St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  She stole a nervous glance over her shoulder, the arched stone hallway gloom-ridden in the murky afternoon light, the rain driving against the leaded panes of glass in this older wing of the house. She was quite alone here, but still she hesitated to fit the key in the lock, although she hardly knew why.

  Why should she feel so guilty about defying Anatole's arbitrary command? Almost as if she were about to betray him in some fashion. She wouldn't have been forced to this subterfuge if the man hadn't been so blasted unreasonable.

  Ever since their encounter in the garden, the tension had remained rife between them. She had tossed on her pillow last night, half hoping he would steal into her bedchamber to apologize, to offer her some better explanation for his strange behavior. Hoping, she thought wistfully, for something more. But the door connecting her room to his had remained silent and closed.

  Anatole might have surrendered his crystal sword to her in that peculiar ceremony, but he'd obviously held back on the heart and soul part, Madeline thought bitterly. She understood him no better now than the day she'd first arrived.

  Telling her she wasn't allowed to set foot in the castle keep until a year and a day had passed! What sort of sense did that make? And what could possibly be in there Anatole didn't want her to see?

  Skeletons of men choked to death in one of Anatole's black tempers? Hoards of stolen treasure? Servants who'd gone insane chained to the dungeon walls? Or something even worse?

  Madeline scolded herself for entertaining such lurid imaginings. Likely she would find no more than what Anatole had said. A dank old castle keep crawling with spiders. And his reason for forbidding her would turn out to be just another one of those… those St. Leger things, a belief in some sort of family curse that would be set loose, just as Anatole believed his mother had died young because she wasn't a chosen bride.

  But Madeline had never allowed superstition to rule her life, and she wasn't about to start now. Reason and logic would provide answers to everything, including the enigma that was her husband.

  Yet as she stepped closer to the forbidden door, an inexplicable shiver worked its way up her spine. The air seemed to have gotten suddenly colder, a chill caressing her skin. And she thought she heard something stir beyond the heavy wooden barrier. The creak of a footstep?

  Madeline trembled, fighting an urge to scoop up her petticoats and run. She chided herself for being so foolish, allowing her nerves to get the better of her. Steadying her fingers, she eased the key into the lock.

  "Madeline!"

  Anatole's voice shot through her like a crack of thunder. She gave a frightened gasp, and nearly dropped the key. Her heart threatened to batter its way past her rib cage. Fighting for composure, she turned slowly around.

  He stood where there had been only shadows before, a phantom of a man whose presence seemed to fill the narrow passageway. Bursts of lightning flashed over the eerie whiteness of his shirt, the rain-wet darkness of his hair, the hard contours of his jaw.

  "Anatole, you—you're home already," she said, hoping she didn't sound as dismayed as she felt. She retained just enough presence of mind to slip the key from the lock and conceal it in the folds of her skirts.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked quietly. Too quietly like the calm that presages a violent storm. As he stalked forward, she retreated. But there was no place to go, the rough barrier of the door pressing against her back.

  "Well, I—I—" she stammered, then felt disgusted as she realized what she was doing. Behaving like some cringing schoolgirl caught out in mischief.

  Madeline straightened, coming away from the door. "I'm sure you know quite well what I was doing."

  Anatole said nothing. He merely held out his hand.

  After a moment's hesitation Madeline sighed and relinquished the key into his outstretched palm. She stared down at the mud-spattered toes of his boots, more disconcerted than she cared to admit. She felt a little like a mouse who'd tweaked the whiskers of a mighty lion and now waited, dreading his roar.

  He crooked his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up, and Madeline braced herself. But the rage she'd expected to find was absent. The harsh planes of his face appeared battered, his eyes weary and sad. She'd never seen him look so solemn, and it made her even more uneasy. Somehow she would have preferred the roar.

  "Have you ever read any Greek myths?" he asked.

  "W-what?" she faltered.

  "Greek myths like the one about Psyche and Eros. Are you familiar with it?"

  Madeline blinked at him in surprise. Her imperious warlord had caught her defying him, and the man wanted to discuss mythology?

  "Y-e-ess" she replied cautiously. "Eros and Psyche… that was the myth where the princess Psyche married a mysterious stranger who promised to give her everything she could possibly desire. There was only one condition. She was never to look upon his face, but—" Madeline broke off uncomfortably, suddenly realizing where this was leading.

  Anatole continued for her, "But one night Psyche's curiosity and fear got the better of her. Terrified that she might have wed a monster, she armed herself with a dagger and stole into her husband's bedchamber. There she lit a candle and looked upon him while he lay sleeping."

  Madeline tipped her chin to a defiant angle. "And she was so startled, she dropped the dagger, discovering that her husband was none other than Eros, the handsomest of all the Greek immortals."

  "But because she'd broken the condition, she lost him."

  "But she eventually won him back and became a goddess herself," Madeline said with a triumphant smile. "So the story turned out all right in the end."

  "But so much misery could have been avoided if only Psyche had obeyed and trusted her husband."

  "But how could she trust you… I mean how could I trust him when you are being so secretive. I mean he was…" She trailed off in frustration. Somehow she and Anatole seemed to be getting hopelessly tangled up in this myth. But unlike Eros and Psyche, Madeline was not at all sure they would find such a happy resolution.

  "It's only a ridiculous story," she muttered.

  "I used to think so, too, when Fitzleger first told it to me. But now I'm not so sure." There was a gravity to Anatole's voice, compelling her attention more surely than if he'd bellowed.

  "I behaved badly yesterday, barking commands at you to stay away from this part of the house. But, Madeline, there are some things I can't explain to you as yet. All I can do is hope that you will trust me, believe that I'd never do anything that would hurt you."

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face the door. "Did you notice the mural above the arch?"

  "How could I miss it?" That infernal dragon seemed to regard her with an evil glint in its eyes.

  "It's a copy of the device on the St. Leger coat of arms. Did you also remark the words painted on the base of the lamp?"

  "No." Madeline stood on her tiptoes, squinting closer. The light in the hall was very dim, but she was able to make out a phrase etched in Latin. She translated hesitantly, "He who has great power must… must use it wisely."

  "It's our family motto. Yours now, too."

  "But I don't have any power."

  "Aye, but you do, lady. Far more than you could possibly imagine."

  He turned her to face him again. "The decision lies with you. Obviously I can't watch you every moment of the day, nor do I wish to. I demand that you give me your word of honor, you will stay away from here."

  Madeline felt more convinced than ever that her husband must be keeping some grim secret from her. The door, what lay beyond it, appeared all the more intriguing, compelling. But so were Anatole's eyes as he watched her, waiting. Almost as though his entire fate rested in her two hands.

  "All… all right," she said at last. "Though I hope I'm not required to swear an oath in blood."

  His lips twitched with the first hint of a smile. "No, your hand upon it will do."

  She slipped her fingers into the calloused st
rength of his. "Very well. I promise. I'll stay away from the castle keep as long as you desire."

  "Thank you." He bent swiftly, catching her hand to his lips, brushing against the delicate skin of her wrist. Her pulse throbbed at the unexpected contact, the heat of his mouth seeming to spear through her veins.

  Then he raised his head, his black mane of hair falling back. The dark fire in his eyes made her forget everything. Forbidden castles, locked doors, frightening secrets. He slipped his arms about her waist.

  Anatole had not kissed her since their wedding night, and Madeline found herself quickening with anticipation. He brushed his lips across her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, finally tasting lightly of her lips.

  He smelled of spring rain, of wild gallops across the moors, of the raging power of the seas. A thoroughly masculine scent. A quiver of excitement shot through Madeline, and she wished that she had not taught the man to be quite so gentle.

  She longed for him to… she scarce knew what. Crush her in his arms and combine some of this tenderness with the fire and fury of the first kiss he'd ever bestowed upon her, the one that had nearly brought her to her knees. Astonished by these confusing desires, Madeline gazed up at him.

  "Do you still find me such an alarming specimen?" he asked.

  "No." She fingered the wild damp lengths of Anatole's hair, abraded her knuckles along the roughness of his jaw, shadowed by a day's growth of beard.

  "Although, you could use a little taming," she said with a smile. "Nothing that a pair of scissors and a straight razor wouldn't cure."

  "But there is nothing that can be done about this" He touched his fingers to the scar that tore a jagged line across his brow.

  Madeline nudged his hand aside, gently tracing the ancient wound herself.

  "It suits you somehow, your warriors scar. Gained in some hotheaded sword battle, no doubt." She shivered. "It must have been a terrible wound. A few inches lower, and you would have been blinded."

  "It happened so long ago, I scarce remember." Anatole captured her hand, kissing her fingertips, avoiding her eyes.

  His warrior's scar… if his lady only knew how he'd really come by it. If she only knew his other wretched secrets.

  And she'd come damned close to finding out all of them. If he'd been a few minutes later coming home—if he hadn't chanced to go into his study and discover the key missing.

  Anatole's vast relief was tempered with apprehension. Despite the promise he'd wrung from her, how long could he continue to deceive her this way?

  And would it ever be long enough to achieve what he wanted more than anything in this world? To have her love him with that kind of undying love all the St. Leger wives had shown their mates for ages past.

  It was hopeless. How could he possibly imagine that a man such as he could ever win her heart? A man whose only knowledge of women had been how to lift their skirts and take his ease. Not that he couldn't have used that kind of ease from Madeline. His desire had only grown worse since he'd known the touch and taste of her, felt what it was like to bury himself deep inside of her.

  He'd never sought advice from anyone before, but he found himself wishing there were someone, some wiser man he could consult about the arts necessary to enchant a lady.

  The thought had no sooner formed in his head when Anatole felt an icy chill sweep over him. Gazing over the top of Madeline's red-gold curls, he was horrified to see the door handle rattle. He could sense Prospero's presence on the other side of the wooden barrier, could almost see the specter's wicked grin.

  "Stay out of this, you old devil," Anatole said through clenched teeth. "I need no help from you."

  "What?" Madeline looked up at him with wide-eyed puzzlement. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing! Only that—that there's the very devil of a draft in this old corridor. We should get back to the main wing where it's safe—I mean warmer."

  Wrapping his arm about Madeline's waist, Anatole hustled her away before Prospero took it into his head to do something worse. As they left the passage, Anatole hoped that he was the only one who caught the faint echo of laughter.

  He hardly dared relax his stride until he had Madeline safely back in the new wing. The freshly polished marble floor, the gleaming wood banister in the front hall seemed so solid, so blessedly normal.

  Madeline paused at the foot of the stairs, touching her hand shyly to the front of his shirt. "It's little wonder you took such a chill back there. You need to get out of these wet clothes. You're still damp from whatever wild adventure you were pursuing out in the storm."

  Anatole sucked in his breath. Her touch, her suggestion to discard his clothes were as innocent as the spring rain, but the effect on him was like thunder. Visions of stripping her bare as well stormed through his head, molding her lithe naked form to his in a heated embrace, tumbling her down amongst the cool linen sheets and…

  And no! He was resolved to be more the kind of man Madeline could love, something a little tamer, more civilized. And that didn't include ravishing her in the middle of the afternoon.

  He was certain he now knew what he'd done wrong on their wedding night. Been far too blunt, too quick with his physical demands. She needed more time to respond with passion to his touch. Something no St. Leger bride had ever required before.

  But then he was no Prospero, Anatole thought bleakly. He didn't even possess the charms of his own grandfather. Yet somehow he must learn to do better by her. Carefully he eased Madeline's hand away from his chest.

  "I did ride farther than I meant to," he said, steering the conversation back into safer channels. "But it wasn't that much of an adventure. I only called in at the rectory to—to take tea with Fitzleger."

  Another lie. Would he ever be able to offer Madeline anything but half-truths and falsehoods? He'd never drunk a cup of tea in his life that he could recall. What he had done was report to Fitzleger his complete failure to find any trace of the old man's mysterious churchyard visitor.

  But his explanation appeared to satisfy Madeline. "Oh, yes," she said. "Mr. Fitzleger and I had many lively afternoon teas together in London, debating over everything from our differing translations of Virgil to our opinions on these new French philosophers."

  "I fear that Fitzleger and I do less debating and far more arguing."

  Madeline regarded him with troubled eyes. "You quarreled with Mr. Fitzleger?"

  "Nothing of any consequence," Anatole assured her. It was all but impossible to quarrel with the saintly little man, but Anatole had been treated to another of the Bride Finder's soft-spoken lectures regarding Madeline.

  Fitzleger had shaken his head after hearing of Anatole's recent encounter with Roman, including his cousin's disturbing curiosity about Anatole's bride.

  "Ah, my lord, you must now see the risks you run by being so secretive. What if Madeline should have a chance meeting with Roman in the village or hereabouts? Or any of the other St. Legers she doesn't even know exist."

  "There will be little possibility of that. Not if I keep her close to the house."

  "My dear boy, you cannot keep your wife locked up in an ivory tower."

  "I can certainly try," Anatole had replied stubbornly.

  The old man had cast him a look of gentle remonstrance. "Women generally require a little more by way of society than a few servants and a pack of hunting hounds. You will only make Madeline unhappy if you shut her off from the rest of the world."

  Madeline's unhappiness was the last thing Anatole desired. "So what do you want me to do? Throw a blasted ball in her honor?"

  "You can start by simply making her known to the rest of the St. Legers."

  "No!" Anatole had shot to his feet and taken to pacing about Fitzleger's tiny parlor.

  "What is it that you fear?" Fitzleger asked. "That if you agree to this meeting, some of your family will tell Madeline things you do not wish her to know?"

  Anatole wished that he could have said, yes, that was exactly what he dreaded, but i
t was only part of it. He might not be able to control Prospero, but he was fairly confident as head of the family, that he could command the silence of the living St. Legers.

  His real fear went far deeper and was far more irrational. The fear that if he shared Madeline with anyone else, somehow he would lose her before she was even his.

  But he could hardly explain something that foolish to Fitzleger. He had ended up by storming away from the vicarage instead, Fitzleger watching his retreat with sorrowful eyes. As usual, Anatole's irritation with the old man stemmed from the realization that Fitzleger was right…

  "Anatole?" Madeline's tug at his sleeve brought Anatole back to the present. She gazed at him questioningly, and he was chagrined to realize that he must have been standing there like a block of stone while he wool-gathered. Muttering some excuse about going to change his clothes, he made his escape up the stairs.

  But his conversation with Fitzleger would give him no peace. Anatole had only gone halfway when he hesitated, turning back.

  "Madeline!"

  She'd headed off down the hall in the direction of the library, but she came back to stand at the foot of the stairs, one slender hand poised on the banister.

  "Yes?" She looked up at him with that sweet expectant smile, which was fast proving his undoing, filling him with indescribable yearnings.

  You will only make her unhappy if you shut her off from the rest of the world.

  Anatole struggled with himself another long moment before confessing, "Fitzleger and I did discuss something of import today. He thought that perhaps—that is, I was wondering—" He clenched his jaw, then managed to get the words out. "I was wondering if you wished to be presented to my family."

  "Your family?" Her smile wavered. "But… but I thought they were all in St. Gothian's under the church floor."

  "There's at least one that should be," Anatole muttered, Roman's unwelcome image coming to mind. "But I do have an uncle or two, and many cousins yet living."

  "Oh," Madeline said faintly. She should have been glad to hear that Anatole had some family, that he was not quite the solitary figure she'd imagined him to be. Why, then, did she feel so unsettled to learn there were more St. Legers running tame about Cornwall?