Wandering through the heather, she removed her bonnet, shaking loose her glorious fall of hair, recklessly tipping up her delicate complexion to the heat of the sun.
Swirling his cloak back from his shoulder, he leaned against the stone, content to watch her, drawing his pleasure from hers. He would give his very soul to keep her this way forever, smiling and unafraid, as vibrant and blooming as the wildflowers waving upon the hill.
Nothing else would matter, no, not even if she never desired him with all the legendary passion of a St. Leger bride. Nothing mattered as long as he could—
Simply love her…
The words sifted through his head like the lyrics of a familiar song, often heard, but never fully comprehended.
Until now.
Anatole stiffened, the meaning of Prospero's spell suddenly crystallizing in his mind with an almost painful clarity.
Forget the damned legends, the magic and spells, and the trying to capture the woman's heart as though it were a blasted prize.
Simply love her!
And, God, how he did.
Anatole blinked, the revelation staggering enough to bring him to his knees. Straightening away from the stone, he trembled with the force of it, his gaze eagerly tracking toward Madeline.
It was as though a heavy veil had been wrenched from some dark corner of his mind and he felt his power stir. He closed his eyes and… sweet heaven! For the first time he could feel her, truly sense her presence. Each beat of her heart, each breath, each movement a part of him, linked to her as he had never been to anyone before. It felt like holy light pouring into his soul through the stained glass of some vast cathedral.
"Anatole?" He heard the puzzlement in her voice as she called his name.
She was moving toward him, and he could feel it, each hesitant step.
His eyes fluttered open, and he released a long breath. Madeline paused a bare yard away from him. Cocking her head to one side, she studied him with concern.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," he rasped. Well might she ask. He was certain he must be looking damned strange. He felt damned strange.
As she stepped closer, he drifted trembling fingers down the curve of her cheek, awe in his caress. Powerful emotion surged through him, and he wanted to laugh, to shout, to weep, to drop to his knees all at the same time.
Thank the heavens he was a St. Leger. For how else would he ever have managed to find her in all this wide, wide world? Madeline, his chosen bride… his love.
"God bless Mr. Fitzleger," he murmured.
"W-what?" She eyed him doubtfully. "Are you sure you are quite well, my lord?"
"Never better." He gave a shaky laugh, a man suddenly certain of his destiny. To love, to cherish, to protect this one woman forever. He plucked her bonnet from where it dangled from her other hand. "You should put this back on. The air is too rough for you up here."
He settled the bonnet over her bright curls, knotting the ribbons beneath her chin with a precision that would have done a seaman proud. Madeline submitted to his ministrations, although she did complain, "I am not made of china, my lord. You are far too protective of me."
"And I shall continue to be so. I would command the winds themselves to stay for you if I could."
"I almost believe that you could." Her nose crinkled in puzzlement. "You have this way about you I cannot explain sometimes."
"Yes, I do, do I not?"
To Madeline's astonishment, Anatole threw back his head and let loose a shout of laughter that echoed throughout the hills. She could not imagine what had come over him, the booming sound disconcerting and yet completely delightful. She had never seen him laugh thus before, hearty and free as though a great weight had just tumbled from his shoulders.
A startled gasp escaped her when he caught her beneath the arms and swept her off her feet. Lifting her so high, her face was at a level with his, he spun her around in a circle. Breathless, laughing in protest, she clutched at his shoulders. He whirled her around and around until she was giddy, begging him to stop.
He staggered to an abrupt halt, too dizzy to maintain his balance. Losing his footing, he stumbled over backward, taking her with him. They tumbled down into the heather, Anatole breaking her fall. She sprawled atop his chest, her bonnet slipping off to dangle by its ribbons about her neck, her hair as madly disheveled as his.
Panting, he gazed up at her with smiling eyes, their laughter mingling in a warm breath. Laughter that stilled as each became aware of their situation, the softness of her bosom pressed to the hard wall of his chest, their hearts pounding in unison, her tangled-up petticoats exposing her thigh, her skin brushing up against the taut fabric of his breeches.
She inched away, seeking a more modest position, but his arms encircled her, holding her fast. He murmured, "You were right, you know."
"About what this time?" she tried to jest, but her voice cracked.
"About what you said in bed last night."
"O-oh, no. I should never have said anything."
"But it was true. Something was very wrong between us."
"And now it isn't?" she asked wonderingly.
His mouth crooked in a seductive smile; he shook his head.
"Then, you think that the next time that we… we—" Her cheeks flamed as she realized what she was asking him.
He nodded, his gaze narrowing to a slow, simmering burn.
"Th-three days?" she faltered.
"And more, my lady. My grandfather's record is about to be broken."
His hand tangling in her hair, he cupped the nape of her neck, bringing her mouth down to his. Not tentatively, not roughly, but a kiss that was as sure and strong as the arms that held her.
He shifted her off of him, easing her beside him in the heather, his lips never releasing hers, his kiss waxing bolder, invading her with heat and tenderness.
Dazed, Madeline drew back, her breath coming light and quick.
Something… something had happened during these few moments they'd spent on this hillside, in the shadow of that strange stone. As though a powerful change had blown in on the wind, only to settle in Anatole's eyes.
He had looked at her with intensity before. He had even looked at her with heat. But never had he looked at her this way, as though she had become the entire sum of his being, the center of his world. As though he could reach deep inside of her and lay trembling fingers upon her heart.
He began to undo the ribbons that held her bonnet fast around her neck, his tanned fingers working the dove-colored satin with a tantalizing slowness, causing her body to quiver with anticipation. Slowly, carefully, he brushed the ribbons aside and pressed a kiss to her neck, the most sensitive hollow where her pulse had begun to race.
Tangling his fingers in the sun-warmed strands of her hair, he wooed her with kisses, rough and tender. She trembled with response, a delicious sensation of shock spiraling through her as she realized what he intended to do.
Make love to her. Take her. Right here, right now. In the midst of the sweet-smelling wildflowers, beneath the standing stone and the broad blue sky. And, sweet heaven, how she wanted him to, her body shivering with desires both new and achingly familiar.
As though she had known and felt all this before in a dream. Or in a fantasy obtained by gazing too long into a hypnotic shard of crystal.
Madeline's eyes flew wide as the memory struck her. All this was so much like what she had imagined last night, the breathtaking ride on horseback, the windswept hillside, Anatole's black hair falling about the warlike planes of his face. The strong feel of his arms, the fiery taste of his mouth as he'd laid her back into the heather. What was certain to follow…
She felt awed by the strangeness of such a coincidence and a little frightened. Not of all those wondrous things she knew Anatole was going to do to her, but that this magic might prove as ephemeral as her vision had been.
His hands caressed her back in sensual circles. But when he reached for the fastening of
her riding jacket, she braced her hand against his chest, seeking to stay him.
"Promise me one thing first," she said.
His face was already flushed with passion, but he managed to smile. "And what would that be?"
"Promise me that no matter what happens between us this time, you won't leave me. You won't run away again."
"Madeline…"
"Promise!"
"I promise." Sweeping her hand away from his chest, he grazed his lips against the center of her palm. "As if I could ever run that far from you. I fear it far more likely that some day you might be the one to flee."
"That I never would. I was terrified last night when you vanished and I could not find you. Worried that something dreadful might have happened to you. At one moment I even had this foolish fear that—that—" She bit down on her lower lip. "I had driven you away, angered and disappointed you so much, you might seek out the bed of another woman."
"Foolish, indeed," he said gently. "Madeline, do you still not understand? I can only desire one woman, and that is you. My chosen bride for all eternity."
"Just like in the legend?"
"Aye, the legend you so stubbornly refuse to believe in."
"Then, teach me," she whispered. "Teach me to believe."
She felt a tremor pass through him in response to her plea. His dark lashes swept down, and he drew her close again in an embrace that was both reverent and passionate, sweet and dark with impending desire.
Time itself stilled, the sun hovering on the horizon, the heather no longer stirring with the breeze. His lips claimed hers with all the fierce tenderness any St. Leger had ever brought to his bride. It was a warrior's kiss, bold and demanding, breaching the soft defense of her lips, offering her no quarter until all she could do was sigh and surrender.
Melting into his caresses, she buried her fingers in the wild darkness of his hair, hungrily returning his kiss. Heat and fire and magic, his tongue teased hers with a primitive rhythm that made her shiver in his arms.
She knelt beside him in the heather, her arms wrapped about his neck, her cheek resting against his beard-roughened jaw, while he fumbled with her clothing. He had lost all patience for slow seduction, tugging, until riding jacket, dress, chemise, all drifted about her knees, leaving her naked to the raking of his eyes.
Yet she knew no urge to cover herself. All sense of shame, false modesty had been left far behind in that reasonable, prudent world she'd once inhabited. A world she could scarce remember.
The same breeze that had uncivilized him seemed to have wantoned her. Like any primitive maiden who had ever romped beneath the stone, she shook her cascade of hair back from her shoulders, proudly exposing the globes of her breasts. His eyes flared, and he unfastened the cordings of his black cloak, spreading it out to make a bed of midnight in the purple heather. Tearing at the buttons of his shirt, he stripped it from the hard contours of his chest, shucking his breeches, working off his boots.
He towered over her, sunlight playing over his powerful body, all golden-toned skin, taut muscle, and aroused male flesh. Like some pagan god bent on seducing a mortal maid, his long black hair tangling in the wind, the heat of his gaze skimmed over her with a strange, arousing power.
Madeline arched back with a sigh, her skin tingling in a dozen places. It could have been the warmth of the sun, the breeze stirring against her flesh. But she felt as though she were being stroked by long, supple fingers, sending the blood racing through her veins.
How was it possible, she wondered, for a man to make a woman feel so caressed with nothing more than the fire of his eyes? But as delicious as such imagining was, she longed for the reality of his touch.
When he dropped back to his knees beside her, she ran her fingertips over the broad slope of shoulders, the sinewy strength of his arms, skimming gently over the recent wound left by Roman's knife.
She sculpted her hands to the hard muscle that delineated his chest, tracing swirls in the dark mat of hair. He bore her explorations with a warrior's iron stoicism, but she could feel the way his heart jumped, his flesh quivered at each touch.
A purely feminine thrill shot through her at the realization that she could exert such power over this mighty indomitable male. Emboldened, her fingers drifted lower over the rigid plane of his stomach, toward the region of his body that still mystified her.
Twice she had felt the power of his thrusts inside of her, but never before had she dared to… Catching her breath, she closed her hand around him. Hot, pulsing, smooth velvet… fascinating.
With a low groan he seized her wrist to stop her.
"No, lady, not this time. I'll not be… driven to the brink before I work my magic upon you."
When he thrust her hand away from him, she emitted a cry of protest, but he suppressed it with his mouth slanting over hers in a fierce kiss. His hands whispered along the curve of her breasts, and she gasped at the shock of it, the heat of his palms a marked contrast to the cool air sifting over her skin.
His leather-toughened fingers splayed above her waist, holding her captive to the hunger of his mouth, the sweet torment of his thumbs abrading her nipples to a state of aching hardness. She quivered, a soft moan catching in her throat.
He tumbled her down onto the folds of the cloak, his powerful body poised above her, shielding her from the sun. He stared into her eyes, his own black with powerful emotion, desire shaded with deep regret.
"Ah, Madeline. You deserve so much more than my silence. If only I could tell you—I should have had the courage to do so long ago. I—I—"
"Shh," she said, soothing her fingertips over the troubled set of his mouth. "Whatever it is, it will keep."
"But I haven't even said how beautiful—How much I—What I feel for—" He broke off, swallowing thickly. "I have no words."
"Then, show me, my lord. Show me what is in your heart."
With a shuddering sigh he buried his face against her shoulder, searing her skin with the passion of his kiss. His hands moved over her, working their magic, no longer touching her as though he thought she would shatter. He suddenly seemed to know the secrets of her body better than she did herself, stroking, caressing, seeking out the warmth of her most intimate places.
Desire tightened deeper and hotter inside of her until it became an unbearable ache. She writhed beneath him, whimpering, her fingers scoring feverishly over the span of his back.
This… she was stunned to realize was what she'd longed for, waited for all those long nights alone in her bed. This was what she had traveled so far from London, home, and family to find.
Not some serene poet with dreamy gaze and golden words, but this rough plain man with his profound silences and deep strength, who came to her with calloused hands and a scarred heart, his eyes a well of hidden sorrows, his fierce mouth bearing an infinite capacity for tenderness.
He worshiped her with his lips, his touch, his gaze, and when he sought to part her thighs, she was more than ready for him. She opened herself to him eagerly, drawing him close into her embrace.
For one heart-stopping moment his eyes locked deep with hers, and she felt as though he could see into the very core of her soul, the aching center of her need. Then with one smooth thrust, he plunged himself inside of her. No pain, no disappointment, no despair this time, just a simple union of their bodies that was natural and right.
Caressing a kiss across her mouth, Anatole began moving, cupping her behind the knees, teaching her how to match his rhythm.
They rocked together as one, the tempo slowly building to something as ageless and primitive as the stone that loomed above them. His kisses becoming as fevered as his stroking, Anatole whispered her name, the single word a ragged prayer on his lips.
Like being caught up by a powerful tide, Madeline clung helplessly to his shoulders, allowing him to take her where he would, spiraling off into a world where all reason was left behind. Nothing remained but pure sensation.
The bright blue sky, the mammo
th stone, the purple heather, all vanished until Madeline was aware of nothing but the man who labored over her, his chest glistening with sweat, his body trembling as though he fought to hold some mighty force in check. His dark eyes bored into hers, waiting, demanding some mysterious response of her with each thrust of his body.
A response that coiled tighter and deeper inside of her past the point of endurance. Digging her nails into his back, she arched high against Anatole, crying out in wonder and surprise as something exploded inside of her. Waves of pleasure, incredibly sweet, so intense, she felt lifted, hurled to the sky.
Her body shook with the force of it, and as the passionate throbbing faded to a warm glow, she drifted back to earth, staring up at Anatole with dazed eyes.
A fleeting smile touched his lips, of the deepest satisfaction. As though he had been waiting for just that moment, he relinquished all control. With one final thrust a tremendous shudder racked through his own frame. Closing his eyes, he arched his head back with a hoarse cry.
A sound that echoed throughout the hills, like a warrior's fierce shout of triumph. Panting, he sank down on top of her, covering her with the warmth of his body, taking care not to crush her beneath his weight.
For a long time the hilltop was silent, broken only by the rustling of the heather, the haunting cry of a gull winging its way back toward the sea.
Shifting to his side, Anatole strained Madeline close to him, his skin warm and damp from their recent bout of passion. The sun had crept a little lower in the sky, the breeze blew a little brisker, but Madeline felt none of it, still bathed in some strange afterglow.
But Anatole insisted upon tugging the end of the cloak over her. She nestled beneath it, snuggling her face against his chest, listening to his heartbeat resume its ordinary beat. But nothing could ever be ordinary again, she thought, overwhelmed by the shattering release she had found in Anatole's arms.
She had sensed long ago that the man was possessed of hidden fires, the need to love someone buried beneath his indomitable facade. Waiting for only the right lady to arouse him to such burning tenderness.
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 29
