He reached for her in the darkness, his hands trembling from suppressed passion, rendering him clumsy as he traced the line of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat.
Madeline lay stiff and unresponsive. A little breathless from his first fiery onslaught, she was only left further confused by this abrupt change in him. She clutched at his shoulders in the darkness, but even his body seemed veiled from her. She found herself oddly disturbed by the feel of rough linen instead of smooth warm skin.
Anatole's hands roved over her, caressing her through her nightgown, always stopping short of where she most ached to be touched. She squirmed beside him with an embarrassed impatience.
Did he not want her to remove her garments as he had insisted upon that first night? Did he not want to make himself naked? The man hadn't even bothered to remove his boots. Could they not light at least one candle so that she could see what he was doing?
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when she remembered Anatole's ironclad rule for lovemaking. It was to be done in silence.
When he offered her another chaste kiss, she suppressed a frustrated sigh, thinking she had to be the most unreasonable woman in the world. This was all that she had ever wanted, wasn't it? A gentlemanly lover, modest and considerate.
Why, then, did her mind keep drifting back to that strange vision she'd had earlier, of Anatole riding off with her across the meadows, tumbling her down into the heather, embracing her with a desire so strong, it robbed her of all rational thought, leaving her blissfully weak and delirious?
She caught a taste of that fantasy in the warmth of Anatole's mouth as he kissed her again, but only enough to tantalize, not to fulfill—Anatole's restrained caresses a painful contrast to her imaginings.
She was no expert on lovemaking by any means, but something was terribly wrong here. Madeline submitted as he eased up the hem of her nightgown, inching down his breeches so their bodies could lock in the darkness. There was no pain this time as he entered her, the ache purely in her heart as she wondered how a man could seek such intimacy from a woman and still hold so much of himself back from her.
She longed for the sound of his voice, one endearment, one tender murmur of encouragement. But all she heard was the quick intake of his breath as Anatole labored over her, setting up a rhythm she couldn't match, a sweet fulfillment just out of her reach.
She battled against a hot stinging sensation behind her eyes. But by the time he'd finished with her, her tears spilled over, trickling down her cheeks. He collapsed beside her, his muscular body still shuddering from his exertions.
Madeline wiped at her eyes, furious with her own foolishness. Anatole had not hurt her. The man could not have been more careful with her if she'd been made of finely wrought china. Then, what the blazes was the matter with her? Why was she left with this hollow ache in her heart, her tears continuing to flow?
She was glad now of the concealing darkness, especially when Anatole propped himself up on the pillow beside her. Scarce taking time to recover his breath, he hovered over her.
"It—it was better this time?" he panted.
"Y-yes." For once in her life, she managed to lie.
"And… ?" he prompted, eager for her to say something more, but she had no notion what.
"It was very… pleasant."
"Pleasant?"
She could sense rather than see his frown in the darkness. He reached out to stroke her cheek, his fingers stiffening as they came in contact with the damp tracks of her tears.
"If it was so damned pleasant, why are you crying?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said miserably.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No."
"Then, for God's sake, Madeline. What is it?"
"I don't know," she repeated. "I just have this feeling that—that something isn't right."
"Something not right? With the way I make love to you?"
From the edge to his voice, she could tell she was treading on dangerous ground here, but she'd gone too far to turn back.
"It seems to me that there should be more to all this than two people merely touching. In silence. In the dark…"
She trailed off, feeling herself sinking in deeper with every word. An ominous quiet settled over the chamber so awful, even the storm raging outside seemed to hold its breath.
Then Anatole gave vent to a violent oath, causing her to cringe. He all but flung himself out of the bed, dragging his breeches back up over his hips.
"Anatole, I'm sorry," she faltered, struggling to a sitting position. But she doubted he ever heard her as he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
A low groan escaped her, and she scarce knew what she most wanted to do. Go after him. Try to explain. Pummel her pillow in sheer frustration, or simply burst into tears all over again.
What was wrong with her? After waiting all these nights for him to come to her bed, what must she do but drive him out of it again?
And after he'd been so gentle, so thoughtful. Performing his husbandly duty with all the decorum any reasonable woman would require. What more did she want from the man?
Three days, a voice whispered inside her. Heather and hillsides. A warrior's kiss. The kind of passion St. Legers inspired in their women.
Madeline hugged her pillow to her chest, appalled by her own thoughts. This could not be happening to her. She could not possibly be falling prey to the infamous St. Leger legend.
She plunked back down on the mattress, dragging her pillow over her head, to shut out all such irrational notions. It worked, but only partly. She still wasn't ready to believe in any St. Leger magic, but she was convinced of one thing.
This tame way of taking a woman was not Anatole's. She'd glimpsed enough fire in the man's eyes to know that he was capable of far more, that there was a wealth of tenderness and passion locked in his heart for the woman who knew how to draw it out of him… the right woman.
But it was obvious, Madeline thought, fresh tears burning her eyes.
She was not the one.
* * * * *
Doors burst open before Anatole with scarce more than a flash of his eyes. It was as though the house itself knew enough to get out of the way of the master of Castle Leger this night. All trace of the civilized man of the days past was gone.
Torchlight flickered over his hair snarling wildly about the savage planes of his face, his eyes black with barely contained fury. His boots rang out on the stone floors as he stormed along the arched corridor leading to the old castle keep. The last barrier rose up before him. He ground his fingertips against his brow, and the locked door trembled and gave way with a resounding crash. His head throbbed from such furious mental exertion, but it was as nothing compared to the pain and humiliation lancing his soul.
Outside the storm raged against the castle walls, but the only sound Anatole was aware of echoed within his mind, the memory of Madeline's soft hesitant voice.
There has to be more to this than two strangers touching. In silence. In the dark.
Something more? He'd made love to the woman with all the care and finesse he was capable of. He had held back so much of his own needs, it had damned near killed him. Bloody hell. What more did the woman want from him?
Grinding his teeth, Anatole slammed his way into the old hall, smashing the door closed behind him. As he jammed the torch into an iron sconce, light pierced the chamber with its cold stone walls and rustling tapestries.
The portraits of his ancestors gazed down dispassionately upon his anger. Prospero the sorcerer, Deidre the healer, Derek the dragon raiser, Simon the shape shifter, on down to Anatole's own grandfather, Grayson, the all-seeing one.
And someday, Anatole thought blackly, there would be one more portrait joining these legendary ranks.
Anatole St. Leger. Ah, yes, wasn't he the one who didn't know how to make love to his own wife?
He stalked the length of the hall, slamming over ancient carved chairs, givin
g the heavy banqueting table a mighty shove, thumping the rough walls with his fist, until he almost reopened the wound on his arm, his hands aching as badly as his head.
Only then did the frustration burning inside him give way to the cold weight of despair. He uprighted one of the chairs he'd overturned and sank into it, burying his face in his hands.
There was only one good thing about what had happened tonight. No St. Leger could ever be conceived from a mating as tame as that one, and that was all for the best. He wanted no child born as accursed as himself.
Oh, God! He'd done everything he could think of to win Madeline's love. Been patient and forbearing and so damned civilized. Holding that blasted supper party, enduring Roman's insolent presence beneath his roof.
He'd tried to make love to his wife with all the gentleness at his command, and all he'd succeeded in doing was making her cry. What the hell else could he do?
Sagging back in the chair, Anatole raked his hands through his hair. Maybe Roman and Madeline were both right. Maybe the legend of the chosen bride really was a pack of nonsense.
Or maybe, for once in his life, Fitzleger had made a mistake. It didn't matter anymore, for Anatole knew he was as lost as his father had been before him.
Tonight's failure had only branded that realization deeper into his heart. He had to have Madeline, had to possess her love, no matter what the cost. No matter what…
His brooding gaze tracked to the far end of the hall, the shadowed door half hidden behind one of the tapestries. The door that led to the most forbidden part of Castle Leger… Prospero's tower.
His mind recoiled from where his eyes were leading him. No! He'd spent his whole life rejecting the strangeness of his heritage: the magic, the sorcery, the powers for which there was no explanation. He'd be damned if he'd willingly seek to embrace it all now.
But as he rose to his feet, he knew that it was far more than his blind rage that had propelled him to this part of the castle tonight.
Desperate men seek the darkest of solutions.
Fetching the torch, Anatole moved slowly forward. Thunder hammered at the narrow windows, bursts of lightning illuminating the figures cunningly woven into the tapestry, the St. Leger dragon in full flight, escaped from the lamp of knowledge to wreak havoc upon a village of terrified peasants. A dire reminder of the St. Leger motto.
He who has great power must use it wisely.
But wisdom no longer played any part in a man's life when a woman entered it, Anatole thought grimly. He hesitated for only a moment before shoving the heavy tapestry aside.
The door behind it yielded almost too easily to Anatole's touch, the torchlight flickering over a curving stair that seemed to wind up into the night itself.
Holding the torch aloft, Anatole mounted the worn stone steps with great care, expecting at any moment to feel the icy blast of Prospero's disapproval. He'd already come farther than most St. Legers had ever dared, much farther than he'd ever wanted to.
As he trudged up the endless stairs, he recalled the things he'd heard about Prospero's bedchamber, the place rumored to be cast under some strange enchantment that left it untouched. Unchanged through centuries of wars, social upheavals, natural disasters, Mortmains…
Anatole had never truly believed it. That is, not until now when he emerged upward into the tower room itself. The chamber was quiet, as though even the storm that howled outside of Castle Leger had no power to penetrate here.
The massive bed, with its rich brocade hangings, the small wooden writing desk, the bookcase lined with ponderous-looking tomes—all appeared much as it must have been the last time Prospero had left it, riding forth with his usual cynical humor to surrender his life to an unreasoning mob, the charges of witchcraft, and a fiery death.
Awed in spite of himself, Anatole ran his fingers over the bedpost, which was curiously free of all dust and cobwebs. The intricate carving with the mysterious symbols was said to be the work of Prospero himself. He had made his own bed, hewn it out of a druid tree, the wood steeped in ancient mysticism.
Was it this, then, that gave Prospero the sensual power he'd exerted over women, winning hearts with his own brand of dark magic and passionate spells?
What was the old devil's secret? Was it bound up somehow in the carving of this bed? Or did the spell lie buried in one of those books over there? Anatole cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder, but his torch did not flicker with the slightest hint of Prospero's presence.
Emboldened, Anatole fixed the torch into the wall and crossed over to the bookcase to examine the volumes lined up haphazardly. Illuminated manuscripts. Strange mystic scrolls. Prospero had dabbled in everything from alchemy to blacker arts that Anatole had never wanted to think of. Until now.
He pulled down manuscript after manuscript, scroll after scroll, pages that seemed to crackle with ancient forbidden knowledge, written in French, Italian, Arabic, and other languages Anatole couldn't begin to identify.
"God curse it," he said. "Isn't there a one of these damn things written in plain English?"
He cracked open the last, only to find the pages filled with indecipherable Oriental symbols. Swearing, he jammed it back on the shelf, realizing he'd never be able to accomplish what he'd come for without Prospero's help.
Anatole glanced around the silent bedchamber and heaved a defeated sigh. "All right, you old devil," he muttered. "Where are you? You're always quick enough to plague me when I have no need of you."
His complaint evoked little response except for… the rustling of the bed curtains. Striding forward, Anatole wrenched them aside.
Nothing.
But he could feel it now, the prickling at the nape of his neck, the disquieting sensation that told him he was no longer alone. Perhaps he had never been.
Whipping about, he snapped, "Show yourself."
The only answer was the rattling of the bedpost.
"Damn it, Prospero! Come here! From whatever reaches of hell you lurk in—ooff."
Anatole's words were cut off by a warning rumble, a chilling blast of air that struck his stomach like a gigantic fist, driving him back. A brilliant light burst before his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
And then Prospero appeared in all his magnificence, a scarlet mantle flowing from his shoulders, his knightly frame garbed in a tunic embroidered in iridescent threads. Nothing of the pale phantom about him, he was all light and color. Even death had failed to rob him of his swarthy complexion, his neatly trimmed beard, and hair as black and lustrous as ever.
He appeared far too substantial to be a specter, but it was all an illusion as Anatole well knew. Once in the more uncontrolled days of his youth, he'd been goaded into leveling a blow at his irritating ancestor. He'd ended up by breaking his fist against the wall, much to Prospero's great amusement.
But Prospero appeared far from amused at the moment. It was not often that he deigned to make himself visible to mere mortals, even his own progeny. His exotic tilted eyes narrowed with the full weight of his displeasure.
"What mean you by this intrusion, boy?" he growled at Anatole. "What by all the gods do you want of me?"
Realizing that he was still backed against the wall where Prospero had flung him, Anatole slowly straightened. It was the hardest thing he ever had to admit in his life. He swallowed the thick lump of pride clogging his throat.
"I want… I need your help."
"Indeed? You did not seem so eager for my assistance the other afternoon. What was it you said? Let me think…" Prospero stroked the ends of his beard, as though in effort of memory. "I believe it was something like stay out of this, you old devil. I need no help from you?
It was clear that Prospero did not intend to make this easy for him. But then, Anatole had hardly expected anything different.
He paced over to the bookcase and fidgeted with the manuscripts, straightening them to avoid his ancestor's mocking gaze.
"My situation has grown worse," Anatole said grudgingly. "Things do n
ot go at all well with me and my bride."
"I'm hardly surprised, with you tramping about the castle, raising a ruckus instead of where you should be. Warming the lady's bed."
Anatole felt his face fire. “That’s part of the problem. You know what should be taking place between Madeline and me… in the bed."
"I've a fair notion," Prospero, drawled.
"Well, it isn't happening. None of the fire, the passion. The kind of loving that is supposed to occur between a St. Leger and his chosen bride according to the legends."
"Ah, yes, the legends." Some secretive gleam of amusement shimmered in Prospero's eyes.
But Anatole ignored it and went doggedly on, "Something has gone very wrong with Madeline, and I don't know what the deuce to do about it."
"Perhaps you should have taken greater heed of the crystal's prophecy. Beware the woman of flame."
"As if I ever had any choice in the matter," Anatole said bitterly. "In fact, I am not at all certain that this disaster is not your fault."
"My fault?"
"Aye, you take such delight in tormenting me. It was you that tampered with the list I wrote out, stating my requirements for a bride. Maybe you tampered with Fitzleger as well, deliberately muddled his bride-finding talents."
"No, lad. It would take far greater magic than mine to tamper with a heart as wise and true as your Fitzleger. But if you are convinced your marriage has been a mistake…" Prospero shoved back his sleeves, dramatically raising his hands like a sorcerer about to perform some terrible magic. "I suppose I could use my black arts to spirit Madeline out of your life."
"No!" Anatole shouted, terrified Prospero might be powerful enough to do such a thing. He leapt to wrench Prospero's arm down and clutched at nothing but empty air.
Prospero drifted away from him, lowering his own hands with a smile. "It would seem you are not so convinced of a mistake after all."
"It doesn't matter anymore. All I want from you is…" Anatole hesitated, then blurted out, "I want you to give me a spell."