.
Anatole swore softly, the curse laced with as much despair as frustration. Christ! He didn't even dare face her this morning for fear of what she might see in his eyes, the hopeless longing, the madness that had begun stealing over him.
He'd gone unloved for most of his life. What insanity could possess him to crave it now? He didn't know. All he knew was that he had to get away from Castle Leger for a while until he had time to sort out these strange feelings and fears in his own mind. Until he'd regained some command over himself.
And though he damned himself a coward for fleeing from one small wisp of a woman, Anatole spurred the stallion forward. Questing after a threat to his peace of mind that he far better understood.
Mortmains.
* * * * *
The mist persisted, damp and colder down by the shoreline. Perfect weather, Anatole thought wryly, for tracking down a phantom woman who was likely no more than the product of an old man's imagination or his failing eyesight. And there was no more perfect place to come looking for the ghost of an enemy he'd thought long dead than here…
Anatole drew rein, peering through the drifting wisps of fog at the cove stretched out before him. The tide was out, the powerful sea becalmed, little more than a cold gray froth leaving dark stains upon the shore.
It was a barren sweep of coast, isolated, dangerous, with jagged rocks barely visible beneath the surface of the water, the shore streaked with patches of sand more golden than the rest and more deadly, the kind that could give way beneath a man, swallowing him from sight forever.
No snug cottages nestled in the bare hills beyond, no fishermen's nets sprawled out to dry in the sun, there was nothing here but some half-dead oaks exposed to the salt wind of the sea and the scorched remains of a formerly magnificent manor house.
Once the estate had been known by some fancy French name, but over time the local fisherfolk had come to call it Lost Land because of its black reputation for wrecked ships, murdered sailors, and hapless travelers who'd simply vanished, whether victims of the dangerous shifting sands or some more sinister hand. Land as treacherous as the Mortmains themselves.
A chill worked through Anatole that had nothing to do with the dampness of the day. A pervading sense of evil clung to this place that touched the outermost borders of his own land. The Mortmain estate could have been a million leagues away and still not be distant enough as far as St. Legers had always been concerned.
He urged his horse cautiously along a narrow path that led up from the shore cutting through a
marshy meadow. Tension settled between his shoulder blades. He'd never seen a Mortmain in his lifetime. And yet the closer he drew to the ruined manor, the more conscious he became of passing into the shadow of the enemy.
They'd been his family's most bitter enemy for generations. Who was it that had had Lord Prospero condemned and burned for witchcraft? A Mortmain. Who'd led the Roundhead Army that had once attacked and despoiled Castle Leger? A Mortmain. Who had been behind the murder of Deidre St. Leger? A Mortmain.
And so on down to present times, to the illegal execution of his own father's younger brother, Wyatt St. Leger, hung by Sir Tyrus Mortmain on a trumped-up charge of smuggling and treason to the crown. Hung without proof or trial, an act of injustice that had spurred the final confrontation between Sir Tyrus and Anatole's grandfather. A confrontation that had ended here on this hillside in a night of fire and fury.
Anatole's stallion whickered and shied back, his nostrils flaring as though the light haze that swirled about them still bore the acrid tang of smoke. The horse balked, tossing his head to one side, veering away with an animal's uncanny sense for avoiding a site of death and destruction.
Giving over the struggle, Anatole dismounted and tethered the uneasy stallion to a stout branch of one of the dying oaks. He continued the rest of the way up the hill on foot.
The remains of Mortmain Manor towered before him, only a few walls still standing, blown-out windows staring at him like gaping eyes and mouths. A blackened monument to all that remained of the Mortmains' ruthlessness and cruelty. Vaulting ambition and vengeance reduced to nothing more than rubble and ash.
Anatole hesitated before picking his way carefully through what had once been the manor's front door. He went only a few steps, fearing one wrong move might bring what remained of the building crashing down on his head.
The interior was a pile of collapsed stone, ash, and fallen timber, anything of value long since scavenged away. Where the roof should have been was nothing but misty clouds and pale gray sky. Little stirred except for the strident cry of some rooks nesting in the remains of one of the chimneys.
Anatole frowned. He didn't know what he'd hoped to achieve by coming to Lost Land except that if there was a chance any Mortmain remained alive and had returned, the most likely place he'd find some sign of it was here.
But a sign like what? Someone attempting to hang curtains in the crumbling window frames, spread out Aubusson carpets over the debris? With a look of disgust Anatole dusted off the fine powder of ash that had already collected on his leather gloves.
Convinced that he'd come on a fool's errand, he turned to go. But he hadn't taken more than a step, when he realized that he was no longer alone. The sensation crept over him, as though the mist itself had suddenly thickened around him, seeping into his bones.
Anatole tensed, listening. He neither saw nor heard anything, but he felt it. A presence somewhere nearby. The hair at the back of his neck lifted, his special inner sense going off like a watchman's rattle.
His sense didn't function as well here as it did at Castle Leger; it was as though it were cloaked by the mist, by the ruined manor's own powerful aura. He couldn't tell the who or the where, only that someone was drawing closer. The sensation grew stronger by the second, almost suffocating. A feeling of hostility. Dangerous. Threatening.
Anatole silently cursed himself for not having the forethought to bring a loaded pistol. He had only a rapier strapped to his side, but the weapon would have to do.
He unsheathed the sword as quietly as he could, straining with all his senses to detect some movement, some sound that would tell him where his enemy lurked.
There, he thought, every nerve pulsing, every muscle flexing. Just outside the walls of the ruined manor, someone crept, waiting.
The blood pumping through his veins, Anatole set his mouth in a grim line and stalked forward. He had just breached the opening in the smoke-blackened wall when the attack came.
The sword seemed to come out of nowhere, arcing toward him with a deadly hiss. He deflected it with his own blade and spun around, thrusting. He came within inches of piercing his attacker's heart. The only thing that saved the man was his agility and the fact that Anatole froze, the shock of recognition setting in.
Sword suspended, he stared at the familiar masculine face. Ash gold hair waved back from patrician features cast in lordly beauty almost too perfect to be human, a fine-chiseled jaw, an aquiline nose, wing-tipped brows, the sullen mouth of a demigod who'd been denied Mt. Olympus.
Roman St. Leger. The last person Anatole would have expected to encounter here. Or wanted to.
Roman's frigid blue eyes locked with his for a long tense moment, fixing Anatole with a challenging stare that Anatole returned unblinking. It was Roman who finally yielded, withdrawing his sword. With a laugh he backed off, shoving his rapier back into a long cane until it resumed the appearance of a harmless gold-tipped walking stick.
"Well, cousin. This is a first. Imagine me being able to take you by surprise."
Anatole lowered his own sword, the tension coursing through him, fast giving way to anger.
"You bloody damn fool! What do you mean by attacking me that way?"
Roman's brows shot upward. "I didn't know it was you, now, did I? Not being possessed of your unusual gifts of perception. For all I could tell, you might have proved to be some wandering brigand."
"You should have been more careful. I might have run you through."
"And that would have been a tragedy." Roman's smile mocked him. “The St. Leger who sheds the blood of his own kin is himself doomed. Isn't that how the old legend goes?"
Roman had no respect for any legends, St. Leger or otherwise. But Anatole had always felt a strong urge to put this particular one to the test, especially where Roman was concerned, even if he did risk his own destruction.
He'd come close to it once in the more hot-blooded days of his youth, but then there had been cooler and wiser heads present to separate him and Roman. There was nothing to rely on here except his own good sense.
Clenching his teeth, Anatole slid his sword back in its sheath before Roman could goad him into doing something stupid. His cousin possessed a remarkable gift for that.
Roman bent to fetch his hat, which had flown off in the scuffle, a dapper tan felt with a low crown and narrow brim. It matched the French-style frock coat he wore, its collar tricked out in velvet, the enameled buttons decorated with hunting devices. His cream-colored breeches were protected by spatter dashes, his jockey boots blackened with polish and gleaming. The complete attire was far too elegant to be wasted riding through this back country, but it was difficult to imagine Roman in anything less.
While Roman settled the hat back on his head, Anatole demanded, "So what the devil are you doing here?"
Roman took his time about answering, jamming his hands back into a pair of fawn-skin gloves. "I might ask you the same thing, cousin. From what I've heard, congratulations are in order. Isn't your bride due to arrive any day? I expected you would be mighty preoccupied preparing for your wedding."
"I already had it. Yesterday."
Roman stilled. "I see," he said. For a moment something ugly seemed to simmer in the depth of his eyes. Then the expression was gone as he stretched the second glove into place. When he spoke again, it was in his usual light mocking tone.
"You had the wedding and didn't trouble to ask me? Tsk, tsk. Obviously you've never heard the story of the bad fairy who wasn't invited to the family gathering and then decided to wreak a good deal of mischief."
Anatole stirred uneasily at Roman's thin smile. That was one of the most irritating things about the damned man. You could never tell whether he was serious or jesting.
"I didn't invite any fairies to the wedding. Good or otherwise," Anatole said. "It was a very private affair."
"How like you," Roman muttered. He paced a few steps away, abandoning the pretense of his negligent pose. "You might at least have had the courtesy t
o inform me!'
"I didn't realize I was obliged to account to you."
"You're not, but you know that I have always—" When Roman broke off, compressing his lips together, Anatole finished for him.
"You've always considered yourself to be my heir."
"Yes, I rather fear that I did."
"Then, you're a damned fool."
"Undoubtedly."
"You couldn't have seriously ever expected to inherit Castle Leger. We're the same age. What made you think you'd outlive me?"
"A man can always hope, can't he?" Roman asked with a smile whose softness never reached his eyes.
Anatole supposed he should have been disconcerted to discover his own cousin wished him dead. But it was a sentiment he'd returned toward Roman on more than one occasion. By some strange coincidence, they'd been born on the same day, almost at the same hour. The enmity that simmered between them seemed to have existed from the cradle.
Perhaps, Anatole thought, it was because they were such different kinds of men. Roman, with his silken manners and elegant clothes, belonged to assemblies, salons, ballrooms, while Anatole was more at home in the stables, on the cliffs and moors.
Or perhaps it was because Roman was one of those rare St. Legers who had been left untouched by the family curse, devoid of any peculiar talents, a blessing that Anatole bitterly envied.
But perhaps his dislike of Roman was rooted in something far more simple. Something as basic as… doors. Library doors, parlor doors, doors to Anatole's own home that had been shut in his face as a lad, but had always been open and welcoming to Roman…
Anatole shoved the painful memories aside and faced his cousin squarely. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I intend to live a long time and father a good many strapping healthy sons."
"No doubt you will," Roman said, eyeing Anatole's large frame with an expression of distaste. "Though, I must confess. I never really believed you would marry."
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 15
