"Of me?" Anatole echoed in disbelief.
"Aye. Envious of your powers, your position as head of the family, your lands and fortune, especially considering how little he inherited himself."
"And so what are you getting at, Marius?" Anatole asked impatiently. "That I should feel sorry for the cursed man?"
"No." Marius sighed. "I am only trying to tell you that envy can eat at a man's soul far faster than any disease can ravage his body. It can make him more dangerous than the worst sort of madness. And I greatly fear Roman is beyond all hope of cure."
Marius regarded Anatole with grave eyes. "You need to be careful of him, Anatole. Very careful indeed."
And on this final note of warning, Marius took his leave.
Chapter 14
Sleep was impossible.
Long after Madeline had gone upstairs, she sat in her nightgown, halfheartedly brushing her hair before the mirror, all the while listening for the creak of a floorboard, the tread of a footstep, the slamming of a door. Any sound from the adjoining chamber that would alert her that Anatole had come upstairs, that the stubborn man had not bled to death on the dining room carpet.
Though, after the humiliating way he had rejected her, she didn't know why she should care. But she did, and she continued to listen even though she despised herself for it.
But it was difficult to hear anything other than the thunder pealing over the house. The storm battered against the windows of her bedchamber, the wind rattling the glass, the rain striking like a hail of arrows. It was as though the land of Castle Leger itself rose up like an avenging fury, raging against the woman who had presumed to refute its most cherished legend.
Stalking over to the windows, she flung open the heavy brocade draperies and gazed out into the rain-washed night with defiance. If she had unleashed any curse with her heresy, she dared it to come and get her, strike her down.
It could hardly be any worse than what she had just gone through downstairs, being shunned by the other St. Legers, sent up to bed by her husband like an errant schoolgirl.
She lingered by the windows, tempting her fate, but nothing happened but the disapproving grumbling of thunder, lightning flashing against the sky like bursts of cannon fire, illuminating the dark landscape with its twisted trees, the ribbon of road leading away from Castle Leger.
Did it ever do anything but storm in this part of the world? she wondered bleakly. She didn't envy the St. Legers their journey homeward on such a black and bitter night. Most of them must have gone by now unless Anatole's uncles had lingered over port to commiserate with him on his unfortunate marriage. For she doubted that any of the St. Legers still thought that Fitzleger had chosen so well.
She'd known so little warmth and genuine acceptance that the loss of their good opinion pained her, but not so much as the memory of the look in Anatole's eyes when he'd thrust her away from him.
And all because she had been reckless enough to agree with Roman about the Bride Finder. But what other sensible reply could she have given to Roman's prodding about eternal love and the St. Leger destiny? How was it Zane had described it? Two hearts brought together in a moment, two souls united for an eternity. A lovely romantic notion. But it must be as obvious to Anatole as it was to herself. A good many moments had already passed, and they were not passionately in love with each other or ever likely to be.
So what had Anatole expected her to say? She didn't know, but she feared she had disappointed him. Not that that was anything new. She had been nothing but a disappointment to the man ever since he'd first clapped eyes on her, not at all what a St. Leger bride was supposed to be.
Not bred to the saddle, not able to inspire a man with passion, three days' worth or otherwise. Not even able to share his family's beliefs.
Leaning her head against the glass, despair threatened to overwhelm Madeline at last, cracking through the shield of her own anger and indignation. But she blinked fiercely, determined not to cry.
The world was wet enough tonight without her adding to the deluge. If she could not face the emptiness of her bed, she could find something more sensible to do than streak the window with her tears and work herself into a raging headache.
With a final sniff she began to pick up the clothing she'd strewn about the room in her struggles to undress. She had never bothered to send for the girl she was training to act as her maid.
Bess Kennack was a deft young woman, but her intense eyes and dour manner occasionally discomfited Madeline. Her spirits were oppressed enough without gazing upon Bessie's gloom-filled countenance.
Retrieving her green silk gown from the chair by the fire, Madeline attempted to jam the dress back into her overcrowded wardrobe. In her struggles she dislodged several bandboxes and something hard, which came tumbling out, startling her. She leapt back in time to save her bare toes as the heavy object thudded to the carpet.
She pulled a face when she saw what it was. The St. Leger sword embedded in its leather sheath, the crystal in the pommel winking up at her like some capricious eye. She had never known quite what to do with the blasted weapon ever since Anatole had given it to her. Tuck it up amongst her parasols or bury it beneath her petticoats? It was constantly in her way.
Gingerly she bent down and tugged the heavy weapon upright, sliding it out of its scabbard. Candlelight played over the length of naked steel, the wrought gold hilt, the sparkling crystal.
Her heart softened a little as she remembered how gruff and embarrassed Anatole had looked when he'd been forced to kneel and present the sword to her on their wedding day. Almost endearingly so.
Perhaps he had never gotten around to surrendering his heart and soul along with the blade, but she realized now he had offered something else instead.
His pride. And that of all the St. Leger lords who had gone before him. She feared she had rather heedlessly trampled over both tonight. It wasn't a comfortable thought.
But she had never asked for anything to be placed in her hands. It was far too heavy a burden. All she had ever wanted was a simple country life, a scholarly husband, a library full of books, and a nursery full of children.
She'd never bargained for legends, forbidden castles, and swords. The blade was a strange gift for any woman, let alone one like her whose heart had never beat faster at the sight of a soldier in his regimentals or at the thought of a knight in armor. She'd always been an admirer of the gentler arts: poetry, music, philosophy.
And yet there was something amazingly beautiful about it. She turned the sword in her hands, studying the elaborate decoration on the hilt. The crystal possessed a clarity that was mesmerizing, infusing the sword with a strange allure and power.
Enough to make a woman forget poets and dream instead of warriors… the kind of iron-fisted man who'd band his sinewy arm about a maiden's waist and snatch her atop his fiery steed. Challenge her to brave his fierce facade, and drive the darkness from his wearied eyes.
They'd ride like the wind past sea and shore, rocks and hills to a field of heather, where he'd tumble her down among the sweet-smelling flowers to work his wild magic upon her…
The image brought a dew of perspiration to Madeline's skin, stirred an unbearable heat deep inside her. She scarce heard the knocking at her door until it came a second time, a little louder.
"Madeline?"
Anatole's voice, low as it was, cut through the haze of her thoughts. Madeline blinked, wrenching her eyes from the crystal like one snapping out of a trance, wondering what had just come over her.
"Madeline? Are you already abed?"
"No," she replied, nearly dropping the sword again in her haste to thrust it into the sheath. Feeling as guilty as a child caught toying with the fire, she hurried to jam the weapon back into her wardrobe.
She'd barely managed to do so when the door connecting her chamber to his swung open.
Part of her was still angry and hurt by the way he'd dismissed her, but she felt relieved to see him standing tall and upright,
recovered from his wound. A fresh shirt stretched across the broad span of his shoulders, the outline of a bandage visible on his forearm beneath the fine linen.
"May I come in?" he asked. His hair was still battle-tossed from his violent struggle with Roman. Deep lines bracketed the hard set of his mouth, the darkness in his eyes.
She nodded, a little surprised that he would bother to ask her permission. If it had been anyone else but the fierce lord of Castle Leger, she would have described his manner as hesitant.
He stepped inside the bedchamber, half forgetting to close the door behind him. Madeline braced herself, uncertain of his mood. He no longer appeared angry, but there was a strange restlessness in him for all that.
He came as far as the end of her bed, twisting his fingers around the elaborately carved post.
"You are well?” he asked abruptly. “I did not rouse you from your sleep?"
"No."
"But I knocked several times, and you did not respond."
"I—I was preoccupied," she said. Too busy playing with his sword and entertaining foolish fantasies of him making love to her in a field of heather.
Madeline suppressed both the thought and the telltale blush that threatened to rise to her cheeks.
"Why?" she demanded. "Did you come to make certain I had obeyed your command to go to bed?"
"No, I only thought that you might be distressed after that damned uproar downstairs."
So that was the reason for the man's discomfort? He had expected to find her dissolved in a puddle of tears?
Madeline stiffened proudly. "Why would I be distressed? I assumed it must be a Cornish custom for the men to try to murder each other after dinner. Or perhaps only a St. Leger one."
"I am sorry," he said. "Such a thing will never happen again. Roman will not set another foot on Castle Leger. Not while I live."
His words sent a shiver through her. She remembered all too well the savagery of Roman's expression when he had slashed at Anatole with the knife. It filled her with a protectiveness toward Anatole, though she scarce knew why.
In any contest of strength Anatole would certainly emerge the victor, yet Roman, she sensed, would always possess a marked advantage over her husband.
Roman knew how to be cruel.
"Then, you were not able to mend your quarrel with your cousin before he left?" she asked anxiously.
"No, by God!" Anatole's fingers strayed to his injured arm. "Our quarrel is well past mending this time."
"I am still confused by what happened. Do you think Roman was a little drunk? It was so odd the way he spilled his wine and then—"
"He wasn't drunk." Anatole prowled over to the dresser, scowling at his own reflection in the mirror. "The hostility between us has always been there. Roman and I have hated each other since the day we were born."
"But why?"
"It's not important."
"But I should so like to understand."
"If only you could," he muttered.
Madeline crossed over to him, laying a hand on his arm. "Then, tell me," she pleaded.
He cast her a measuring glance, something haunted in his eyes, making her want to stroke soothing fingers across his brow, tame some of the wildness from his hair… from his heart.
She had a feeling that he desperately needed to tell her something, far more than about Roman. But he lowered his eyes and brushed past her, leaving her raw with disappointment.
"I don't want to talk about Roman. Not tonight," he said. "We can continue this discussion another time perhaps."
"When?" she asked bitterly. "In a year and a day?"
"All you need know is that you are never to receive Roman or speak to him again. Is that clear?"
No, it wasn't, Madeline wanted to argue, but she recognized the inflexible set of his jaw all too well. What had happened with Roman was to be added to the list of things she was not to worry her pretty head about, like forbidden castle rooms and Mortmains.
"Is that clear, madam?" Anatole prodded when she failed to answer.
"Perfectly, sir." She sighed. There seemed little point now in trying to broach a far more painful subject, the discord between Anatole and herself, the way she had offended his family and wounded—well, if not Anatole's heart, at least his pride.
But if she had, the man was not about to admit it to her. He didn't wear his vulnerabilities well. A profound sadness swept over her as she watched him pace toward the door, preparing to leave, a stiff proud figure. Forever maintaining his distance, keeping his secrets, guarding his heart.
But how was she to change that if he constantly refused to allow her any closer to him? Why had he come to her tonight if this was all he had to say?
And why did he linger, one hand poised on the doorknob, his dark silence filling the chamber, pressing against her like a heavy weight?
As the seconds ticked by, she wondered if she was the only one aware of the lateness of the hour, the fire dying on the hearth, the inviting reaches of the bed that loomed behind her.
Unable to bear it any longer, she finally asked, "Was there something more you wanted, my lord?"
She feared he had not even heard her, then he muttered, "Yes," the single word sounding wrung from him.
"What is it?"
"I want you!"
Madeline's breath caught in her throat. It was the last thing she'd expected him to say, but completely like him to be so direct. No impassioned declaration, no tender plea. Just three simple words that shot through her like a bolt of lightning.
"You—you mean you want to do that again?" she asked, fearing she must have misunderstood him.
There was no mistaking his expression as he stalked toward her, his eyes a strange mix of apology and desire.
"I won't hurt you this time. It will be better, Madeline. I swear it. You don't need to be afraid."
Her heart pounded madly, but not from fear. She felt as if she had been waiting forever for this to happen, for Anatole to return to her bed. She just hadn't expected it after a night like this one, full of tension, quarrels, and knife fights, when the gulf between them had never seemed greater.
As he slipped his arms around her waist, she braced her hands against the wall of his chest, gazing up at him.
"But—but why?" she asked.
"Why what?" He grazed his lips against her temple, his breath quick and warm against her skin.
"Why do you want to make love to me?"
"Because you're my wife."
"But why now? This moment. After the way—"
"For the love of God, Madeline. Must you have a reason for everything?" he said, his voice part groan, part weary laugh. "No more questions. Not tonight."
He bent swiftly, sealing her mouth with the firm warmth of his own. The kiss was meant to silence her as much as anything else, but she could not remain impervious as his lips sought hers with increasing hunger.
It had been so long since Anatole had kissed her this way, full on the mouth, molding her frame to his, making her aware of the heat, the raw power that pumped through the man's veins. She'd half forgotten the seduction of his lips, the sensual mysteries of which she'd only had the barest taste on their wedding night. Her body quickened with an anticipation she could not control.
If only she could have fully trusted to the magic of it, this sudden flare of desire. But she continued to wonder, to doubt. What had finally prompted Anatole back to her arms? Had he been goaded into it because of the boasting of the other St. Legers, the passion they'd found in their chosen brides?
Or was Anatole only making love to her for the same reason he'd surrendered his sword? Because it was expected of him? Breaking the heated contact of their lips, her eyes fluttered open, seeking the answers to her questions in his face. But to her astonishment, she found the room plunged into near darkness. At some point during that searing kiss, the candle had blown out.
Anatole's expression was lost to her, the hard contours of his face barely visible with only the glo
wing embers of the fire left to illuminate the bedchamber. Madeline thought she knew how poor Psyche must have felt in that myth, being embraced by a man she could never see, never fully understand.
Anatole strained her close, breathing fervent kisses against her hair. She felt so slight, so fragile in his arms, he half feared he was crushing her. She made no sound of protest, and although she was yielding enough, he sensed a reluctance in her, a wariness that drove him half wild.
She still wasn't eager to have him in her bed and heaven knew, he never intended to force himself upon her, not after how roughly he had already treated her tonight.
He'd only come to her bedchamber to apologize, nothing more. But the sight of her had dissolved all chivalrous intentions, her womanly curves draped in the innocence of that white nightgown, her hair shimmering about her shoulders, soft and fiery gold.
She was all that was beautiful, all that was calm and reason in a world too often riddled with storms and the St. Leger brand of madness.
And, God, how he wanted her, Marius's words of warning continuing to pound through his brain.
Go to your bride before it is too late…
Anatole cupped her face between his hands, devouring her face with his kisses, his caresses fueled as much by desperation as desire.
Damn it! He was a St. Leger, and she was his chosen bride. He would make her tremble with need for him. He would! He swept her off her feet so suddenly, a faint gasp escaped her.
Cradling her high in his arms, he carried her over to the bed. Half stumbling in the darkness, he cast her down upon the mattress.
He started to strip the shirt from his body when a flare of lightning illuminated the room, affording him a glimpse of Madeline's wide eyes.
He cursed softly, knowing he was on the verge of repeating all the mistakes of their wedding night. Alarming her with his nakedness, falling upon her too fast and furious.
He'd already behaved like a savage at supper. The least he could do was be civilized in bed. His body ached and burned with needs too long denied, his chest heaving with the exertion it took to suppress such raging desire. But he gritted his teeth, managing to gain some mastery over himself. Leaving his clothing on, he stretched out carefully on the mattress beside her.
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 24
