"You mean you never believed any lady would have me."
"You are a rather alarming prospect as a husband, cuz. But then, there is supposed to be a chosen bride out there for every St. Leger. I presume you sent the Bride Finder out to fetch her?"
"Yes," Anatole said, anticipating Roman's sneer.
His cousin's upper lip did indeed curl. "Somehow I thought you'd be more intelligent than that. Like me, full of too much good sense to be taken in by the family's hoary old legends. But you actually did trust that half-witted, half-blind old man to find you a wife."
"Fitzleger's wits are still as keen as yours. And he sees well enough. When he wears his spectacles."
"I do hope he had them on when he selected your lady. Where did he find her?"
"London."
"London?" Roman's eyes widened. "Another surprise. I more envisioned you plighting your troth to one of our local Amazons. And just who is this paragon Fitzleger chose for you?"
Anatole felt reluctant to tell him, which was ridiculous. Roman could find out easily enough.
"Her name is Madeline Breton."
"One of the Honorable Gordon Breton's daughters?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"A good enough bloodline. The old man is third or fourth cousin to the Earl of Croftmore. But the Breton line of the family is rather profligate, always in debt. I don't imagine this bride of yours brought you much of a dowry."
Anatole's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And just how the blazes do you happen to know so much about my bride's family?"
"My dear cousin, unlike you, I haven't spent my life buried in Cornwall. I frequently get up to London and out in Society. Though I don't recollect ever meeting your Madeline at any of the functions I attended. What manner of creature is she?"
"She's a woman."
"I could have guessed that much. I mean is she accomplished? Charming? Is she very beautiful?"
For some reason Roman's soft-voiced questions made Anatole feel uneasy. Like a miser with thieves inquiring too closely about the size of his treasure.
"She's tolerable enough," he said.
"Tolerable enough?" Roman chuckled. "That sounds rather lukewarm. What of the grand passion that's supposed to exist between a St. Leger and his chosen mate? I'm astonished to find your bride has permitted you to stray from her side so soon. According to the old legends, she should be practically begging you to return to her bed."
That would have been difficult, Anatole thought, considering that his bride was likely still peacefully asleep, not even noticing that he was gone. Memories of Madeline's assessment of his lovemaking rose unbidden to his mind.
It wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be.
Talk about being damned with faint praise. Anatole was annoyed to feel a hint of red creeping into his cheeks, a telltale sign that his keen-eyed cousin did not miss.
Roman donned a look of mock solicitude. "I trust nothing has gone amiss already, Anatole. Or that Fitzleger has not inadvertently paired you with the wrong woman. It's conceivable that even a Bride Finder could eventually make a horrible mistake."
"No mistake has been made."
"Of course not," Roman said in such soothing tones Anatole longed to break his jaw. "But just in case, maybe you'd better wait a bit before you do that little ceremony where you hand over the crystal sword, surrendering your heart and soul for all eternity."
Anatole felt his face wash an even deeper shade of red.
"Oh, dear. You've already gone and done it." Roman's smile assumed a cruder cast. "Tell me. Have you yet thought to offer her any flowers as well?"
The jab found its mark, and Anatole flinched. He now recollected the real reason he despised Roman. If his cousin possessed any St. Leger gift at all, it was an uncanny knack for discovering the most vulnerable spot in another man's heart, thrusting his knife in, and giving it an added twist.
Anatole's hand tensed, not with the urge to reach for his sword, but to press his fingertips to his brow and do something far worse to his cousin. Only Roman had ever tempted him to make such black use of his power. The only thing that restrained Anatole was the realization that his cousin would derive some twisted pleasure from sending him over the edge.
He stared back down the hill toward where his stallion had found a few blades of grass to nibble, to where the distant outline of the shore was lost in haze. Only when he felt in complete control of himself did he turn back to face Roman.
"Never mind about my bride," he said coldly. "She's no concern of yours. You've avoided ever answering my question with all this idle chatter. What are you doing here at Lost Land?"
"Alas, cousin. Your bride is none of my concern. What I'm doing here is none of yours."
His amusement in goading Anatole apparently at an end, Roman sketched an insolent bow and strode away, disappearing around the side of the half-crumbling manor walls. Swearing, Anatole followed hard after him, discovering where Roman had tethered his own mount.
A sleek gray gelding pawed the ground restively near the gate of a low stone cottage, which at one time had been the steward's house. Roman headed toward the horse, but Anatole easily outdistanced him with his longer stride. Getting there first, he assumed control of the reins himself, preventing Roman from going anywhere.
Roman pulled up short, favoring Anatole with a haughty stare. But Anatole ignored him, repeating his demand with strained patience.
"I asked what you're doing here, Roman. Did you also come looking for some sign a Mortmain has returned?"
The hostility in Roman's eyes dissolved into a look of genuine surprise.
"Good Lord, no! I'm not some credulous peasant, believing people can return from the dead."
"There's a chance that not all of the Mortmains are dead. Certain information has reached me, indicating that someone might possibly have survived the fire that night. A woman. Perhaps Tyrus's daughter."
"I certainly hope not. That would prove damned inconvenient." Roman reached for the gelding's reins, but Anatole only tightened his grip.
"Then, if you're not looking for Mortmains, what the hell are you doing here?"
Roman's mouth twitched with annoyance, but he finally conceded with an irritated sigh, "Surveying."
"Surveying what? Mortmain land?"
"No, my land."
Anatole was astounded enough to loosen his grasp. Roman took advantage of his shock to snatch the reins from him, startling the horse into skittering sideways.
"What the blazes are you talking about?" Anatole asked.
"I thought I made myself pretty clear," Roman said, stroking the gelding's nose and making soft noises to soothe it. "I've bought Lost Land. I signed the deed yesterday afternoon."
"Bought it? From whom?"
"From a distant relative of Tyrus's wife who inherited the place after there were no more Mortmains. He's a London banker who was happy enough to be rid of the place. I got it fairly cheap."
"Have you entirely lost your mind?"
"I don't believe so."
"Then, what devil possessed you to buy this—this accursed land?"
"Maybe because I was not fortunate enough to have inherited property the way you did, cousin," Rorrian said, a trace of acid bitterness creeping into his voice. "My own father left me little more than that run-down farm and those ridiculous fossils he was always collecting. I've always had the urge to be master of a bit more than a few straggly sheep and some old rocks."
"But to purchase Lost Land…" Anatole glanced about with a troubled gaze at the blighted landscape, the ominous aspect of the ruins themselves, the whisper on the wind that seemed to linger here, haunting, threatening.
"This place, the men who lived here have been a bane to our family's existence for generations. For a St. Leger to own Mortmain-tainted land. No good can possibly come of it."
"You're starting to sound as bad as old Fitzleger. A superstitious fool," Roman scoffed. "You forget who once owned your precious Castle Leger, cousi
n. You also forget that I don't require your approval."
Roman swung into the saddle, wrapping the reins around his gloved fist. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a great deal else to attend to this morning. I'm meeting with the architect who's going to rebuild the manor house for me."
Anatole would have liked to argue the matter further, but he had no choice but to stand aside as Roman nudged the gelding forward.
"As always, a pleasure to see you, cousin. Feel free to return to my lands anytime you like. Next time I promise you a far better reception."
Roman's teeth flashed in a wolfish grin, and he kicked the gelding into a gallop. Instead of heading down toward the cove, he vanished into the mist-ridden hills beyond.
Anatole fought a strong urge to ride after Roman and pound some sense into the man. His cousin was either a reckless fool or a smoothly calculating bastard. Even after all these years, Anatole had yet to decide which. The notion of Roman owning Lost Land left him with a sense of dread. Even though Roman had been right about one thing.
Mortmains had once owned Castle Leger and most of this stretch of West Penrith. The ambitious lords had determined to carve for themselves a duchy out of Cornwall, but their treachery to a king had caused them to be stripped of everything save this barren property. The most prized section of their estates had been awarded to a strange young knight named Prospero___
It seemed like fate, the magnificent castle set high upon the stark and rugged cliffs had been destined to become Castle Leger, the place of St. Legers while this wretched cove, these low hills, this… this Lost Land. It was most definitely Mortmain.
Anatole pulled a wry face at the illogic of his own musings. Likely Roman had been correct to term him a superstitious fool. Even more likely his unease about Roman buying Lost Land had little to do with the land itself and far more to do with the prospect of having Roman settling so near to the border of Castle Leger. 'Fore God, he'd almost have preferred a Mortmain.
There was bound to be trouble, and when Anatole returned home, perhaps the first thing he'd better do was to consult the damned crystal and—
And Anatole cursed, remembering. He couldn't consult the crystal anymore because he'd surrendered the sword to his bride. Scowling, he plunged back down the hillside, heading toward where his stallion awaited him.
He tried not to think of all the gibes Roman had flung out to him about Madeline, but Roman's taunts had a way of getting under a man's skin like an infection of the blood.
You're rather an alarming prospect as a husband, cuz. What of the grand passion that's supposed to exist between a St. Leger and his mate…I'm astonished your bride permitted you to stray from her side… Even a Bride Finder could make a horrible mistake…
Gritting his teeth, Anatole mounted his horse, trying to still those insidious whispers, that voice breathing doubt in his ear. But he galloped out from Lost Land, not quite able to shake off the fear that he'd surrendered both his sword and his soul to Madeline Breton far too soon.
He rode back toward the village and spent the rest of the morning there and among the outlying cottages, making inquiries after Fitzleger's mystery woman. He even directed his search among the fishermen down in the inlet, waiting to launch their boats with the tide.
But no one seemed to have noticed any strangers passing through recently, besides the foppish architect Roman had hired and Mad Lucy, the old charmer woman. Anatole didn't know why he continued to pursue the matter. Perhaps because the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of a Mortmain heiress turning up and keeping Lost Land out of Roman's hands. After all, how much trouble could a woman be?
How much trouble, indeed, he thought as he followed the track back to Castle Leger hours later. The mists of morning had dissolved into the gloom-ridden skies of late afternoon. Tired and dispirited, Anatole kept the stallion to a trot, feeling as though he'd accomplished little.
He hadn't solved the mystery of Fitzleger's churchyard visitor, and he hadn't sorted out the far more troubling puzzle of his own heart, the exact nature of his feelings toward his bride.
But as his horse passed beneath the shadow of the old castle keep, Anatole felt his blood quicken with anticipation. Anticipation simply because now she was there. As he cantered into the courtyard, he found himself glancing up eagerly at all the tall latticed windows.
Almost as though he expected to see Madeline looking for his return, ready to bound down the stairs flinging her arms wide, tilting her lovely face up to receive his kiss, offering him a warm welcome the likes of which he'd never known. Make him feel for the first time in years, perhaps the first time in his life, that he really had come home.
Bah! Anatole reined in the stallion, feeling partly wistful, partly filled with self-disgust. What sort of fool was this woman turning him into?
Someone looked out for his arrival, but it wasn't Madeline. Anatole heard his name hailed from the portico above, and the next instant Lucius Trigghorne came half flying, half stumbling down the stone steps.
Anatole had never seen the surly old man look so agitated, almost as though a thousand tiny demons nipped at his heels. Now what? Anatole wondered as he slung himself off the back of the horse. What sort of disaster could have befallen in his absence. He'd had no premonition of anything lately except that business last night with…
Will.
A sick feeling churned in Anatole's stomach. But no, damn it. He'd warned the boy again only that morning to stay away from the woodpile when he'd entrusted Will with the task of kenneling Ranger. The wretched hound nigh broke his heart trying to tear after Anatole whenever he rode out, and the poor old fool was getting far too ancient for that.
But perhaps, Anatole thought when he caught sight of the wild look on Trigg's face, perhaps he should have kenneled Will instead.
Trigg staggered down the last of the steps, the old man wheezing for breath, leaning up against the stallion for support.
"Oh—oh, master," he gasped. "Thank God… you're home. S-something terrible—"
Anatole seized the old man's arm, alarm and impatience sharpening his voice. "Catch your breath, man, and tell me. What's happened. Is it Will? Goddamn the boy to hell. Why couldn't he listen—"
But Trigghorne interrupted him with another wheeze. "No. Not Will. The house… been invaded."
Invaded? Anatole looked at the grizzled old man as though he'd gone quite mad. Castle Leger hadn't been overrun by anyone since the days of Cromwell's Roundhead Army.
It was ridiculous to think such a thing could happen simply because Anatole had ridden out and… and left his new bride alone and unprotected.
Anatole felt a clutch of fear the like of which he'd never known. He spun around wildly, already groping for his sword.
"Invaded? By whom?" he demanded fiercely of Trigg. "Smugglers? Brigands? Mortmains?"
"No," Trigg moaned, sagging down to his knees with a groan. "By… by women."
Chapter 10
Madeline removed the apron that protected her bright yellow gown, and laid it over the back of the library chair she had just polished. It now gleamed, as did the table and most of the bookcases that lined the walls. There was still much cleaning left to be done, but she'd made great progress here in the library, along with many of the other parlors in this wing of the house. She and her army of village ladies.
The Reverend Fitzleger had helped her to recruit some half-dozen able-bodied women to work at Castle Leger, and the lower hall had become a hive of activity, humming with sights and sounds that Madeline was certain had not been seen or heard at Castle Leger for many a day.
The softer lilt of women's voices, the bustle of skirts, the swish of brooms vigorously applied. Lucius Trigghorne had taken himself off somewhere to sulk at what he'd bitterly termed "a petticoat invasion." But Will and the other young footman, Eamon, had pitched in eagerly to help, driving back the dust and neglect of many years.
Madeline had insisted on reclaiming the library from the cobwebs herse
lf. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, she looked at the rows of books now arranged so tidily upon the shelves, and she felt a sense of keen satisfaction. Tomorrow she would begin sorting and cataloging them, but for now…
She ran a weary hand across her brow. Warm from her recent exertions, she slipped outside for a breath of air. The wild tangle of garden that sprawled along the back of the house lay hushed and still before her. Gnarled rhododendron trees and azalea bushes poked their branches upward through the afternoon haze. A mad carpet of bluebells and golden heather seemed to fight for possession of the path, the sweet fragrance mingling with the salty tang of the sea.
It was as though the flowers bloomed in sheer defiance of this hard land, the damp breath of the fog, the distant dragonlike roar of the sea. And as Madeline plucked a pink-blushed rhododendron from one of the trees, she began to believe there was a chance she might be able to bloom here, too.
After last night.
She didn't fool herself into thinking that any great love had flourished between her and Anatole. Not the kind she'd always dreamed of. But what had happened in that bedchamber proved that they could at least deal, well, reasonably with each other.
Although… A slight frown creased Madeline's brow as she bent to pick a few of the bluebells, a handful of heather. She had to admit she'd been far from reasonable when she awakened this morning to find that her bridegroom had simply vanished, without leaving word where he was going, without even bidding her farewell. Hurt had sluiced through her, as powerful as it was unexpected.
She'd had to take herself to task for being so foolish. Of course, Anatole could not be expected to dance attendance upon her. The man was used to going his own way, roaming wild and free, accounting to no one. And it was not as if she did not have enough to keep herself occupied in his absence.
Civilize the house first, she told herself with a smile as she plunged farther down the garden path, adding more blossoms to her bouquet. Then she'd see about civilizing the man.
And it became obvious a few moments later that the man greatly needed civilizing. She tensed, listening as a bellow carried to her ears coming from the direction of the house.