"I said, quiet! Anatole glowered at the Frenchman, and this time the fool had the wit to subside.
"Have you entirely lost your mind?" Anatole demanded, turning back to his cousin.
"I don't think so," Roman said, coolly shaking out the lace at his sleeves. "Is it madness for a man to seek a wife?"
"But, my boy," Fitzleger broke in, "if the time has come for you, if you are indeed ready to marry, you know you can rely upon my services."
"No offense, Bride Finder. But I don't have as much confidence in your abilities as some members of my family. I wouldn't want to end up as obviously mismated as…"
Roman trailed off, his eyes traveling significantly in Anatole's direction. Anatole tensed, his hard stare daring Roman to continue.
After a long moment his cousin appeared to think better of it.
"I wouldn't want to end up like Marius," Roman finished instead. "Wedded to a grave."
It was a cruel thrust. Marius flinched and said, "The tragic loss of my bride was none of Fitzleger's doing."
Madeline had remained grave and silent during the entire heated exchange, thinking she was far wiser to stay out of what was, after all, a family quarrel. But she could not refrain from turning to the pale doctor and asking gently, "What happened?"
"I delayed too long," Marius said. " Fitzleger wrote to tell me he had found my bride. But I denied the promptings of my heart, my very blood. Nothing was so important to me in those days as completing my medical studies. In my arrogance with my unique gifts, I believed I should learn to cure the world."
A shadow passed over Marius's gaunt features, not one of bitterness, only one of aching sadness. "By the time I journeyed south, my Anne was so ill of the typhus, there was nothing I could do to save her. She… she died in my arms."
Marius's quiet words had a sobering effect on the entire room. Madeline felt her eyes grow moist with sympathy, but Roman's lip curled in scorn.
"That was over ten years ago, but my cousin remains a bachelor, grieving for a woman he barely knew. According to our precious family tradition Marius must end his days alone until he joins his dear Anne on the other side of the grave."
"But that's dreadful," Madeline said.
"Is it not, indeed?" Roman twisted in his seat to fix her with his ice blue stare. "But surely as a chosen bride yourself, you must ascribe to the powers of our Bride Finder."
"Welll—I—"
"You must believe that some magical fate singled you out to be Anatole's bride, to love only him for all eternity. Or is it possible that you have some doubts on that score?"
Madeline slunk back in her chair, wishing that she had stayed out of this. Roman's question focused the attention of the entire room on her, and none awaited her answer more tensely than her own husband.
She met Anatole's eyes across the table, and her heart quailed. She knew full well his convictions regarding the Bride Finder tradition, his belief that his mother had died cursed because his father had defied the custom. Heaven knew, she had no desire to mock his family's superstitions or to take Roman's side in anything, but she could be no less than honest.
She spoke hesitantly, choosing her words with great care. "The legend of the Bride Finder, the idea that there can only be one man, one woman destined for each other is—is wonderfully romantic, but—but no, I cannot believe in such a thing. It defies all common sense.
"I see no reason why Marius may not in time find happiness with someone else. Nor why Roman should not be permitted to marry his wealthy countess."
She braced herself, fully expecting Anatole's anger. What she did not expect was the depth of pain in his eyes, as though she'd hurt him in some way she didn't understand.
The other St. Legers exchanged astonished then outraged glances. A sick sensation stirred in Madeline's stomach, and she thought she now knew how Spanish maidens must have felt, daring to defy the Inquisition by giving voice to heresy.
Only Roman grinned at her with approval. He gave a triumphant laugh.
"Ah, finally someone in this misbegotten family who is as cynical as myself. I do believe Mr. Fitzleger has made a mistake this time. You should have been my bride, cousin."
Rising gracefully to his feet, Roman raised his glass to her in salute. But as he prepared to take a sip, Anatole's eyes flashed darkly in his direction. Roman's hand jerked, dashing the wine back into his own face.
He sputtered a curse, dropping the glass. Madeline gasped, shrinking back as it shattered on the table.
"Mon Dieu!" Yves leapt up from his seat, plying his friend with napkins. But to Madeline's astonishment, Roman struck the Frenchman's hands aside and rounded on Anatole.
He backhanded droplets of wine from his chin, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Damn you and your tricks," he rasped, as though somehow his own clumsiness was Anatole's fault. "I'd call you out for that if you weren't possessed of the devil's advantage."
"It's an advantage I'd willingly set aside," Anatole said.
"Then, I am for you unless you are too much a coward to meet me on a plain man's terms."
Anatole's face went white. He shoved to his feet with such force, his chair clattered to the floor. Madeline's cry of dismay was lost in the protests of the other men as Anatole flung himself around the table.
"Is this plain enough for you?" he snarled, driving his fist into Roman's jaw.
Roman staggered back into the table, sending glass and china flying. Dimly Madeline felt Yves drag her to safety, but her eyes locked on Roman with horror. Recovering himself, he snatched up a carving knife.
She screamed as he lunged at Anatole. Anatole seized his wrist, deflecting the blade inches from his throat. He and Roman locked in a deadly grapple, slammed back into the mantel, sending the fire irons crashing.
The next few seconds were a blur of uproar and confusion as the other St. Legers leapt in to separate the two men. It took the combined efforts of Hadrian, Zane, and Caleb to drag Anatole off while Marius and Frederick fought to make Roman release the knife.
Hadrian cursed and Paxton pleaded. But it was Mr. Fitzleger's voice who rang out above the rest.
"For the love of God, gentlemen. Stop this! Have you both forgotten there is a lady present?"
Madeline feared the old man's words would have no effect. Anatole's queue had come undone in the struggle, his dark hair tumbled wildly about his face as he continued to strain against Hadrian's burly arms.
But then his gaze flickered in her direction. He took a deep shuddering breath and forced his muscles to relax.
Marius forced Roman to drop the knife, and it clattered harmlessly to the floor. Roman wrenched himself away from his cousins, striving to recover his usual sangfroid, smoothing out his hair, straightening the wine-spattered lace of his cravat.
A terrible silence ensued, and Madeline realized that her heart had begun to beat again, leaving her trembling all over. She still did not quite understand what had happened.
One moment Roman had spilled his wine; the next he and Anatole were trying to kill each other. And while distressed, the other St. Legers did not appear particularly surprised.
It made no sense at all. Only one thing was terrifyingly clear, and that was the red stain she saw seeping through Anatole's sleeve.
"Anatole," she cried out. "Your arm."
Anatole glanced down at his sleeve with indifference. But as Hadrian released his grip on Anatole, the burly man gaped with horror at the blood staining his hands. '
The expression was mirrored in the faces of the other St. Legers. Roman's lips twisted in a faint imitation of his usual sneer.
"Dear me," he said, his voice not yet quite steady. "Now I've gone and done it. Shed the blood of another St. Leger. Doomed myself for all time."
"Hold your tongue, Roman!" Hadrian snapped.
Recovering from her shock, Madeline galvanized herself into action. Snatching up napkins from the table, she shouted for someone to bring her some water.
Bustling
over to Anatole, she prepared to remove his frock coat, dreading what she might find. But Anatole jerked away.
"Forget about it. It's nothing," he muttered, his face lost behind the black fall of his hair.
"I am sure it is," she said soothingly. "But you must let me—"
"Leave it alone." He whipped from her, presenting her with the indomitable line of his back.
"Please, Anatole, I only want to—"
"This cursed supper party is at an end. You may retire, madam."
"But, my lord—"
"Go to bed, Madeline," he said savagely, twisting to look at her, and she finally saw his eyes. Hard, remote, they seemed to thrust her away as surely as if he'd taken both hands and shoved.
She glanced about her for some support, but was dismayed to discover the others shrinking from her as well. Hadrian, Caleb, Paxton, all of them stone-faced, looking anywhere but in her direction. As though she had been the one to cut Anatole with the knife instead of Roman. But she had obviously committed a far worse sin in their eyes, debunking their cherished myth of the chosen bride.
Even Mr. Fitzleger appeared sad and disappointed in her. Only Monsieur Rochencoeur dared to offer her a sympathetic glance. A sympathy that was almost her undoing. Hot spots of color burning in her cheeks, she swallowed back a hard knot of tears.
Salvaging what remained of her dignity, she picked her way toward the door through shards of dragon's wing china and broken crystal.
Just like her hopes for this evening. Completely shattered.
* * * * *
Anatole stared at the first dark droplets of rain bleeding down the windows as his family began to take their leave.
Roman and the Frenchman were the first to go. But why not, Anatole thought bitterly. Roman had as usual accomplished what he'd come for, driving Anatole to the brink of madness, leaving discord and disaster in his wake.
The last of Anatole's anger drained away, leaving him weary, scarce aware of the burning pain in his arm where Roman had cut him. He was aware of little beyond self-disgust and a sense of shame that once more Roman had gotten the whip hand of him, forced him to snap.
He could hardly bear to face the rest of his family, willing them away. If they had failed to guess before that there was something amiss with his marriage, they certainly all knew it now. The echo of Madeline's words seemed to linger in the room.
The idea that one man, one woman could be destined for each other is wonderfully romantic, but I cannot believe in such a thing.
It was something that no St. Leger bride would have said, at least not one who had found true passion in the arms of her husband. It must be as obvious to the rest of his family as it was to himself how greatly he had failed with Madeline.
He could sense the weight of their concern pressing against him, and his pride felt stripped as raw as his heart. He knew they would have stood with him against any enemy, those tall stalwart men, shoulder to shoulder, sword to sword.
But this trouble with a woman, his own chosen bride. This left them baffled, discomfited, as helpless as he was himself. One by one, they muttered their farewells and drifted out the door, even Fitzleger trailing out, the old man's faith, for once, badly shaken.
All gone until only one remained, but unfortunately, he was the one that Anatole would have most wished gone.
As the seconds ticked by, he drummed his fingers impatiently against the glass before turning to glare at his cousin, Marius.
"Is there something the matter with your horse?"
"No," Marius said. "I simply thought you might have need of my services."
Anatole gave a harsh laugh. "I don't think my bride's heart requires any more looking into, do you? She made her feelings quite plain enough."
"I was referring to my medical services. You know I don't enjoy the exercise of my peculiar powers any more than you do yours."
Anatole compressed his lips at the quiet rebuke, and turned away when he saw Marius fetching the medical bag that always traveled with him.
"I don't need any cursed medical attention."
"The choice is yours, my lord. If that trifling wound should become infected, if it should become necessary to amputate, likely it is of no account. You always have another arm, and I daresay that in time you will learn to shoot as well with your left hand as you—"
"All right, damn it! You may attend me," Anatole bit out through clenched teeth, stripping out of his frock coat. "For I suppose there will be no getting rid of you otherwise."
"You suppose rightly, cousin," Marius said, concealing a slight smile.
Anatole peeled back his sleeve, cursing when the linen stuck to the wound. He ripped the fabric free, setting his torn skin to bleeding afresh.
It was a clean slash down the back of his forearm, but Marius frowned as he mopped at the blood with a damp towel.
"It does not appear deep enough to need stitches," he said. "But it's an ugly wound for all that. Roman has much to answer for."
Anatole shrugged, then flinched when the movement caused his split skin to crack wider.
"I offered him provocation enough," Anatole admitted grudgingly. "It was an unworthy trick, using my power to fling the wine in his face. I should never have so lost control."
"I thought you showed admirable restraint." Marius rummaged around in his medical bag, producing a jar, some healing ointment of his own concoction. "You could have used that unique gift of yours to send us all crashing through the windows."
" 'He who has great power must use it wisely,' " Anatole quoted dryly, then sucked in his breath with a sharp hiss. Whatever Marius put in that cursed ointment of his, it stung like hell.
Marius offered him a rueful smile, and for one brief moment, Anatole felt a rare bond with this cousin who had always rendered him so uneasy. It was strangely comforting.
But the feeling didn't last long, not with the evidence of tonight's disaster strewn before his eyes. Overturned chairs, shattered china, spots of wine and his own blood staining his mother's elegant Aubusson carpet.
He expelled a deep sigh as Marius proceeded to bandage his wound, images obtruding that he had blocked from his mind before in the haze of his fury. Mostly of Madeline's face. So earnest as she'd dashed what remained of his hopes by declaring her disbelief in eternal love, so frightened when he'd gone at Roman like a savage dog.
And so hurt when he'd snarled at her to get away from him. But at such a moment her kindness and concern had stung worse than Marius's ointment.
He cursed the day he'd ever agreed to this stupid supper party. Any progress he'd made with her during the past week, his efforts to be more civilized, had all been undone in moments. This evening had gained him nothing except to confirm his bride in her bad opinion of him, to show her that he was something not fit to be turned loose in society and to earn him another night in an empty bed. Both his loins and his heart ached fiercely at the thought.
Marius paused in the act of pulling the bandage taut to glance up at him. "Er—I think you should just forget what happened here and make peace with your lady. Go to her bed."
Anatole jerked his arm away as though Marius wielded a knife instead of gentle healing hands. He glared at him accusingly. "I thought you said you didn't like to exercise your power, cousin."
"I don't. But when emotions are as strong as yours at the moment, they fairly shout in my ears, whether I want to hear them or not." He gave an embarrassed smile, the expression quickly replaced by one far more serious.
"Anatole, I don't know what mistaken pride or fear holds you back from your lady. But you need to set it aside."
"You're not exactly the man to be giving me such advice, are you, Marius?"
It was a cruel remark, worthy of Roman, and Anatole regretted it the moment it passed his lips.
The sadness in Marius's eyes deepened, but he said, "On the contrary, I am uniquely qualified to tell you. Don't make the same mistake I did. Go to your bride before it is too late."
A rare sur
ge of emotion thickened Marius's calm voice. He made a brisk show of repacking his medical bag.
Anatole averted his eyes, made uneasy as all St. Legers were by Marius's grief. The one hitch in their family legend, the reminder that even with the skill of the Bride Finder, things could go awry. Happy endings were not guaranteed.
Anatole flexed his arm, astonished to find it already feeling somewhat better. He hoped now his cousin would be satisfied and be gone.
But Marius lingered, his brow knit into a frown. "I know you do not care for my advice, cousin," he said. "But there is one more thing I must say to you."
Anatole tensed, wanting no more talk about his difficulties with Madeline, but Marius went on, "It is about Roman."
"Roman?" Anatole relaxed in his surprise. "What about him? I can well imagine what you've been seeing in his heart. My head mounted upon one of the old castle pikes."
Marius grimaced. "If only Roman's thoughts were that simple. But he is far too complicated. Between this strange business of his purchasing Lost Land and now wanting to marry this French countess, I cannot figure what he is about."
"You have been trying to read him, then?"
"I confess that I have and to no avail. Venturing into Roman's heart is like descending into some twisted labyrinth. He is so clever at disguising his own motives and feelings, I'm not sure he understands them himself half the time. He's always been different from the rest of us."
"Aye," Anatole said. "If my aunt had not been such a virtuous lady, I would have suspected Roman of being a bastard in more ways than one."
"That is impossible. St. Leger women are never unfaithful to their men."
Never? Anatole wondered bleakly. Not even in their hearts?
Marius continued, "We all know that occasionally there have been St. Legers born devoid of our unusual gifts. Roman is simply one such."
"The fool should count his blessings," Anatole muttered.
"But he never has. I have often felt his pain over this. Being a St. Leger by name and blood, but not in spirit. Perhaps this is why Roman has always been so bitterly jealous of you."