St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  His gaze swept back toward Madeline, her face tipped up in delight as she studied the carvings of cherubs set above the baptismal font. Sunlight streaming through the lancet windows bathed her winsome profile with a radiance that took his breath away, her green eyes so clear, so calm, so sane.

  Anatole expelled a deep sigh. Though he damned himself for his weakness, he knew he would not be offering his bride any proofs of his demon's heritage. At least not this day.

  His sigh, soft as it was, echoed around the church, capturing Madeline's attention. She glanced back at him with a tentative smile.

  "Does my lord grow impatient to be gone, or are we waiting for Mr. Fitzleger's return?"

  "No."

  "Then, perhaps we should go back to Castle Leger."

  He would have been happy enough to have escorted Madeline from here. The solemn peacefulness of St. Gothian's always oppressed him, making a mockery of his own restlessness. He would not have lingered at the church to wait upon Fitzleger or to allow Madeline to become acquainted with the bones of his ancestors or even to explain his own mad family history.

  He had another reason, and he was dreading it. He would as soon forget about what was expected of him, but he couldn't. Perhaps because he was exactly what Madeline thought him—a superstitious fool. But he had avoided his unpleasant task long enough.

  When Madeline started to skirt past him, he blocked her path. "Wait! There is one more thing we must do, a brief tradition that the heir to Castle Leger must honor when he marries."

  "Another family tradition?" Madeline faltered. She was beginning to look wary of St. Leger customs, which well she might. The wariness changed to downright alarm when Anatole eased back his cloak and drew forth Prospero's sword from its scabbard.

  The length of steel gleamed in the light, the crystal mounted upon the pommel flashing bright rainbows against the pews. Anatole deliberately avoided looking at the mesmerizing stone. That would be all he'd need on top of everything else, one of his damnable visions.

  "Is this ceremony absolutely necessary?" Madeline asked weakly.

  "Yes, I'm afraid it is." He held up the weapon for her closer inspection. "This is the sword of my ancestor, Lord Prospero St. Leger, who—"

  "Prospero? What an unusual name." For all her unease, Madeline tipped her head to one side like an inquisitive sparrow. As she studied the sword, her eyes lit with that curiosity Anatole was beginning to recognize as so much a part of her. "Do you mean like the Prospero in Shakespeare's Tempest?"

  No, he meant Prospero like in the devil from hell. But Anatole choked back the uncomplimentary description of his ancestor.

  "I don't know anything about Shakespeare," he said. "All I know is that the first lord of Castle Leger was called Prospero, and this was his sword—"

  "I didn't see any Prospero amongst the names on the floor," she interrupted again. "Did he not want to rest in peace beneath the church like all the others?"

  "The blasted rogue never wanted to rest in peace anywhere," Anatole muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, "He's not buried here because he died in a fire. His ashes were scattered over the sea."

  Before Madeline could ask any more awkward questions, Anatole rushed on, "Prospero's sword has always been handed down to the ladies of the St. Leger family."

  "The ladies?"

  "Aye, no one is quite certain when the custom began, but it has always been the duty of the St. Leger heir to surrender the sword to his wife, along with his pledge to—to engage in no duels with her kinsmen."

  "But you have no quarrel with my family?' Madeline said reasonably. "You don't even know them."

  "I am speaking figuratively, Madeline. Every St. Leger has made war against the world in one fashion or another."

  "And what is your war, my lord?"

  "Well, I—I don't have one," Anatole blustered. "That is not the point. There are three conditions imposed upon the man who inherits this sword. One, he must only use its power to fight a just cause. Two, he must never shed the blood of another St. Leger.

  "And third, he must surrender the sword to the woman he lov—" Anatole broke off gruffly. "I mean to his wife."

  "But if you give me the sword, how can you use it to fight a just cause or—"

  "Damnation, woman! If you keep questioning everything I say, we will never get finished with this business."

  Madeline flinched at his angry tone. Retreating a step, she subsided, regarding him with great reproachful eyes. Anatole smothered another oath and splayed his hand back through his hair, wreaking havoc on what remained of his queue.

  Curse it all! He had not meant to roar at her again. But he felt like enough of an idiot without Madeline pointing out to him how illogical this was.

  Seizing her by the hand, he dragged her back toward the altar, ignoring her faint protest. He realized his ferocity stemmed partly from the knowledge he was once again being less than honest with her.

  Hell! The ceremony was not about the surrender of swords, as much as it was of hearts, the promise that every St. Leger made to his bride, to be true to her not only in this life, but in the next.

  Clenching his jaw, Anatole positioned Madeline opposite him. As he dropped to one knee before her, he wondered grimly if he wasn't about to make a bigger fool of himself than he had last night, when he had hovered over her bed like some lovesick youth.

  One glance up at Madeline's face told him all he feared. She gaped at him, her eyes widening to their fullest extent. Anatole felt a red flush begin to creep up his neck.

  Ah, damn! Why couldn't he have had a family with normal marriage customs, like wedding feasts, bridesmaids, and ribbon favors?

  He didn't know how he was going to go through with this, pledge Madeline his devotion for all eternity when he did not even think he could make her a good husband in this lifetime. Not when she feared him so, tensed at his every touch. He'd be fortunate if he did not have to spend the rest of his days making love to her only with his mind.

  She was so cursed beautiful, gold-tipped lashes fringing green eyes that held all the warmth and sweetness of the kind of gentle springs that never touched his hard lands. Beneath her bonnet, she'd allowed her hair, ringlets of fire and silk, to cascade down freely after the old-fashioned wedding custom that showed she was still a maiden pure and true.

  All in all, a most perfect bride. For any other man in the world but him, Anatole thought bitterly. As he gazed up at her delicate porcelain features, the words that he knew he was supposed to say stuck in his throat.

  Instead he balanced the sword across his palms and all but thrust it up at her, growling, “Here! Take it!"

  Madeline only stared at him. Of all the strange things she had experienced since coming to Castle Leger—and the list was growing long—this was by far the most disconcerting.

  Her proud, arrogant, and powerful husband, surely the most unromantic and ungallant man she'd ever known, was kneeling at her feet like some bashful swain. She had to stifle an urge to break into nervous laughter.

  His much abused queue had finally come undone, his hair swirling black and wild about the granite-chiseled planes of his face. With his warrior's scar, his cape pooling off his broad shoulders, he could well have been some medieval knight paying homage to his lady. If it had not been for his ferocious scowl.

  "Here!" he repeated tersely. "Take the God-cursed sword, Madeline."

  She had no choice but to obey. Holding out her hands, she gingerly accepted the heavy blade, blue steel glinting against the white cushion of her gloves. She found herself fascinated in spite of herself. She had never realized a sword could be so elegant, its beauty almost mystical with the wrought gold hilt and sparkling crystal.

  As soon as the sword was safely in her hands, Anatole leapt to his feet.

  "Is this all?" Madeline breathed. "Is the ceremony over?"

  "Yes," he snapped. "I—I mean no." He ducked his head, his cheeks stained a dull red. "I'm supposed to say something like, 'Lady, I surr
ender to you my sword and my—my…"

  The rest of his words were lost, muttered between his clenched teeth.

  "Your sword and your what?" she asked timidly.

  He muttered again, and still she could not hear him. When she cocked her head inquiringly, he shot her a baleful glare.

  "Damn it, I said, I surrender my sword, my heart, and my soul for all eternity!"

  Beautiful words. Or they would have been if they had not been bellowed at the top of Anatole's lungs. If he had really meant them.

  Madeline fingered the sword in dismay. "But—but what am I to do with it?"

  "The sword or my soul?"

  "Either." The weight of both threatened to lie heavy upon her hands.

  "Just accept the blasted thing."

  Madeline shifted the sword awkwardly in her hands. Grasping it by the hilt, she rested the tip against the stone floor.

  "Thank you," she murmured. "It's very nice, but—"

  "But what?"

  Madeline fretted her lower lip, wishing that just once she could suppress the practical side of her nature. "I was thinking that it would be helpful if the sword-giving custom also included a scabbard to keep it in."

  Fearing she might have offended Anatole, she hardly dared look at him. But after a moment of stunned silence, he flung back his head and laughed. Not with his usual sardonic mirth, but a hearty male laugh that lit his eyes and carved deep, generous lines about his mouth.

  "By my faith, you are quite right, lady." He proceeded to unbuckle his scabbard and then cinched it about her waist. Taking the sword from her, he eased it inside the leather casing himself.

  She suddenly realized how close Anatole stood, his hand lingering at her waist. She could feel the heat and vitality of the man pulsing through those long, bronzed fingers, even through the layers of her gown.

  "Better?" he asked, still smiling.

  "Y-yes," she stammered, although she was not entirely sure it was. Not with her pulse skipping out a rhythm so different from its usual calm beat.

  The rigid planes of his face relaxed into a softness she would not have imagined him capable of. The darkness of his eyes mellowed to a rich golden brown, and the timbre of his voice became almost gentle as he said, "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" she asked in astonishment.

  "For inflicting upon you all this St. Leger insanity, all of my family's strange beliefs and customs."

  "I daresay I'll grow used to them in time."

  "Will you? I hope so, lady. I know we have made a most awkward beginning, but truly I do not desire to make you unhappy—" He swallowed deeply. "Or afraid."

  Too late, Madeline thought. Not be afraid? After tales of family curses, sword ceremonies, and hearts buried beneath the church floor?

  And yet despite everything, she felt an urge to reassure Anatole. She had never seen him look so vulnerable, a haunting sadness in his eyes.

  She brushed the ebony strands back from his face, her fingers grazing his cheek. "I am a most sensible woman, my lord, not easily frightened."

  The muscle in his jaw jumped at her touch. He looked a little confused, as though he knew no more what to do with her gentleness than she did his sword.

  "You do not always seem this brave," he said.

  "Indeed, sir, after what I have been through, I think I must have the heart of a lion. Most women abandoned at that castle of yours would have succumbed to strong hysterics."

  "I'm not talking about your fear of Castle Leger. I'm talking about your fear of me."

  Madeline found that harder to deny. She lowered her head, but he crooked his fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look up, the feel of his hand warm and disturbing against her skin.

  "You do fear me, don't you, Madeline? Yesterday when I wanted to kiss you, you fled across my study as though the devil were after you."

  "You alarmed me. You were too ferocious. That is not the way you should have kissed me."

  "One kiss, and you've become an expert on the subject?"

  "I may never have been kissed before. But I always dreamed." Madeline smiled sadly as she recalled just how much she had dreamed. "I always knew just how it should be."

  "Then, show me."

  "What?"

  "Show me how you want to be kissed."

  He could not possibly be serious. But one glance at the determined look on his face told her he was. Madeline's gaze flew to his mouth. The mere thought of pressing her lips to his was enough to make her heart miss a beat. She eased his hand away from her face, flushing.

  "Oh, n-no. I couldn't possibly," she said, backing away.

  "Why not?" he demanded, stalking after her.

  "Because I—I—" She stumbled, the weapon tangling in her skirts and tripping her. She was so short and the blasted sword was so long. Regaining her footing, she retreated until she bumped up against the edge of the front pew. Anatole loomed before her, his broad shoulders blocking her view of all else.

  "Because," Madeline blurted out the first foolish thought that popped into her head. "You're too tall. You are out of my reach."

  "I can bend." Bracing his arms, he trapped her against the side of the pew and leaned closer. All trace of mellowness had vanished from his face. His eyes darkened with that inner fire that never failed to both intrigue and frighten her.

  "Show me, Madeline. Show me how you want to be kissed."

  He was fierce. He was harsh. He was demanding. Yet how could she ever expect him to be otherwise if she could not find the courage to teach him? He was offering her the perfect opportunity. Her gaze dropped to the full sensual curve of his mouth, and she swallowed hard.

  "I can't do it with you staring at me," she whispered.

  After a brief hesitation Anatole closed his eyes and waited. Silence stretched out for what seemed an eternity before Madeline summoned up the nerve to rest one hand on his sleeve.

  Beneath the velvet's soft deception, she could feel the strength of his arm, tense and steely with the same latent power as the sword strapped to her side. Her heart hammered uncontrollably. She rose up on tiptoe, intending to do no more than brush her lips against his. But suddenly she felt as though some unseen force shoved against her, like a powerful wind or the thrust of a mighty wave.

  Tipped off balance, she collided against Anatole's chest, her lips melding with his in a kiss of unexpected sweetness, a kiss whose heat shivered through her, leaving her all warm and trembling. Rousing in her an impulse to twine her fingers in his dark masses of hair, to press herself closer to the hard, unyielding contours of his body, to explore the mysteries of his all too yielding mouth with greater urgency—

  Shocked at herself, Madeline wrenched free, rocking back on her heels.

  "Th-there," she panted, though she was no longer sure of what she had just proved, of exactly who had been giving the lessons in kissing here. "That is how a kiss should be. More gentle."

  Anatole's eyes fluttered open with a sultry languor that did little to douse the strange fire that seemed to have flickered to life deep in her belly. His chest rose and fell in a quick, even rhythm.

  "Lady, you could kill a man with such gentleness," he murmured.

  She didn't know what he meant by such a complaint. Only one thing seemed clear.

  "Then, you don't like the way I kiss, either?"

  "I never said that."

  His eyes never leaving hers, he took her hand and slowly upended it. Nudging her glove aside, he pressed his mouth to the delicate vein that pulsed in her wrist, searing her with his heat. A tremor coursed through her, and she was dismayed to realize that even when he attempted to be gentle, Anatole was capable of melting her very bones.

  "Perhaps tonight we will find some manner of compromise. Between your kisses and mine."

  "Perhaps," she whispered. Mesmerized by the low rasp of his voice, by the darkness of his eyes, she would have agreed to anything he said at that moment.

  It was only when he released her and levered himself reluctantly away
, only when she was able to breathe again, did the full import of his words strike her.

  Tonight we will find some manner of compromise.

  Madeline's heart dipped down to her toes.

  Tonight…

  Their wedding night.

  * * * * *

  His tricorne tucked firmly beneath his arm, the Reverend Septimus Fitzleger emerged from the sacristry door into the churchyard just in time to observe the distant figures of Madeline and Anatole heading down the lane. With his long strides Anatole reached the waiting carriage before it occurred to him that his bride was not keeping pace. He turned back impatiently to scoop her off her feet and thrust her up onto the seat of the curricle with all the finesse of a man hauling sacks of grain. Then jumping up beside her, he nodded to his groom to stand aside before whipping up the team of horses. The servant barely had time to leap to his post on the back of the vehicle before Anatole set it thundering down the lane. Madeline clutched her bonnet for dear life with one hand, the side of the curricle with the other.

  Perhaps not the most gallant or romantic start to a marriage, Fitzleger thought with a sigh, but at least Master Anatole had not driven off and forgotten his bride entirely. As he watched the carriage vanish in a cloud of dust through the sleepy, sun-drenched village, Fitzleger fought the urge to sink down upon the church step's in a fit of weariness and relief.

  Never had he performed any wedding service as fast as he had this one, fearing that at any moment, either the bride or groom would change their mind and bolt for the door. There had been that one heart-stopping second, when he had been certain Madeline was about to—

  But never mind. She hadn't and he hadn't. And the Lord bless them, they were now as officially wed as two people could be. Septimus's part in the affair was done, and a good thing, for he felt purely exhausted. At the age of seventy-two, he feared he was getting too old for this bride-finding business.

  But then, Anatole St. Leger's match had proved more difficult than most, and Septimus should have expected as much. Anatole had always had a wilder kick to his gallop, even for a St. Leger. He'd been forced to walk his own path at too tender an age, alone, untamed, and… unloved.