But she had never fully believed, had given up all hope that she would prove to be the one. Her eyes filled with tears of joy, gratitude, relief, but she blinked them away, fearing Anatole would only be disturbed by them. A rare expression of peace had stolen over his rugged features, stripping years away. He was looking mighty pleased with the world at the moment, with himself and her.
He glanced down at her upturned face and intoned a single word. "Well?"
She knew what he was asking her, but blast the man, she noted with amused tenderness. There was not a hint of anxiety in his voice, only a smug certainty.
"It was… tolerable."
Certainty vanished in an instant, a pained chagrin stealing into his eyes. Her heart melted with regret immediately, and she could not bear to tease him any further.
Rolling on top of him, she laid her arms upon his chest and braced her chin on her hands.
"You know full well all that you just did to me, sir," she murmured. "And now I know something, too."
"What is that, milady?"
"I understand why your grandmama wouldn't let her husband out of bed for three days."
Anatole's smile slowly returned, his teeth flashing in a grin of masculine triumph and pure St. Leger arrogance. And Madeline found it wholly adorable.
"I'm thinking of keeping you here naked on this hill for a whole week," she said. '
A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. "I have no objections, madam. But what about my horse?"
"We'll just turn him loose, and he can wander off and… and find his chosen mare."
"He is a gelding."
"Oh," Madeline mourned. "Poor horse."
Anatole laughed outright. His eyes smiling into hers, he framed her face, dusting a light kiss on the tip of her nose, and she realized exactly how much had changed between them.
They were no longer two desperately lonely people brought together by the offices of a saintly old man. They had become lovers in truth, sharing intimate murmurs, playful caresses, teasing jests all their own.
Anatole nibbled at her earlobe, nuzzling the sensitive hollow just beneath, and Madeline blissfully closed her eyes. Indeed, she did understand why all those other St. Leger women had been reluctant to release their men, if they had been anything at all like Anatole.
It wasn't just for those few moments of glorious passion, but all that came after. The laughter, the gentler touching, the tender kisses, being held safe and fast in a strong pair of arms. The thrilling consciousness of having tamed something wild and dark to one's side, the attentions of such a fierce magnificent man, hers and hers alone for the moment, the rest of the world so far away.
A world that threatened to intrude all too soon. Even as Anatole's mouth was a breath away from hers, he froze suddenly. Twisting his head to one side, he tensed, listening.
She had seen that strange alert expression on his face before, and it sent a ripple of unease through her. She tried to ignore it, determined that nothing should happen to ruin this magic afternoon.
Cupping his cheek, she sought to turn his face back to her, but he eased her off of him. Whipping to a sitting position, every muscle in his body went taut, his eyes intent, focusing on what, she had no idea.
"Damn," he swore at last, casting her a rueful smile. "If you're going to keep me naked, we'll have to do it back in the privacy of my bedchamber. Someone is coming."
Madeline strained with all her might, but she could detect nothing beyond the play of the wind through the grass, the distant whickering of Anatole's horse.
"I don't hear anything," she complained.
But Anatole was already scrambling to his feet, shrugging back into his breeches. "You'll have to trust me on this one, sweetheart. Quimby is at this moment riding toward us like the very devil. And while he may seem a rough old codger, he has the soul of a Puritan. I can't afford to scandalize the best head groom I've ever had."
Tossing her clothes down to her, he laughingly urged her to make haste. Although bewildered, she moved to comply, but she was still shifting the bodice of her riding dress up over her arms when she heard it for herself. The far-off thudding of hooves.
A rider appeared on the horizon, sweeping over the ridge of the next hill. Anatole wrenched her dress up the rest of the way himself.
But her attention was focused on the horseman, now swiftly closing upon them. Madeline squinted hard until she was able to make out the sun glinting off a balding pate.
Her jaw dropped open. "It is Quimby." She twisted around, turning astounded eyes upon Anatole. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Uh, well, that's—that's something I've been meaning to explain to you. And I will… back at the house."
Avoiding her gaze, he bent to retrieve his cloak, shaking off loose bits of grass and heather. Stalking down the hill, he waved his hand in greeting to the groom approaching at such a thundering speed.
"Quimby!" he shouted. "What the devil do you mean, riding one of my hunters as though a pack of Mortmains were—"
His words died away as Quimby reined the chestnut mare to such an abrupt halt, the horse all but reared back on its haunches. Even from the distance where she stood, Madeline could tell something was terribly wrong.
The elderly groom was breathing as hard as the horse. His voice carried up to Madeline in snatches. "My lord… Looking everywhere for you. We've sent for Dr. Marius. Something terrible… accident back at the house. 'Tis Will… Young Will Sparkins."
Anatole seemed to turn to stone. But he asked no questions, merely gave a stiff nod of dismissal. Quimby wheeled the mare about and galloped off as wildly as he had come. Pivoting on his heel, Anatole turned and headed for his own horse.
Madeline watched in dismay. He had forgotten all about her. Confused, a little frightened, she darted after him, panting to overtake his longer strides.
"Anatole," she called, shrugging hastily into her jacket.
He didn't even turn around. She didn't manage to catch up with him until he stopped to reach for the gelding's reins.
"Anatole," she cried. "What is it? What's happened? What about Will?"
He paused long enough to afford her a glimpse of his face. Her breath caught in her throat. Never had she seen so much despair reflected in a single pair of eyes.
"You… you didn't even ask Quimby what was wrong," she faltered.
"I already know," he said hoarsely.
Vaulting up in the saddle, he bent down and hauled her up after him.
Bringing the gelding around, Anatole clicked his tongue, urging the beast into a full gallop, allowing Madeline no more chance for questions.
She could do nothing but wrap her arms around his neck and hang on, shivering. Although the sun still glowed across the hillside, in a heartbeat, everything had changed, the warmth between her and Anatole quite fled.
Somehow the shadows had returned.
Chapter 17
Most of the servants had gathered in the main hall, the footman Tim attempting to console Nancy, the kitchen lass, who was sobbing into her apron, while the burly cook whispered to old Rowley, the games keeper. Rough-visaged grooms from the stables rubbed shoulders with pretty housemaids, all of them exchanging low murmurs.
"Ah! So 'is lordship's dark power has been at work again, 'as it?"
"Aye, 'twas another of his terrible visions."
"But he warned the lad, now, didn't he? 'Stay away from the ax,' he said."
"Small good it would have done poor Will even if he had listened. Have ye ever known one of the master's predictions not to come true?"
But all whispering ceased as the master of Castle Leger himself stormed into the hall, stripping off his cloak and casting it aside, his bride trailing anxiously after him.
Anatole drew up short at the sight of his assembled household and cast a fierce glance around him. No one moved a muscle, but he could feel them shrinking away from him, all these good honest people Madeline insisted adored him so.
It wasn't love but f
ear that he saw reflected in their faces, none of them daring to meet his eyes, shuffling their boots, fidgeting with their apron strings, staring anywhere but at him. No, heaven forbid, for who knew when or where the master's dreaded power might strike next?
"Get out," Anatole snapped, "and be about your business. You can do Will no good hanging about here."
They hastened to obey him, only Bess Kennack bold enough to shoot him a hate-filled glance. One by one, they melted away until Anatole found himself standing alone as had happened so often before when one of his visions became stark reality.
Except he wasn't alone this time. His fingers clamped down around Madeline's hand. He suddenly realized he was clutching on to her like she was his last link to sanity.
Despite her own anxiety and bewilderment at the servants' behavior, she remained at his side, her calm stealing over him like a caress.
Aye, a tormenting voice in his head whispered, but would she continue to stand by him if she knew the truth? Or would she shrink away from him as the others had done?
And if she ever did that now, after the way they had loved beneath the standing stone, would he be able to bear it? Or would it be like a tearing away of his soul, leaving him dying inside?
He touched the curve of her cheek, and she smiled up at him, comfort shimmering in her warm, spring green eyes. He longed to lose himself in that comfort, sweep them both away from here, back to their hillside. But the afternoon he'd spent in her arms already seemed far away, heather and sunlight, loving and laughter, nothing more than a dream. He was a man who had been cruelly awakened back to his nightmare.
A nightmare he could not, would not share with her.
He released his hold on her hand. "You'd best go look after your maids," he said. "Nancy appears to be on the verge of hysteria. I will see to Will."
"But, Anatole, I would far rather come with you."
"No! My cousin Marius has been summoned. The lad will not have need of you."
"I wasn't thinking of Will, my lord. I was thinking that perhaps…" She raised wistful eyes to his face. "You might need me."
Need her? Oh, God! He needed her so badly he felt his chest constrict with the force of it. But his desire to shield her was stronger, protect her from the grim scene he knew lay ahead, the blood, the pain, Will's horrible screams. And most of all, protect her from the dark side of himself.
Turning his back on her, he forced himself to say harshly, "Just do as I tell you, madam."
He could feel her hurt as he stalked away, carried it like a heavy weight in his heart, adding it to the burden of guilt he already felt.
He followed the narrow passage that led toward the servant's wing of the house, and the door to the stillroom loomed up before Anatole. The chamber off the kitchens had been used to treat injury and illness since the days when the Lady Deidre had first brewed her mystic herbs. He could sense Will's presence behind that door, the boy's pain ebbing toward him like a crimson tide.
He had ridden like the damned to hurl himself back here, but now his step faltered. This was a journey he had taken too many times before, a desperate trek to prevent the unpreventable.
Flailing out into the cold sea in a vain effort to save those shipwrecked sailors he had known must drown. Galloping like a madman to the Kennack cottage, only to watch poor Marie's eyes close after her dying glimpse of her newborn babe. Tearing down the garden path at midnight, his heart burning in his chest as he'd tried to stop his own mother from—
And now there was Will.
God help him. He didn't know if he had the strength to go through this again. But it was not as if he had a choice. St. Legers looked after their own. It was perhaps the only lesson he'd ever absorbed from his gentle tutor Fitzleger. But there was one thing the old man had forgotten to mention, Anatole thought bitterly. How often he was going to fail.
Steeling his jaw, he reached for the knob and shoved the door open. Candles had been lit to hold back the gloom of twilight, their glow spilling over the grim scene; Will lay sprawled on an oak table, pillows propping up his head, shudders racking his slender frame. The fabric of his breeches had been cut away to reveal a gaping wound below the left knee, a mass of shattered bone and exposed sinew. Anatole froze on the threshold, although the sight was no different from what he'd expected. But that didn't make it any easier. It never did.
While Lucius Trigghorne hovered like a sentinel mounting guard, Marius St. Leger labored over the boy, the young doctor's gaunt features stamped with a strange dark beauty, like an angel of mercy or of death. Gentle, patient, reassuring, his sensitive mouth was pulled down with the look of one who'd felt more of the sufferings of his fellowmen than any mortal should be expected to bear.
Marius murmured soothing words as he tightened the heavy circular clamp fastened to Will's thigh. A terrible cry breached the boy's lips, and Trigg had to dive to restrain him.
Will tossed and moaned beneath the grizzled old man's hands, limp straws of hair tumbling over his pain-glazed eyes.
Eyes that had been so clear and trusting the night Anatole had first looked into them and pronounced this dreadful curse. And then… he'd simply forgotten the boy.
Aye, Anatole thought hollowly, he'd been consumed these past days and nights with his pursuit of Madeline, his every waking moment directed toward her.
But he should have spared one thought for Will. He should have done more to save him besides issue futile commands. He should have placed a constant guard on the lad, should have had every ax removed from the estate, should have maintained a more careful watch himself.
He should have… should have… The words pounded through Anatole's head like a hellish litany, all too familiar and futile. He sagged one shoulder against the door frame.
It was Marius who first noticed his arrival. Directing Trigg to keep sponging the wound, the doctor wiped his hands on his apron. He joined Anatole by the doorway, keeping his voice low, out of Will's earshot.
"Well, cousin, your young footman has done a proper job on himself, but he's not going to die."
"I know," Anatole said hoarsely.
"But his wound is far too deep. I have not the art to knit back flesh and sinew when it has been severed to such an extent. His leg… he will have to lose—"
"I know, damn you!"
Marius regarded him intently, his eyes flaring with a sudden understanding.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize…"
Anatole's jaw tightened, finding Marius's compassion unbearable. "If you want to feel sorry for anyone, save it for the boy."
Brushing past his cousin, Anatole forced himself toward Will. The boy's head lolled toward him, the swaggering youth of these past days since Madeline's arrival quite vanished. He'd shrunk back into a frightened boy, his strained face already bearing the markings of the bitter, crippled man he was to become.
At the sight of Anatole Will's eyes widened with fear. "Oh, master," he choked out. "I'm's-sorry. I didn't mean it. I didn't want to disobey you. B-but I forgot your warning about the ax."
"It's all right, Will," Anatole said, the boy's broken apology making him feel as though an ax blade was being driven through his own chest.
"He was showing off for the lasses, Nancy and that Kennack girl," Trigg growled, concealing his own fierce emotions behind a heavy scowl.
"I—I was only trying to pr-prove how strong I was and—and the ax was too heavy, and it—it slipped. I'm sorry, master. So v-very, very—"
"Damn it! It's all right," Anatole said more harshly than he intended. He'd far rather Will had cursed him, spit in his face the way Bess Kennack had done when her mother had died.
Large tears tracked down Will's cheeks, and Anatole brushed back the boy's hair in a gruff, awkward gesture.
"I'm not angry with you, lad," he said in gentler tones.
"But—but I ruined my fine new livery. What shall I tell the m-mistress?"
"She'll understand, and she'll buy you another. Now, you just lie still
, and everything will be…"
Fine. The lie stuck in Anatole's throat as he became aware of Marius busy out of Will's line of sight, reaching into his portable wooden medicine box, readying his instruments. The candlelight gleamed cold on the sharp teeth of the saw, the curved amputation knife, the needles.
Anatole's gut clenched. He seized his cousin by the arm, dragging him to the far corner of the room.
"For the love of God, Marius," he whispered in sheer desperation. "Are you certain this is the only recourse? Curse it all, man. You've studied in Edinburgh, read through all of Deidre's secret journals. You've defied all customs, learning to be both doctor and surgeon. No man living knows more of medicine than you. You must be able to… to…"
His words faltered and trailed away as Marius sadly shook his head.
"I am sorry, Anatole. But my capacity to feel someone else's pain too often exceeds my ability to cure it."
The answer was no different from what Anatole had expected, but he had experienced a flare of hope all the same. A hope that flickered and died away to nothing.
God, he was a fool! Releasing Marius's arm, he dragged his hand wearily down the line of his jaw.
"You'd best get about it, then," he said.
"Aye, but I think you should go. There is no need for you to stay here and—and—"
"And go through all this again?" Anatole gave a low bitter laugh. "It seems to be part of my peculiar St. Leger destiny, cousin. To experience every disaster in my life twice over."
"Then, I must beg you to gain some command over yourself. I am not certain I can feel both his pain and yours, and still do what must be done."
Marius's quiet words, the flash of agony in his eyes filled Anatole with a sense of shame. He tended to forget that he was not the only St. Leger who suffered from the dark side of their heritage.
But for Marius, there would never be any of the light. Not in this lifetime. Anatole at least had Madeline.
He had never been any good at offering comfort, any better than he was at receiving it. But he gave Marius's shoulder a bracing squeeze. For a moment their eyes locked in a communion of shared pain.
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 30
