The thought was like acid to his soul and helped to stir his angry resolve. Why shouldn't he have her? Now. Tonight. Would she be any less afraid of him if he waited until tomorrow night? A thousand nights from now? Why not put an end to both their torments, the agony of her anticipation and his just plain agony?
The blood pumping darkly through his veins, Anatole started toward the door. He paused to glance back at the candles. A brief pain flashed behind his temple, and one taper lifted up and floated across the room.
It settled into his hand with a splash of hot wax on his thumb. Anatole stifled a curse at the clumsiness of his power. But perhaps his power was not to blame so much as the fact that his hand had begun to tremble in very human fashion.
Steadying it, he reached for the door to find it wouldn't open. But locked doors had never posed any problem for Anatole St. Leger. With a single moment of concentration, he slid back the bolt on the other side, and the door swung open.
The candle shine spilled into the room before him, and Anatole cupped his hand around the flame, not wanting to startle Madeline awake.
Assuming that she slept. Perhaps she knew no better rest this night than he did. It was impossible to tell, for the heavy brocade curtains were drawn around the four-poster bed, obscuring Madeline from his sight.
His pulse gave an erratic beat as he crept into the chamber, settling the candle into a brass holder upon the dressing table. He nearly barked his shins up against one of Madeline's trunks. They stood in a row, stacked against the wall, unopened and unpacked.
The only signs that a woman occupied this room were the petticoats and gown draped neatly over a ladder-back chair.
The thought of Madeline stripped of these garments made his mouth go dry. He fingered the silken fabric of one discarded stocking and felt like some kind of disgusting voyeur, an intruder here.
Which was absurd. This room was as much his as any other part of Castle Leger. As much his as the woman hidden behind that bed curtain.
Whipping about, Anatole stalked closer to the bed in the center of the room. It was so damnably silent in here. The kind of silence that reminded him of certain nights in his youth when his mother had barred herself in her bedchamber after another of her bouts of hysterical sobbing.
His father had paced the hall below, bowed down by the weight of his wife's misery, doing penance for sins he could not help. The sin of being born a St. Leger.
Anatole had watched these little dramas played out, a quiet specter in the doorway, forgotten by both of them. Sometimes Anatole wondered which parents rejection had cut him the most deeply.
He only knew that he would never allow himself to become the kind of man his father had been, a victim of love and of the dulcet tyranny of a woman's tears.
His hand tightened on Madeline's bed curtain. He stopped himself just short of wrenching it open. He didn't want to be dominated by his wife, but he hadn't come here to terrify her, either.
No, by his mother's grave, that was the last thing he wanted to do. Slowly he eased the heavy drapery aside, exposing the shadowed recesses of the mammoth four-poster bed. For a moment it hardly looked as though she was there. By god, that old jest about being able to lose such a woman amongst the sheets hadn't been far from the truth.
He had to shift the candle closer, before he could clearly make out Madeline's form, huddled in a ball in the center of the bed, the coverlets dragged up to her chin.
She hugged the pillow to her head with both arms, her fiery red hair tumbled half across her face. Her golden-tipped lashes rested against the curve of her cheeks. She didn't look like a woman who had sobbed herself to sleep, but she appeared pale and unhappy for all that, even in the depths of slumber.
As he studied the set of her chin, it occurred to Anatole that Madeline never would be the sort of woman to give way to hysterics. She was more the kind to let her heart break one tear at a time, all shed quietly into her pillow, where no one would ever see or know.
Swallowed up in that great big bed, she looked small and lost, with a childlike vulnerability. He felt a strange emotion stir deep inside him, far deeper than any of his physical burnings. It had been so long since he'd experienced such a thing, it took him awhile to recognize it for what it was.
Tenderness. The urge to draw her into his arms and hold her for a long time until she felt quite safe.
As though she sensed him hovering over her, Madeline stirred. Anatole retreated a pace as she shifted position, a tiny furrow marring her brow. She didn't appear to be enjoying the most comfortable repose.
As she squirmed again, the coverlet fell off her shoulder, and Anatole saw what the trouble was. She was still trussed up in her damned corset. He scowled. Whatever would possess a woman to lace herself into such a torture device in the first place, let alone wear the fool thing to bed—
But he broke off his mental tirade as an uncomfortable thought struck him. Madeline had likely worn the thing because she'd had no choice. There had been no one to help her out of it.
He had shown her scant sympathy earlier when she had reported to him the defection of her maid and her cousin. A woman had no need for a fancy French maid in the wilds of Cornwall, and as for the swooning Harriet… Anatole had been glad not to encounter her again, to be spared the embarrassment of tendering some awkward apology for that unfortunate kiss.
Yet Madeline had never seemed to ask for his sympathy. She'd been quite calm about the whole thing. Only now did he fully realize what it had meant to her, being abandoned in a household full of strange men.
Silently cursing his own stupidity, Anatole's first impulse was to wake her and strip her of those wretched stays. But even as he reached for her, he hesitated.
She looked so damned exhausted, so damned innocent. It seemed profane somehow to be thinking of touching her while she slept, unawares. He could imagine too clearly how she would start awake, the fear that would cloud her eyes when she found his calloused hands upon her, read the lustful purpose in his face.
A long frustrated sigh escaped him. He started to back away from the bed. He had waited this long. He could surely manage to suffer through one more night.
But he couldn't leave her this way, either. She flopped over on her back, her eyes never opening, but a small sound of discomfort breached her lips. It was a wonder the woman could even breathe. He glanced down helplessly for a moment at his own large, awkward hands.
Then, hesitantly, he focused his gaze upon the lacings of her stays. He had never tested out his powers upon anything quite so fine. The silken strings were already in a tangle from Madeline's own futile efforts to free herself. For a man of his impatience, it was all Anatole could do not to yank at the garment with the same force that had brought his clock flying off the wall.
Gulping deeply, he gentled his mind, his thoughts whispering over the lacings, undoing them slowly… so slowly beads of perspiration dotted his brow. His temples throbbed from such a long-sustained effort. By the time the last string tugged free, he felt almost weak.
He took a deep breath to gather up his reserves, before looking again to ease the garment away from her body. Madeline didn't awaken, but she issued a long grateful sigh. The corset trapped beneath her, she wore nothing now but a loose flowing shift.
His efforts had dislodged that as well, tumbling it off her shoulder, partly exposing her back. The damned corset had left cruel red marks upon her delicate white skin. Anatole caressed her with his eyes. Sighing again, Madeline rolled over onto her back, nestling sensuously against the pillow. One arm still buried beneath it, she slung out the other like a woman beckoning a lover to her bed.
Her linen shift was thin, low-cut, exposing the globes of her breasts, small, perfectly shaped, with rose-colored tips. A shudder racked through him. He felt his thoughts dangerously close to getting away from him.
Clenching his teeth, he shut down the power of his mind. But he couldn't shut down the desire as well. It flared to new life inside him, a dark, h
ungry thing, needing consummation, to mate with Madeline Breton as he had never mated with any woman before.
The desperate longing seemed to pulse from his flesh, throwing off heat as a roaring fire would do. It almost seemed that Madeline could feel it, too, even lost in slumber. She stretched her body languorously, moistening her lips. Anatole felt something inside him snap. Trembling, he bent over the bed, telling himself he could be gentle. He would be gentle.
Bending closer, he intended to kiss her softly awake, like the prince arousing the maiden from her hundred-year sleep. But as his shadow fell over her, Madeline shifted again, freeing the arm cradled behind the pillow. She had something clutched in her hand.
Anatole froze. The sight of the blue ribbon entwined about her fingers had more effect on his passion than a jugful of cold water. She still had that God-cursed miniature. Not only had she retrieved it, but she had fallen asleep cherishing the thing as though it were some sort of precious treasure.
Anatole stared at the portrait, a painful reminder of the folly of his youth when he had made himself nigh sick with longing to be that man painted upon the ivory, handsome and serene, his mind clear of all tormenting family legacy, of powers too dark and strange for any human being to understand.
Instead… Anatole straightened, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror hanging above the dresser. A shadowy figure, he looked more of a beast than a man as he hovered over Madeline with his shirt undone, his hair a black tangle, his eyes a dark glitter, marking him for the true son of St. Leger that he was.
An anguished cry escaped him. It didn't disturb Madeline, for he trapped it deep within his soul. He stared down at her, realizing he was as much a fool now as he had been at the age of fifteen when that portrait had been made. Imagining that he could make her desire him when she already had her prince, caught up in ivory, ribbons, and dreams.
Let her keep her dreams, Anatole thought bleakly. At least for one more night. He'd have to rob her of them soon enough.
Stealing one final longing glance at his fiery-haired bride, Anatole drew the coverlet back over her. Then he turned and crept from the room.
A moment later and the bolt clicked again, locking the door. It was that sound that finally awoke Madeline. Her eyelids fluttered, but she resisted, trying to cling to sleep, to the dream that was already slipping out of her grasp.
It was the most delicious dream she'd ever had, sensual, yet somehow poignant. Anatole had come into her bedchamber. Not the harsh man whose bold rough kiss had left her bruised and shaken, but her Anatole, the one from the portrait.
He'd been warm and tender, helping her to undress, undoing the lacings of her corset with such loving patience. His fingers had moved over her back, stroking, caressing. She'd reached out to him, and he'd smiled down at her, worshiping her with the magic of his beautiful dark eyes.
He had seemed to be trying to tell her something.
I only want to love you, Madeline. Let me. Show me the way.
Then he'd bent toward her, and she had sighed, waiting for a kiss that had never come. It was like reading a book and coming to the most wonderful part of the story, only to lose one's place. And try as hard as she might, Madeline could not seem to find it again.
She gave up at last, allowing her eyes to drift open, the last vestiges of sleep and her dreams vanishing. She awoke to the empty confines of an unfamiliar bedchamber, her lover reduced to nothing but paint strokes on the ivory she cupped in her hand.
A haunting sadness swept over her, a sense of loss so strong she could hardly account for it. She felt bereft, abandoned all over again. Tears trickled down her cheeks until she dashed them aside, telling herself not to be a fool.
There was no reason for her to lie here blubbering like a babe. She'd had a dream, not a nightmare.
No, the nightmare was reserved for her waking hours.
But she refused to allow herself to think self-pitying nonsense like that, either. Stuffing the miniature beneath her pillow, Madeline rolled over, determined to think no more of dreams or nightmares. To simply go back to sleep.
Closing her eyes, she snuggled deeper under the covers, shoving her corset farther out of the way.
Her corset? Madeline's eyes flew open wide. Sitting upright, her hands groped over her own body, feeling nothing but the thin shift and the softness of her breasts. Peeling back the coverlet, she found her stays beside her, the once snarled strings curling freely across the sheets.
She could scarce believe it was the same garment she had struggled for a full half hour to shed, if the corset was not so clearly illuminated by…
By the light someone had left burning on her dressing table.
Jolted fully awake, her heart thudded. She noticed the melting candle just in time to watch the flame gutter and go out.
For a long time she sat bolt upright in the darkness, barely breathing. Her gaze roved fearfully around the shadowy corners of her bedchamber before she could convince herself she was alone.
At least she was now.
Drawing the blankets clear up to the level of her eyes, Madeline sank back against her pillows.
But not to sleep.
Chapter 6
"… And if any of ye know of an impediment as to why these two should not lawfully be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
The Reverend Septimus Fitzleger's words echoed around the church, from the bell tower to the rood loft, fading to silence as his warning must have done hundreds of times before. But it was the first time Fitzleger ever feared an objection might be raised by either the bride or the groom.
The vicar's gaze flicked from Madeline to Anatole and then back again. The bridegroom remained stonily silent but Madeline's gloved fingers clutched her bridal bouquet tighter as she fought to keep from crying out.
Yes. There were a dozen reasons why she shouldn't marry Anatole St. Leger.
Because the man used books to prop up his furniture. Because he was dark-tempered, rough, and dangerous. Because he despised everything about her, and she would never know a moment's tenderness from him.
Because his castle by the sea was a place fraught with dust and desolation. Because the single night she'd spent beneath his roof had been one of little sleep and much terror, one she'd spent starting up at every sound, fearful that the phantom that had melted out of the woodwork and undressed her was going to come back again.
A dozen reasons for not becoming Madeline St. Leger? A hundred more likely, but none that would sound rational. Not with the sunshine spilling through the tracery of St. Gothian's arched windows like the clear white light of reason.
And Madeline reminded herself, she was, above all else, a reasonable woman.
Fitzleger dove back into his prayer book and rushed ahead with the services. Behind her, Madeline could hear the witnesses settling back on the front pew. There were only two: Beamus, the vicar's ruddy-cheeked housekeeper and old Darby, the church sexton.
Kindly people, no doubt, but completely unknown to Madeline. She longed for the support of Harriet's presence, despite her cousin's annoying tongue. She even found herself missing the rest of her noisy, heedless, and cheerful family: Papa, Mama, Jeremy, and the girls.
But perhaps it was appropriate that there were only strangers present at her wedding. Because she was marrying a stranger. Peeking from beneath the brim of her bonnet, Madeline risked a glance up at her formidable bridegroom.
At least he looked somewhat tamer this morning in his suit of velvet, a somber shade of midnight blue, the long coat falling past the knees of his breeches. The unrelenting darkness of his attire was only relieved by the white frills of his shirt, the lace that spilled over his cuffs.
The style was a little old-fashioned but very elegant, except for the leather belt that strapped his sword to his side. Madeline had been disconcerted by the presence of the weapon ever since she had watched him buckle it on before setting out for church. She'd asked no questions, but what sort of man cam
e armed to a wedding?
Only one like Anatole, whose features spoke more of an ancient warlord than a proper country gentleman. His ebony hair glossed back into a queue left his face mercilessly exposed, the brow with its slashing scar, the uncompromising nose, the mouth, hard and intimidating.
His was not a face one would ever call handsome. But she had to admit it was a compelling one, capable of forcing its way into a woman's dreams; although, he had not been in hers last night.
But had he been in her bedchamber?
Someone certainly had, defying the locks on her doors, to leave behind a lighted candle, undoing her corset strings. She didn't believe in ghosts, phantoms, or unquiet spirits. But what about unquiet bridegrooms? Was it possible that Anatole had gained access to her room and—no, that was equally ridiculous.
He'd shown so little consideration for her welfare, she could not imagine those rough hands of his gently undressing her without awakening her. If he'd had any interest at all in her last night, it would have been to kick in her bedroom door like the barbaric warrior he was and—
Madeline checked the disturbing thought. One should hardly imagine being ravished in church, the holy altar itself but a few feet away.
No, there was only one reasonable explanation for last night. She must have left the candle burning on the dresser herself and forgotten it. Her corset strings must have come loosened with her tossing and turning, and the garment had fallen off by itself. The only reasonable explanation. Then, why didn't it satisfy her?
A silence settled over the church so profound it penetrated even Madeline's preoccupied thoughts. She became aware that both Fitzleger and Anatole were staring at her. For one awful moment she feared she had voiced her speculations aloud. Her heart skipped a beat, then she realized Fitzleger had been speaking. He had obviously been addressing her, and awaited an answer.
Mama had often accused Madeline of being woolly-headed and letting her mind wander off in the midst of balls and suppers. But Madeline had never imagined she'd do such a thing at her own wedding. Her cheeks fired with mortification as Fitzleger repeated himself with infinite patience.
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