St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  Then Marius turned back to his grim task, and Anatole tried to do as his cousin had requested. Tamp down his emotions, keep them locked up tight. He'd been better at it somehow before Madeline had swept into his life. Keeping all his fears, hurt, and sorrow buried deep. But his lady had taught him to feel again, perhaps too much.

  It became even more difficult to contain himself as Will realized what was going to happen.

  "No!" The boy shrieked, coming halfway up off the table.

  Trigg struggled to ease him back down, but Will fought against him, all Marius's efforts to soothe lost in the boy's sobs of despair.

  "No, n-not that. Oh, please, Gawd, just let me die."

  Trigg pinned Will's shoulders back down, but Will twisted his head toward Anatole, his eyes wild with terror.

  "Master… please, don't let them. I'm sorry. I'll never disobey you again. Pl-please. Help me!"

  Anatole closed his eyes, turning away, the boy's cries tearing through him. As Marius hastened to the door to summon another of the servants to help restrain Will, Anatole could bear it no longer.

  He came about and commanded fiercely, “Let him go!"

  Trigg glanced up from his struggle with Will, astonished, hesitating. Marius shot Anatole a reproving frown.

  "Keep the boy still, Trigghorne," he said. "My lord, I must insist that you—"

  "Damn it, I won't have the lad held down by rough hands," Anatole said. "Trigg, release him. Now?'

  Trigg's eyes roved between Anatole and Marius, but as ever it was his master he obeyed, removing his hands from Will, stepping back.

  His thin chest shuddering with relief, Will worked his way up onto his elbows, casting Anatole a look of tear-streaked gratitude. A look that knifed through Anatole like a fire-hot blade, for he knew he was about to shatter the boy's forlorn hope.

  He stared at Will intently, raising trembling fingers to his brow to help him concentrate, and he watched Will's face crumple, his eyes flooding with fresh terror as he realized what Anatole meant to do.

  "Ah, master. No, please—please don't."

  Steeling himself against Will's ragged pleas, Anatole focused his power into dark hands, gentle, but inexorable, pinning Will back to the table, holding him fast.

  The throbbing commenced behind Anatole's brow, Will's resistance giving way before him like the helpless flutterings of a moth.

  His vision blurred, and as from a great distance, he could hear Marius's voice, sharp with concern.

  "Anatole, you can't—"

  "Just get on with it, Marius," he rasped. "And quickly."

  With those words Anatole's awareness of everything else in the room narrowed and fled, until there was only Will, his own black power, and the pain pounding in his head, thrusting at the thin barrier of his temples.

  A pain that intensified as it mingled with the sound of Will's screams___

  * * * * *

  Night settled over Castle Leger in a soothing silence. The sky was like painted velvet, melting with stars, moonlight shimmering over the distant inlet, the sea a mysterious moving shadow.

  But Anatole saw nothing but the darkness as he stared out his study window, the memory of Will's terrible sobs continuing to haunt him long after he'd escaped from the stillroom. He could add that sound to the broken echoes of all the other voices of those he'd cursed with one of his predictions and failed to save.

  His head continued to throb from the exertion of his power on Will, a futile effort to spare the boy at least some pain, and his heart swelled with the urge to do as he'd always done after one of these grim episodes. To run from his heritage, to flee from this house, lose himself out there on the cliff side, in the dark and the wind, like some savage beast gone to ground with his wounds. Where he could roar out his frustration and despair, and no one would hear but the night birds and the waves crashing against the rocks below.

  But he was held back this time. By his pledge to Madeline that he would never run from her again. A promise he should never have given, any more than he should have made love to her on that hillside today, still concealing what he was.

  Cursed as he was, he was no longer certain he had the right to love her at all…

  He didn't know how he was ever going to tell her the truth. But he couldn't think about that now. Not with his head aching this way, exhaustion sinking into the very marrow of his bones. He leaned his arm against the casement and rested his head against it, wanting nothing more than to be left alone to recover himself.

  Dulled as his senses were, he could already detect someone coming to intrude upon his solitude. One of the servants? He was amazed any of them would be brave enough to venture near their dread lord tonight.

  Wearily Anatole raised his head, trying to concentrate. Something soft rustled through his exhausted mind, something warm and bright hovering on the jagged edges of his darkness.

  Madeline.

  He barely had time to straighten, assume some command of himself before the door inched open and Madeline peered inside.

  "Anatole?" she called. "May I come in?"

  "Yes." What else could he say? But he shrank deeper into the shadows by the window. He had avoided being alone with her ever since their return to Castle Leger, dreading what questions he might find lurking in her eyes, questions he was still too much of a coward to answer.

  She slipped into the room, candle shine spilling over the gold of her dressing gown, the shimmering softness of her hair. Light haloed the faerylike beauty of her winsome features, the mere sight of her causing his throat to constrict with suppressed longing.

  Maybe he didn't have the right to love her. But heaven help him, he did.

  She drifted closer, and he could see that she, too, looked exhausted. While he'd been laboring over Will, she had worked to comfort hysterical housemaids, soothe jangled nerves, bring back some sense of order to the unsettled household. And she had succeeded.

  Anatole could feel the house itself calming around her. But that is what his Madeline would always do, he thought with a rush of pride and tenderness, attempt to restore reason to the brink of hell itself.

  Hell… Castle Leger. On nights like this they were one and the same.

  She paused by the corner of the desk, brushing back a stray curl from her eyes. She even managed a wan smile as she said, "I believe everyone is finally settled for the night, and even Will seems to be resting easier."

  "Good," Anatole murmured.

  "However, Marius had to leave. He was summoned away to attend a crofter's sick child, but he left instructions. Mr. Trigghorne is to keep watch over Will, and if there is any sign of fever, Marius wishes to be sent for at once. He is a very kind man, your cousin."

  "Aye"

  "His last words to me were, ‘Take care of him, Madeline.' "

  "There was no need for Marius to tell you that. Surely he must have known you would do all you could for Will."

  "He wasn't talking about Will." Madeline lifted her eyes to Anatole's face, her gaze too direct and earnest. "He was talking about you, my lord."

  Anatole silently cursed Marius and his interfering concern. He turned back to the window, attempting to sound better than he felt.

  "There is nothing the matter with me, my dear."

  She rustled around the desk, positioning herself in between him and the night-darkened window. She stroked back his hair, drifting her fingers over his brow, the softness of her touch easing some of his pain.

  "You look completely exhausted."

  "I am."

  "Then, come to bed," she whispered.

  His heart went still. How long had he been waiting to hear those words, to have her look at him that way? He'd experienced a fierce triumph this afternoon, certain he roused her passions at last, but he hadn't been as sure about her heart until now.

  But her eyes were shining softly, as though… as though she loved him. And he wanted to clutch her to him in sheer desperation, do anything in his power to keep her looking at him that way al
ways.

  Even continue to lie and deceive her.

  Sighing, he put her hand away from him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I would be of little use to you in bed tonight."

  A faint blush stole into her cheeks. "I don't want you to be of use. I only want you to rest beside me", let me hold you."

  Her words sifted through him with sweet temptation. But he knew from bitter experience what he was going to be like tonight, restless, edgy, morose.

  "I fear I wouldn't be fit company for you, even for that." Depositing a chaste kiss upon her brow, he said, “Go on to bed without me."

  But she made no move to obey, regarding him with the most sorrowful expression in her eyes. "Please don't do this, my lord."

  "Do what?"

  "Break your promise. You swore you wouldn't run away from me again."

  "And I have not. You see me standing here before you, do you not?"

  "Aye." She touched her hand to his chest, resting her fingertips over the region of his heart. "But your heart and mind have drifted far away. To that dark and dreadful place where I can never find you."

  "Nonsense. Madeline, you are imagining things."

  "No, I am not. Please tell me what is wrong."

  "Nothing!" Guilt lent a hint of impatience to his voice. "Only the small matter that I helped Marius saw a boy's leg off today."

  "What happened to Will was horrible," she agreed sadly. "I know he was a great favorite of yours as he was with everyone. Such a sweet, gentle boy. But it was an accident, only an accident. Yet you are behaving as if somehow you are to blame. As if you failed him."

  "Perhaps I did."

  "No! You did everything you could for Will, rushed back here at once, had your own cousin attend him, even assisted with the surgery. I knew few lords in London who would have done as much for their own wives, let alone a mere footman."

  "But it wasn't enough! I should have been able to protect him."

  "You cannot protect the entire world, my lord."

  "No, but I should at least be able to save those that I—" Anatole dragged his hand over the line of his mouth, checking himself barely in time.

  But Madeline finished for him. "You mean those people whose eyes you've looked into and cursed with your dark powers?"

  Her words cracked through Anatole with the force of a pistol shot. He could feel his face draining of all color.

  "H-how did you…"he faltered. “Where did you—you—"

  "Hear such a thing? From Bess Kennack. She has been whispering some strange things to the other servants."

  "Such as?" Anatole asked, his veins icing with dread.

  "That you are responsible for the death of her mother and what happened to Will. That you are some sort of sorcerer, gifted with demonic powers like all St. Legers are. All the most arrant kind of nonsense."

  So Madeline had finally heard, but she still didn't believe. Anatole felt himself able to breathe again.

  "I think Bess should be dismissed," she said.

  "No," Anatole said. He couldn't do that, not simply because the girl had dared to speak the truth.

  "But, Anatole, she is having a very unsettling effect on the other housemaids. Of course, no sensible person could believe such a thing, but—"

  Madeline broke off suddenly, staring at him. Anatole had no idea what she saw in his face, what measure of shame or guilt, but something must have betrayed him, for her eyes flew wide.

  "My God! Anatole, you… you believe it yourself."

  He tried to turn away from her, but she caught his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her.

  "Oh, Anatole. My dearest heart. I can learn to accept your Bride Finder legend. But this kind of superstition… it's evil, wicked, and wrong. And I will prove it to you.

  "Look into my eyes," she coaxed. "Do you see any sort of terrible vision there?"

  And she smiled tenderly up at him with that same innocence he'd seen in Will's eyes, Marie Kennack's, his own mother's.

  "Oh, God!" he groaned, wrenching away from her, pure terror clawing through him at the mere possibility that one day he might look at Madeline and—

  "Don't ever do that again! Don't even tempt me to—" He spun away from her, burying his face in his hands. "Madeline… will you just go? I am not up to this tonight. I am much troubled, but I will sort things out by myself, as I always do."

  "But you don't have to." She clung to his arm, resting her head against his shoulder. "Anatole, please. How can you turn away from me? After all we shared together today… talk to me. Let me help you. Whatever this belief is that is tormenting you, we can reason it away."

  He ground his fingertips against his throbbing brow, feeling harried, hunted by her very gentleness, her compassion.

  "Some things cannot be reasoned. They simply must be endured."

  "But, Anatole—"

  "Damn it! Leave me alone," he roared, thrusting her away from him.

  She staggered back a pace, regarding him with wounded eyes. An awful silence ensued, then her lashes swept down.

  "Very well," she said, "if that is what you wish."

  As she slipped from the room, he should have experienced relief at her departure, but it was like feeling the light ebb away from him, leaving him trembling in the darkness.

  He cursed himself for a fool and a coward, but he clung to the thought that he had been right to make her leave. He was strained to the snapping point, not safe for her to be around tonight.

  But then, he thought bleakly, when had he ever been?

  He sank down in the chair behind his desk, her sad plea echoing through his mind.

  How can you turn away from me… after all we shared today.

  It was because of what they'd shared that he could not bring himself to tell her the truth. After enduring years of his own private hell, he'd finally touched heaven in her embrace. He couldn't risk losing that now, or her.

  Tomorrow… he told himself, massaging his aching temples. Tomorrow when his head wasn't hurting like the devil, when he wasn't feeling quite so raw, he'd go to her and take her in his arms, sweep her back to that hillside and make things right again. And maybe she would forget about what she'd heard. Maybe they both could.

  Tomorrow… But Anatole stiffened sharply, realizing that Madeline wasn't planning to wait that long. He could feel her coming back to him, each soft step filling him with dread. If she was returning to weep and plead, he didn't think he could endure it.

  But when she appeared again in the doorway, her eyes were clear and calm. Yet there was a terrible stillness about her, her face so pale and determined, Anatole felt a stab of apprehension.

  Especially when he saw what she clutched in her hands. The sheath containing the St. Leger sword.

  "Madeline, what the devil are you doing with that?"

  She marched across the room and laid the weapon on the desk before him, the hilt sparkling in the candlelight.

  "I am returning this to you, my lord."

  He gazed up at her, dumbfounded. "But it is yours. I gave it to you. According to the custom of my family."

  "Yes, I know. You were to pledge the sword to me, along with your love forever." She shook her head sadly. "You almost made me believe in your legend today, Anatole. That we do belong together. But you'd rather keep your heart shrouded in darkness than surrender it to me.

  "And without that, this is only a sword. It means nothing."

  Her eyes misted over, and she rushed from the room, leaving Anatole staring after her, stunned.

  He sat for a moment, fingering the hilt of the weapon, that hellish crystal glittering up at him. Sweet Jesus! No St. Leger bride had ever returned the sword to her husband before. Why didn't Madeline simply thrust the cursed blade through his heart and be done with it?

  Could she not understand? He wasn't holding back the truth to hurt her, only to protect her. That is all he'd ever wanted, to shield her, to save her from the terror that had killed his mother, aye, and to save himself from losing her.r />
  The cruelty of it was that he was losing her anyway, damning himself with his silence.

  He resisted a moment longer, but he knew full well what he had to do. Struggling to his feet, he strapped the St. Leger sword to his side.

  Madeline was almost to her bedchamber by the time he caught up to her. She tensed when she heard him call her name, but she came slowly around to face him.

  "Yes, my lord?"

  Her eyes were calm, but hauntingly sad, still softened with that affection for him he hadn't yet managed to extinguish. Anatole took one long last look so he would always remember…

  "All right. You win, milady," he said, his shoulders bowing in defeat. "I will tell you everything. All that you believe you want to know. The truth about myself and my entire cursed family.

  "And may God help us both."

  Chapter 18

  Fiery light licked at the bare stone walls, casting a hellish glow over the taut planes of Anatole's face. The torch gripped in one hand, he crushed Madeline's wrist in the other, dragging her toward the old wing of the castle. She strained to keep pace with his lengthy strides, trying not to trip up against the St. Leger sword strapped to his side.

  The heavy oak door loomed up before them, the painted sentinel above the arch maintaining guard over its forbidding secrets. In the flickering light the St. Leger dragon seemed to rise from its lamp of knowledge in a hiss of smoke. Knowledge Madeline was no longer sure she desired to possess.

  Anatole's expression alarmed her, dark, wild, and desperate, like a man poised on the brink of destruction. Perhaps in her own misery, she had goaded him too far with her questions, almost cruelly so after all he had already suffered on Will's account.

  He was afraid. Her fierce warrior, her dread lord was afraid, and that realization caused icy fingers to clutch at her own throat. What could possibly lie behind that door, what truth about the St. Legers could he be so terrified to share with her?

  The memory of Bess Kennack's words returned to haunt her, whispers of sorcery, curses, demonic powers. Madeline's mind rebelled at such ignorant notions, but her heart… It thudded with unreasoning fears, nameless dreads caught up in the atmosphere of night and shadow.