His reclusive nature made life difficult for her, especially this evening when she could have used a little reassurance. She was about to hostess her first supper party, and she still knew so little about the guests she was supposed to entertain.
She'd plagued Anatole with questions all week, but he'd neatly evaded most of them. Beyond telling her that his one uncle was in the shipping trade, the other invested in tin mines, he'd had little to say. Any discussion of the other St. Legers seemed to be just like the old castle keep. Forbidden.
Trust me, Anatole had demanded.
And she was trying. But it would have been far easier if her husband had been a little less distant. Like the most cunning of enemies, her doubts seemed to attack hardest at night, when she had nothing to do but stare up at the canopy of her empty bed and fret that she might as well have remained a spinster for all the difference being married had made in her life.
She was still alone in the night, left only to dream of the tender lover who'd whisper such sweet things in her ear, his kiss arousing new passions within her, desires of which she'd only experienced the slightest taste.
She'd been glad of a little respite after her first encounter with Anatole, but now…
Did her husband ever intend to return to her bedchamber? Of course her interest in the matter was purely practical, she assured herself. Anatole needed heirs, she needed babes to love, her little band of scholars.
Was there something more about the mating ritual she'd yet to understand? Perhaps it couldn't be performed every night. It had appeared to be far more demanding of Anatole's physique than hers. Perhaps he could only do it once a fortnight. Or even once a month. There was only one way she could know for certain.
Ask him.
But her heart quailed at the thought as she glanced to where he awaited her beneath the portico's swaying lantern. There was nothing of the lost boy about him now as he stood impatiently holding the front door open for her, a tall and magnificent figure in his evening clothes, the frock coat trimmed with gold braid, the satin breeches clinging to his powerful thighs. A veritable dark prince with his jet-black hair, angular features, and warrior's scar.
When he beckoned imperiously, Madeline lifted the hem of her skirts and rustled toward him. Ranger had already vanished inside. But Madeline paused on the threshold. Summoning up her courage, she rested her hand on her husband's sleeve.
"Anatole, could I ask you a question?"
The familiar wariness crept into his eyes, though he gave a rueful smile. "You ask far too many questions, madam. What is it this time?"
"I was just wondering why—that is—"Madeline swallowed hard.
Why don't you ever come to my bed?
The embarrassing question hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite get it out. Staring up into the velvet night of his eyes, her courage failed her. She finished lamely, "I was just wondering if you think your family will approve of me?"
Her question left him nonplussed for a moment, then he replied, "Certainly. Why wouldn't they?"
His tone heartened her until he added, "After all, you are the bride Fitzleger chose for me."
"Oh, that. Yes, of course." Madeline lowered her eyes to conceal her disappointment. She'd hoped he'd been about to say that his family would approve of her… because he did. Foolish of her.
"So all the rest of your family also believe in the Bride Finder?"
"Aye… well, most of them do."
"And your uncles and cousins also gave their wives swords for wedding gifts?"
"No," he said. "As the heir to Castle Leger, I was the only one who had to do that."
His reply further dampened her spirits. Had to. That was very different from wanting to and—
Madeline brought herself up short. What man in his right mind would want to give his wife a sword? Her logical way of thought seemed to have become muddied with confusion since her arrival at Castle Leger.
"Now, madam, may we go inside?" He took her by the arm, urging her past the door, when suddenly his fingers clamped down in a grip that was almost painful.
With a gasp of protest Madeline glanced up to find the most extraordinary expression chasing across his features. Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, every line of his body stiff and alert. There was something raw and primitive about her husband, like a beast scenting danger.
"Anatole? What is it? What's wrong?"
He didn't even seem to hear her. Releasing her, he whipped about to stare into the darkness.
At last he pronounced hoarsely, "They're coming."
"Who—" Madeline began, then her heart skipped a beat as she realized what he meant. The St. Legers. She could scarce believe she'd allowed herself to become so distracted as to forget.
Her own eyes swiveled in the direction of the night-blackened road leading to Castle Leger.
"Did you spot the light from a coach lantern?" she asked.
"No." Anatole winced, pressing his fingers to his brow. "It's just that when so many St. Legers travel together, they—er—create quite a stir in the night."
Madeline listened intently, wondering why she did not also detect something, the clatter of carriage wheels, the rumble of horses on the drive. But she supposed Anatole must be right. She had noticed on more than one occasion that his hearing was far more acute than hers, almost eerily so.
She drew in a deep steadying breath. She'd promised herself she would be the perfect hostess tonight, charming, gracious, and above all else, calm. But it would have been easier if her husband hadn't appeared so grim, hands braced on his hips, like an embattled knight of yore steeled to repel invaders.
Was it her imagination or had the wind picked up sharply, the night sky waxing just a trifle darker? A sense of unease skittered up her spine.
She still didn't know what to expect from Anatole's family, but she had a sinking premonition they were going to prove far different from her own cheerful dithery relations.
* * * * *
Madeline had hoped to fortify herself in the front drawing room before her guests arrived, greeting them with regal dignity as each was properly announced in turn. But somehow she might have known these St. Legers would manage to overset her plans.
She had darted upstairs long enough to repair the damage the night wind had wrought upon her hair, to fetch her fan. But by the time she descended to the hall below, she could already hear the rumble of voices in the long gallery.
She fought back an unreasoning urge to dart back into her bedchamber and bolt the door. There was no sign of her husband; the only person stirring about the lower hall was Lucius Trigghorne.
Madeline frowned at the sight of him. She'd managed to spruce up most of the other male servants for this evening, get them thrust into clean livery. But the unrepentant Trigg still ambled about in his greasy breeches and yellowed shirt, his grizzled hair not even combed.
As Madeline came down the last of the steps, the old man flashed his teeth stumps in a malevolent grin.
"Company's here, missus," he said, jerking one dirty thumb in the direction of the drawing room.
The little gnomelike man never missed an opportunity to try to disconcert her, but this time, Madeline vowed not to rise to the bait.
"I am aware of that, Trigghorne," she said, concealing the tremor in her fingers by smoothing out her gloves. "Has my husband come down yet?"
"Master's already in the parlor."
"Good, then, you may be about your business, sir. I'm sure they could use some extra help down in the kitchens."
"What for? You be already set to serve up them St. Legers their favorite dish."
"Truly?" Madeline asked, puzzled. "What do they like to eat?"
"New brides."
Madeline shot him an indignant glare, but Trigg shuffled off toward the servant's stair, cackling at his own jest. At least Madeline hoped the horrid little man was jesting.
Steeling her spine, she crept over to the drawing room door and inched it open a crack.
Through the narrow sliver of space, she could see no one but Anatole, his arms locked behind his back in a rigid posture.
"It's been a long time, boy," a gruff voice was commenting.
"Aye," Anatole agreed.
It pained Madeline somehow to see Anatole looking so stiff and uncomfortable. She'd often been at odds with her own family, but however little they understood her, she knew she'd always be welcomed back into the fold with warm hugs and noisy greetings.
It had never occurred to her that she might be obliged to come to Anatole's rescue this evening, but the thought gave her the courage to fling wide the door and slip gracefully inside.
The chamber fell silent at her entrance. Madeline plastered a smile on her lips and started to dip into a curtsy until she focused on the room full of faces staring back at her.
She froze midway down, her mouth dropping open.
Dear Lord! She'd just sashayed into a… a towering forest of men!
They surrounded her, masculine forms in all different shapes and apparel, but all possessing Anatole's stature, his stalwart limbs. The same fierce eyes, the same hawklike nose marked some half-dozen countenances, all of them decidedly male.
She swayed and might have tottered over completely had Anatole's hand not shot out to help her regain her balance. Numb with shock, Madeline scarce made sense of the introductions he began to fire at her.
"This is my oldest uncle who is in the shipping trade," Anatole said, indicating a great bear of a man. "Captain Hadrian St. Leger."
Shipping trade? Madeline thought as she summoned up a timid smile. Uncle Hadrian bore more the look of a wily old pirate, bluff, weather-beaten, his full beard shot through with gray. When he grinned, he displayed a set of large, handsome teeth that appeared capable of devouring a new bride in one gulp. And as for his sons, two sandy-haired youths Anatole introduced as Frederick and Caleb St. Leger, they both gawked at Madeline as hungrily as shipwrecked sailors who hadn't seen a woman for months.
Far less alarming was Anatole's other uncle, Paxton, who'd made his fortune in the tin mines. Modestly attired in a somber brown frock coat and gray powdered wig, he had the brisk manner of a London merchant. His son Zane, however, was another matter. The young man's disheveled clothing and bristling mop of black hair gave him the flyaway look of someone who'd recently been struck by lightning.
Yet by far the most disturbing member of the group stood a little apart from the others in the shadows pooling by the window curtain. Lean and ascetic, so pale, Madeline wondered how any man could appear so drained of life and yet survive.
"My cousin, Marius St. Leger," Anatole said. "One of the few skilled doctors hereabouts. He trained at the physician's college in Edinburgh."
The gaunt man favored Madeline with a solemn nod.
"And this is my wife, Madeline," Anatole concluded with a fierce glance, as though daring anyone to challenge the statement.
Clinging to Anatole's arm, she managed a curtsy that was more weak-kneed than graceful. An awkward pause ensued in which she was thoroughly inspected by six pairs of intent male eyes. It was all she could do not to disgrace herself by hiding behind Anatole's broad back.
To her relief, attention shifted to the slender doctor at the back of the throng.
"Marius?" Captain Hadrian said, the growl both questioning and prompting.
The others all fell back as Marius St. Leger came forward. He glanced up at Anatole as though soliciting his permission for something.
A permission her husband appeared reluctant to grant. But after a tense pause, Anatole pried Madeline's hand from his sleeve and offered it to Marius. The young man wrapped Madeline's fingers in the cool strength of his own.
He had the most melancholy eyes Madeline had ever seen. Disquieting eyes that left one reluctant to stare into those dark depths for fear of—of Madeline scarce knew what. Yet his touch was strangely calming. He looked into Madeline's face for a long moment, then smiled.
"Fitzleger has chosen well."
"I knew it. The old man never fails." Hadrian gave a guffaw of triumph. Before she had time to draw breath, Madeline was snatched away from the shelter of her husband's side, embraced by one sinewy pair of male arms after another. Hugged and bussed on the cheek until she was left blushing and gasping for air.
Even Anatole could not escape the tide of exuberance, his hand wrung with congratulations, his back slapped until Madeline's formidable husband was left as gruff and embarrassed as a blushing schoolboy.
Madeline should have been pleased with her hearty acceptance into the St. Leger family. And she was, except for one thing—the puzzling absence of any softer greetings.
She'd only heard two members of the female side of this family ever mentioned, she reflected uneasily. One of those had her heart buried under the church floor, while the other… How was it that Anatole had described his young mother's death?
She died of fear and sorrow.
In the midst of the general hubbub, Madeline tugged anxiously at her husband's sleeve. Drawing him aside, she whispered, "Anatole, are there no ladies left living in your family?"
Anatole scowled, glancing about him as though he'd just noticed himself the absence of any women. He gestured, summoning his youngest cousin.
Caleb St. Leger ambled over, a gangly boy of about fifteen. He possessed a sunny, if somewhat vacant smile.
"Where are your women?" Anatole demanded.
Caleb looked bewildered, and for a moment Madeline feared the boy meant to check his waistcoat pockets. He scratched his neck, blushing deeply. "Well, cousin Anatole, you know Da doesn't hold with us taking mistresses. He says we can damn well wait until we are married before—"
"He means our mother and sister, you dolt!" his brother Frederick cut in. With all the wisdom of his seventeen years, Frederick rolled his eyes and offered Madeline a look that seemed to apologize for the folly of his younger brother. "Mama and Elsbeth are at home."
"Why aren't they here?" Anatole demanded.
Frederick shrugged. "Didn't know they were invited."
Anatole muttered a vexed oath. But before he could say anything more, his uncle Hadrian stepped into the breach.
"I'm sorry, lad," he said. "But the command you sent requesting our presence was not all that clear. And it has been a long time since any ladies were welcome at Castle Leger."
"Or anyone else for that matter," Caleb mumbled under his breath, provoking his older brother into giving him a sharp nudge in the ribs.
"However," Paxton spoke up, "my wife Hesper will be pleased to wait upon your good lady whenever it may be convenient." He favored Madeline with a courtly bow.
"And my wife as well," Zane St. Leger added.
"And mine." Hadrian nodded his agreement.
"I shall look forward to making their acquaintance," Madeline said, turning impulsively to the doctor. "And your lady, too, sir."
There was a tense pause before Marius replied, "Alas, my dear cousin, I fear I no longer have one."
"Oh, I—I'm sorry," Madeline stammered.
"So am I," Marius replied quietly, making Madeline wonder with dismay what tragic story lurked in his past, what family curse or tradition he might have run afoul of. These St. Leger men seemed to be pure hell on their women…
Whatever lay behind Marius's sad smile, Madeline was relieved when Caleb piped up, "Well, I'll be happy to send my wife along as soon as ever Mr. Fitzleger gets me one."
Which remark earned him another scornful jab from his brother, but the older men laughed, even Marius, and the tension was broken.
The matter smoothed over, the gentlemen ushered Madeline toward one of the settees and gathered around her like a swarm of bees surrounding honey. Anatole stationed himself by the fireplace, maintaining a watchful eye as his male relatives barraged Madeline with eager questions, trying to draw her out, learn more about her.
But at least they were doing it by more conventional means than Marius used. Anatoles gaze flicked to the pale figu
re of his cousin, who spoke little, listening gravely to whatever was said as was the doctor's habit.
As cursed as Anatole often thought himself, he'd always been grateful he possessed no share of the talent Marius had inherited. Marius… the one who could make even other St. Legers uneasy. No man should be able to strip another's soul bare, and slip past the most carefully guarded secrets of the heart.
Anatole wondered why he'd allowed it, permitted Marius to take Madeline by the hand, stare into her eyes, violate his bride in that fashion.
Perhaps because of his own lingering doubts, though it shamed Anatole to admit it. The fear that somehow a mistake had been made, that he was about to go the way of his own father, yearning after the wrong woman to the point of tragedy and destruction.
Fitzleger has chosen well.
What a world of relief there had been in those four simple words, enough so that Anatole felt he might actually survive this evening.
Surely the worst moment was over, that initial acceptance of his bride. And while his uncles and cousins might not approve of his demand for their silence regarding certain family matters, he was fairly confident he could trust them to respect his wishes.
The misunderstanding over the ladies being invited had been awkward, but Madeline seemed to have accepted it with a good grace. Any trace of her nervousness vanished behind an eager smile when Mr. Fitzleger finally put in his appearance.
He was greeted by the rest of the St. Legers with all the warmth and deference due him as the Bride Finder. And although Fitzleger returned their greetings with equal pleasure, the old man seemed out of breath, as though he'd run all the way from the village.
Smoothing down his white wings of hair, he bestowed a courtly bow upon Madeline, apologizing for his lateness. "My little granddaughter Elfreda arrived today far earlier than I had expected her. Mrs. Beamus and I have had much to do to get the child comfortably settled. It has been a long time since we've had a wee one at the vicarage."