St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  Anatole… shouting her name. He'd come home at last. Madeline's pulse began to beat a little faster. Strange how swiftly things could change. Only yesterday morning, she would have dreaded encountering her formidable bridegroom. Now she felt both shy and eager at the prospect of seeing him.

  But she was not about to be summoned to him the way he called for one of his dogs. She forced herself to remain calm, waiting until Anatole appeared at the end of the path, his travel-stained riding cloak draped over his stalwart shoulders, his black hair flowing wild and loose about his face.

  He looked out of place in the garden, like some dark warlord who'd lost his way, wandering out of a far-distant time.

  Her dark warlord. Madeline's heart tripped over itself with an unexpected and fierce pride in him. Then she gave a horrified gasp as she recollected her own appearance, her hair still tucked up in the mobcap she'd worn while cleaning.

  Ducking behind a tree, she wrenched the thing off and ran desperate fingers through her disorderly tumble of curls.

  Anatole nearly missed her entirely.

  "Madeline!" His voice sounded sharper now, almost alarmed. He struck off on a path that led in the opposite direction.

  Madeline stuffed the lace-trimmed cap in the pocket of her gown. Still clutching her bouquet, she darted after Anatole, plucking the back of his cape.

  "Here I am," she said somewhat breathlessly.

  Anatole whipped around like she'd loosed a pistol shot off behind him, his face strangely pale. But the color ebbed back into his cheeks as his astonishment swiftly gave way to anger.

  "Hell's fire, madam! What'd you mean by hiding from me that way?"

  "I—I wasn't," Madeline stammered, taken aback by this grim reception. "I never meant to startle you."

  "You've done a fine job of it all the same. What the devil has been going on here in my absence? Why is my house overrun with wenches?" His glower caused Madeline to retreat a step, clutching her bouquet even tighter.

  "They—they are women. From the village."

  "I know that. What are they doing here?"

  "I engaged them to help with the cleaning."

  "And who gave you permission to do that?"

  "You did."

  When Anatole stared at her as though she'd lost her mind, Madeline added hastily, "When Mr. Fitzleger called upon me this morning, he said that you'd told him I could have a girl to—"

  "A girl. That means one," Anatole said. "I never intended to have the castle stuffed with women."

  "I don't call four or five maids stuffing," Madeline replied indignantly. "I only thought—"

  "I know what you thought! The same as every other woman from the beginning of time. That as soon as you are married to a man, you can charge into his house and start changing everything."

  "I thought it was supposed to be my home as well." She didn't add that she'd also thought his reaction to all this would be far different. When she'd first arrived, he'd believed her to be such a useless creature. She'd wanted to show him just how sensible, how efficient she could be as mistress of Castle Leger. She'd hoped that he might learn to be proud of the wife he'd chosen.

  But that was the thing that she seemed to be in danger of forgetting. Anatole hadn't chosen her.

  * * * * *

  "Fine," Madeline said, swallowing past the hard lump that rose in her throat. "I'll just return to the house and put all the cobwebs back where I found them."

  She spun away from him in a swirl of petticoats. The flowers drooping in her hand, she marched back through the garden, her steps hastened by wounded pride and hurt feelings.

  "Madeline. Wait!"

  Ignoring his command, she kept on going, but Anatole closed the distance between them in several strides. His hand shot out, closing over her arm. She had no choice but to turn back and face him, although she held herself rigid beneath his touch.

  His expression had softened a trifle, but his jaw worked in a grim struggle before he was able to get out the next few words.

  "I… I'm sorry."

  It was not the most eloquent apology Madeline had ever heard, but surely the most sincere. And the most hard-won. She gave a gruff nod to show her acceptance, relaxing a little of her stiffness.

  "It's just that you are constantly taking me by surprise," he continued. "From the very first. I—I am not accustomed to it. So many changes."

  "Neither am I."

  His hand slid down her arm to grasp her hand, and she finally detected some trace in his harsh features of the man who'd taken her to bed last night. The kindness. The gentleness.

  Her breath stilled as she imagined he might now offer her a warmer greeting. He wanted to. She thought she could see it in his eyes, those compelling eyes that seemed to lure her into his arms by the sheer power of his gaze. Madeline took a hesitant step forward, when the look vanished. Anatole's lashes swept down, and he released her, leaving her more confused than ever.

  "So what were you doing out here all alone?" he demanded.

  It took Madeline a moment to remember. She'd been so certain she was about to be kissed, she'd even readied her lips. Battling aside her chagrin and embarrassment, she said, "It was the garden. There is something almost magical about it."

  She eagerly held out the lush bouquet for his inspection, but Anatole regarded the flowers with as much enthusiasm as if they'd been a bundle of deadly nightshade.

  Feeling more foolish than ever, Madeline withdrew her offering. "I have never seen flowers bloom this way so early in the year."

  "You shouldn't have been doing that. It's dangerous."

  "Picking flowers?"

  "No," he said tersely. "Meandering about this garden. The path slopes downward, eventually ending at the cliffs. I don't want you wandering off alone again."

  "All right," she agreed with some reluctance. Although she appreciated his concern, she wanted to argue with him, tell him she was not a careless child or a china doll that needed to be stored safely on a shelf.

  But something about his expression kept her silent. He stalked a few paces away from her, leaning up against a tree, staring broodingly at the tangled path he claimed led to those dangerous cliffs, the drop-off to the sea. Madeline noted for the first time how weary he looked, deep lines of exhaustion carved into his face.

  She imagined he was one of those iron men, born to the back of a horse who could spend long hard hours in the saddle without it having such an effect on him. So what in the world could he have been doing that left him looking so worn down?

  When she ventured to ask him, the only reply she received was brief and dismissive. "It was about some estate business. Nothing of any great interest."

  Then why did he look so troubled that she longed to brush the hair back from his brow, caress his warrior's scar, and tell him everything would be all right? Except that she didn't have the least idea what everything was, and it was clear he had no intention of telling her.

  Sadness and frustration warred within her. Considering the intimacies she and Anatole had shared, she had thought things might be different. Her husband surely could not continue to remain such a stranger to her. Not after last night.

  But the set of his shoulders appeared as stiff and untouchable as ever, his expression closed against her. Whatever his grim thoughts were, he seemed to snap out of them himself. Straightening away from the tree, he said, "About those women from the village. You can keep them and do whatever you like to the house. As long as you leave my study alone."

  "As you wish, my lord," Madeline murmured, concealing her disappointment at the way he continued to shut her out. "Heaven knows, I have enough else to attend. There are still all the bedrooms, and after that the entire old wing of the house. I am sure the castle keep could use a good dusting and—"

  "No!" Anatole snapped with such vehemence Madeline gaped at him.

  "You are not to go anywhere near the old keep, do you understand?" he said fiercely.

  "But why? I have a great curiosity abo
ut historic places, and I was looking forward to—"

  "No! I absolutely forbid it."

  Madeline stiffened at his peremptory tone. She was doing her best to be patient and understanding, but Anatole had a way of making it very difficult.

  "Upon my word, sir," she said. "First, you told me to stay out of your library. Next it was the gardens, and now your castle. Am I your wife or your prisoner?"

  "I am not used to anyone questioning my commands, madam."

  "And I am not used to obeying unreasonable orders, sir."

  "Is it unreasonable to want to keep you safe? The castle keep is old, dark, and dirty, full of—of spiders."

  "I'd hardly be afraid of a few spiders. You make me feel as if you have some other reason. What are you hiding over there? Another wife?"

  She'd meant the remark as a jest, but the uneasy expression that sifted over Anatole's features was far from reassuring.

  "I'm hiding nothing," he said. "If you are so bent upon seeing the place, I'll take you there myself sometime."

  "When?"

  Her persistence caused his jaw to knot with vexation. "When… when we have been married a year and a day."

  "But that is like something out of an old nursery story."

  "Well, that's what you came here looking for, wasn't it?" He sneered. "A fairy tale?"

  His sarcasm bit at her like the lash of a whip, flinging that folly over the portrait back in her face, hurting worse because she thought they'd laid that issue to rest. Perhaps she hadn't learned so very much about men after all. Certainly not this one.

  Raising her eyes to Anatole's, she said with quiet reproof, "Perhaps I did come to you with some starry notions, my lord, but you are fast curing me of all of them."

  Then she gathered up her skirts, heading back to the house before the fiery ball of dignity lodged in her chest dissolved into something foolish like tears.

  This time Anatole made no effort to stop her. Though he wanted to. So badly that he ached with the need to gather her back into his arms, cover her face with a hail of kisses, carry her off to his bed, and lose himself in loving her. As a man should be able to do with his wife. None of these difficulties or shadows between them.

  But all he could do was watch her go, the bright sweep of her skirts and fiery tint of her hair vanishing into the house. In that one moment it was as though all the color and warmth drained from the garden, leaving only the cold gray sky and bitter wind blowing in from the sea.

  Anatole ground his fingertips against his eyes, feeling too wearied even to swear. He'd hurt her again, the last thing he'd desired or meant to do.

  God, when would he ever learn to stop roaring at the woman like some demented beast? Even after that fool Trigg had alarmed all hell out of Anatole, even after he'd stormed into the house and found the place crawling with women, he'd tried to keep his temper in check. He'd intended to seek Madeline out, discuss the situation with her in firm but reasonable tones.

  But then he couldn't find her in the garden, couldn't sense her whereabouts no matter how hard he strained his unique gift of perception. Panic had clawed at his heart, and he'd been able to see nothing but the path that led down to those accursed cliffs.

  Heaven help him. The woman was making him raw and vulnerable in a way he hadn't been for a very long time. When she'd finally appeared, his relief had been so great, he'd had to cloak it behind blind, unreasoning anger.

  And as if all that had not been bad enough, just when he'd mended his quarrel with her, she had to bring up what he'd been dreading all along. A wish to see the old part of the castle.

  In the alarm of the moment he'd been unable to think of anything to do but play the tyrant. Forbidding her to visit the keep until a year and a day had passed.

  * * * * *

  A year and a day? Anatole winced. Where had that idiotic notion come from? Madeline was right. It did sound like something from a damn fool fairy tale.

  But what else could he have said or done? Agreed to take her over to the old castle hall, let her make her curtsy to Prospero's ghost? Introduce her to the rest of his family legacy, equally as terrifying, including his own accursed talents.

  Perhaps it would be best to do it and have it done with. He'd ever been a forthright man, and this constant need for secrecy was beginning to wear him down. The mask he was forced to wear had begun to chafe.

  Maybe the time had come to tell Madeline the truth. What was the worst that could happen?

  The answer unfortunately seemed to be littered at his feet. The nosegay of flowers Madeline had picked now lay strewn across the path. Anatole wondered if she'd even noticed them falling from her hand as she'd fled from him.

  He bent down to retrieve a discarded azalea, annoyed by the way his hand trembled. He could picture too clearly how Madeline had looked when she'd first shown him the bouquet, her lips soft and smiling, her eyes shining with wonder as she'd talked to him about the magic to be found in flowers. He, who had never seen magic in anything.

  But he was starting to see it in her, and that terrified him. He turned the azalea in his hands, stroking one fingertip along the silky white petals.

  Roman's voice suddenly echoed in his head, Roman with his devil's gift for stirring up a man's most painful memories.

  Have you yet tried to offer her any flowers?

  Anatole compressed his lips, fighting against the images those words evoked. His ancestress Deidre had known how to distill an elixir from her blossoms, the kind of brew that could make a man forget. It was supposed to have been her parting gift to her lover as she lay dying.

  Anatole had never wanted anything to do with his family's spells, but he'd often wished he had the secret of this one… the power to forget. But the sight of the single flower he held was enough to make his blood run cold with memory.

  Anatole pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes against the remembrance. But the mind that was so skilled in stripping away the mysteries of the future was equally adept at baring the misery of the past…

  He was a child again, defying his father's stern orders, defying everything by creeping toward forbidden territory, the gilt-and-rose-draped sitting room that to him had seemed the abode of angels.

  The door had been left ajar and peering inside he saw her, his golden-haired mother like the queen of the angels, perched upon the carved armchair that was her throne. Bent over her embroidery, with her supple fingers she plied her needle with a grace and skill that fascinated him.

  Her blue eyes were clear. For once she had not been weeping. That fact emboldened him to squeeze a little farther inside the door and breathe, "Mama?"

  Cecily's head snapped up; her serenity fled. The revulsion that sprang to her eyes was as immediate as the shudder that coursed through her.

  "Stay away from me," she hissed.

  Timidly he stretched out his hand, showing her the clump of wildflowers, roots, and weeds clutched in his grubby hand. "Mama, I only want to—"

  "Stay away!" Her voice became more shrill. She leapt out of her chair, cowering behind it, her face turning almost savage in her fear.

  His shoulders sagged. He had not expected to be allowed to touch her, or have her touch him as he saw other boys' mothers do, tousling his hair or gathering him close for a hug. He'd learned to accept the fact that there was something very bad about him that made him unworthy of her love.

  He'd only wanted to show her that he was not evil. Not entirely. Glancing sadly at the bedraggled bunch of flowers, knowing he could not get any closer, he'd done the only thing he could. Concentrated harder than he ever had in his life and gently floated the bouquet across the room.

  A horrible cry had escaped Cecily, and in the wildness of her terror, she grabbed up the first thing to hand, a crystal vase.

  The memory of his mother's screams, the shattering glass cut through Anatole's head like a knife. Clenching his fist, he pressed it to his scar, until he was able to still the remembered pain.

  The windswe
pt garden came slowly back into focus. Something soft creased his palm, and as he slowly opened his fist, he realized what he had done. Crushed the delicate flower he'd held until nothing remained but broken petals drifting down to the hard-packed earth.

  And he'd actually believed that he was ready to tell Madeline the truth? Anatole shuddered. No, it was more important than ever to keep her from finding out his dreaded secrets.

  He needed more time to prepare her, to make certain she would not be afraid. More time to—to…

  To do what? mocked a voice inside him that sounded strangely like Roman's.

  To win her heart? '

  Aye, Anatole was stunned to realize. That was exactly what he was hoping for. He sagged back against the tree, a mirthless laugh escaping him at the irony. It wasn't Madeline who had fallen prey to fairy tales.

  He had.

  Chapter 11

  The door stood at the end of a narrow stone passage carved in the shape of an arch. Made of ancient oak, the portal seemed steeped in mystery and superstition, legends of Bride Finders, family curses, and stranger secrets Madeline was beginning to fear lurked just beyond the barrier.

  Lightning flashed through the rain-washed windows, illuminating the mural painted above the door, a dragon with vermilion wings outstretched, claws extended, rising up out of the lamp of knowledge. Like a fiery sentinel, the mythical beast appeared to glare down at Madeline with its golden eyes, threatening to scorch her if she dared venture too close.

  She jumped half out of her shoes when another crack of thunder sounded, almost as though in warning. Warning her to leave this shadowed hall and return to the main wing of the house before she did something she might regret.

  But it had taken her a full day to summon her courage and find the key that unlocked Anatole's forbidden castle. She cradled the cast-iron weight in her damp palm, knowing she should make haste. Her husband had ridden out again on another of his unexplained errands, leaving her alone for most of the day, but there was no telling when he might return.