St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  "A spell?" Prospero stared at him as though he'd run mad, which was not surprising, for Anatole had grave doubts about his own sanity at this moment.

  "What kind of spell?" Prospero asked.

  "You know. The kind that you used on women. The one that made them desire you beyond all reason, rendered them hopelessly in love with you."

  "Ah, that one." An odd pensive smile played about the corners of Prospero's mouth. "You'll never find it pawing through those musty old books. It took a very special brand of spell."

  "Then, give it to me."

  "You wish me to simply hand over the magic it took me a lifetime to learn?" Prospero's brows arched at his imperious command.

  "Please," Anatole managed to add.

  Prospero studied him, thoughtfully stroking his beard, the ghost's expression inscrutable, leaving Anatole in agonies of suspense. Just as he'd begun to fear his request was to be denied, Prospero gave a careless shrug of his shoulders.

  "Very well. I shall have to write it down for you. Fetch out pen, ink, and parchment from that desk."

  Anatole hastened to comply, struggling to hide his eagerness. "Make sure you write it in English. It is the only language I know."

  "I am well aware of that," Prospero said, rolling his eyes. Brushing his mantle back over his shoulder, he swirled over to the desk and seated himself behind it.

  Anatole leaned anxiously over his chair as the sorcerer reached for his quill pen. Prospero paused to twist around and frown at him.

  "Do you mind? I cannot concentrate with you hovering over me."

  Reluctantly Anatole drew back a pace.

  "This is a most delicate spell," Prospero said, dipping his quill into the ink. "I must take great care to get it right, or it could prove dangerous."

  "Dangerous?"

  "Aye, boy. There are always perils to be faced when you meddle with a woman's heart."

  What a blasted disturbing way to put it, Anatole thought. The image of Madeline's sweet wistful face rose in his mind. He experienced a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do to her, rob her of her free will, force her to want him as desperately as he did her. But damn it! She was supposed to be his. Had not the Bride Finder said so?

  While Prospero finished sanding down the incantation he had written, Anatole fought to quell any misgivings. Rolling up the parchment, the specter turned to hand it to him. Anatole all but snatched it from his grasp.

  His hands trembled as he unfurled the paper to reveal a single line of script. He frowned. "This seems a rather short spell."

  "But 'tis a passing powerful one."

  "How do I use it? How does it work?"

  "You will understand as soon as you have read the words."

  Anatole stepped closer into the pool of torchlight, holding the manuscript up. Prospero's dashing flow of letters was almost indecipherable. He feared the old devil had forgotten and jotted down the spell in Latin or some such. But as he squinted closer, he was finally able to make out the words. There were only three of them.

  "Simply… simply love her," he read aloud.

  Simply love her? Anatole scowled in bewilderment.

  "What the deuce kind of spell is this?" he asked, whipping about to face Prospero. But in a whisper of air, his ancestor had vanished.

  "Prospero!” he roared as the realization slammed through him. He had just been made into the most spectacular sort of fool. The wily sorcerer had been toying with him as usual, had never intended to grant his request for a spell. Outrage and disappointment knifed through him, made all the sharper by the edge of his own despair.

  "Damn you," Anatole choked. He rent the parchment into a thousand bits and flung them on the floor.

  "I should have known better than to come to you for help. Thank you so much for bloody damned nothing!"

  Snatching up the torch, he stormed out of the tower. The laughter that followed him was hearty and deep. But not entirely unsympathetic.

  Chapter 15

  The thunder of the night gave way before the calm of morning, the light of day glistening on the dew-moistened flowers, the tangled grasses obscuring the path that led from the cliffs behind Castle Leger.

  But Anatole scarce noticed the sun warming his skin as he trudged homeward, heart weary, his muscles sore and aching from a night spent out in the open, exposed to the wind and the rain, falling into an exhausted sleep just before dawn.

  It was what he'd often done as a wild boy when his misery had threatened to overwhelm him. Run off into the night to lose himself in the very eye of the storm, much to poor Fitzleger's consternation and horror.

  Sometimes only the sprawling landscape of the cliffs, harsh beneath a sky blackened with thunder", had been large enough to contain his youthful griefs. His pain at being unloved and unwanted, feared and despised. His terror of being forever outcast, alone.

  In the midst of the driving rain, boyish tears could fall unremarked. He could let loose the dread force of his mind, and be afraid of harming no one save himself. While the sea had battered at the shore below, he'd often used his power to batter at the rugged cliff face, hammering at the immovable stones with all the grief and fury he possessed. Lashing out until he had collapsed into a fit of unconsciousness. Only to be found the next morning by Fitzleger and carried tenderly back to the gatehouse, having achieved a temporary sense of peace.

  But he'd found no peace out on the cliffs last night, Anatole thought, wincing as he pressed one hand to his aching back, his sun-stiffened shirt raw and scratchy against his skin. Maybe because he'd grown too old to batter uselessly at rocks, too old to cry, even in the rain. He'd spent most of those dark hours simply standing at the edge of the cliffs, getting wet and miserable. Playing out in his head over and over that painful scene with Madeline in the bedchamber, hearing again Prospero's mocking laughter, being tormented by those three cryptic words.

  Simply love her.

  With that useless advice had ended his last best chance of winning Madeline's heart. No spell. No charm. No love potion. Then, for him, it was quite hopeless. Sighing wearily, he raked the damp black mat of hair from his eyes, now wanting only one thing.

  To salvage some remnant of his dignity. To slip back into Castle Leger unseen, without anyone noticing the full extent of his folly, just how low he had sunk.

  Limping carefully along, he managed to avoid the bustling stable yard and the curious eyes of his grooms. He plunged up the worn footpath leading to Lady Deidre's garden, when he was dismayed to see someone emerging from the house.

  The last person in the world he wished to encounter.

  Madeline. His wife.

  A flush of shame mounted to his cheeks, and he bit back a curse at the woman's ability to take him by surprise. Moving with a swiftness he would not have thought his stiff muscles capable of, he ducked behind a stand of rhododendron trees.

  It was a familiar hiding place from his childhood, although he'd fit much better as a lad. But he crouched down beneath the leafy branches, holding himself perfectly immobile. He still remembered the arts of concealment. He'd been so good at it as a boy.

  It had become the only way he could get near his mother, ever look upon her face. Sadness washed over him to think that he had been reduced to this again.

  Striving to curb his impatience, he prayed that whatever had brought Madeline out into the garden would take her swiftly back again. Lord, he hoped she wasn't bent on one of her merry flower-gathering expeditions. Each morning the woman filled the house to bursting with the wretched things.

  But as Madeline meandered farther down the path, there was little of merriment in her steps. She moved with a certain listlessness, the straw basket she carried banging against her knee. The shawl that trailed over her shoulders was half slipping off, and she seemed unaware of it.

  Craning his neck, Anatole strained to catch her expression, but her features were hidden beneath the wide brim of a deep green bonnet.

  Finally she lifted her face to the sky, blink
ing as though astonished to discover the sun was shining. Her winsome face was so damnably pale. All her bright curiosity about the world seemed to have quite drained away. And her eyes… even from this distance he could see they were red-rimmed and swollen. Had she spent the whole night weeping after he'd left her?

  His heart ached with such longing to go to her and draw her into his arms that he had to clench his fists to stay the impulse. For how could he offer comfort when he knew he was the source of her unhappiness?

  She stood there, observing the garden for what seemed an eternity. Ducking her head, she emitted a heavy sigh and returned to the house, her flower basket left empty.

  To Anatole, watching her go, it seemed as though a shadow had fallen across his lady, one that he recognized all too well. He'd seen it creep slowly over his own mother's gentle features, robbing her of her joy, her very reason until she had…

  Oh, God! Anatole pressed his face against the rough tree bark, his blood iced with a chilling fear. He should have obeyed his instinct, sent Madeline away that very first day.

  Now it was too bloody late. What in fiery hell was he going to do?

  Simply love her Prospero's persistent words pounded through his head.

  "Damn you," Anatole whispered hoarsely. "I don't know how."

  Why don't you start by telling her how you feel, you young clod?

  Prospero's voice sounded so close, so real, Anatole straightened away from the trees and cast a wary glance over his shoulder. But the specter's power had never extended beyond the old tower. Anatole had to be imagining he'd heard such an insane suggestion.

  Tell Madeline how he felt? By thunder, he'd rather face an entire army of kill-crazed Mortmains. When was the last time he'd ever shown anyone what was in his heart, made himself so vulnerable? He couldn't even remember.

  But his fingers drifted up to trace the outline of his scar. Perhaps that was the trouble. He could remember, all too well. Confess his foolish longings to Madeline? Impossible, he could never do it.

  Coward!

  The epithet cracked in his ears, and he spun about wildly. The voice was real enough this time. But he was no longer sure if these thoughts came from Prospero or somewhere deep inside of himself.

  He stepped from his hiding place and plodded up the garden path, strangely conscious of all the fragrant blossoms Madeline had left ungathered. His gaze dropped down to the daisies strewn across his path, perky white petals he usually trampled in his haste to get down to the stable yard.

  But for some reason, his bride seemed particularly fond of those simple flowers. Anatole stared at them for long moments, then swallowed hard. His stiff joints throbbed in protest as he bent down and began to uproot the daisies one by one.

  He was appalled to see the way his big hands shook, but it had been a long time since he picked flowers for a lady. A very long time. He gathered up a handful in great haste, not daring to pause, to question what fresh madness had come over him.

  Hurrying toward the house, he slipped through the French doors leading into the grand dining room, the way Madeline had gone.

  The chamber stood empty, but Anatole shrank back, startling himself as he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass mounted above the mantel.

  He looked like something out of those tales the village women used to affright their wayward children. Stories of a black-visaged goblin king who crept from beneath his rocky lair to snatch away naughty boys and girls.

  He scraped one hand along his beard-roughened jaw. He desperately needed to shave, bathe himself, don fresh clothes before he went in search of Madeline. He buttoned up his shirt and made a pathetic effort to finger comb his hair, when he heard someone approaching the room.

  Not Madeline. His inner sense told him clearly who it was, the familiar cold weight of guilt settling over his heart as Bess Kennack whisked into the room.

  She bore an empty tray, intent upon cleaning up the remains of a breakfast that had gone uneaten. But at the sight of Anatole, she reared back with a gasp, nearly dropping the silver platter.

  Her eyes widened with momentary shock, then she recovered herself with a shrug that seemed to say it was not that astonishing to see the master of Castle Leger looking like a demon spewed up from the depths of hell.

  "Good morrow, sir," she said in her toneless voice.

  Anatole ignored the greeting. "Where is your mistress?" he asked. "Has she gone upstairs?"

  "No, sir. She is in the front parlor, receiving a visitor."

  A visitor? Anatole slapped his hand against the mantelpiece in pure frustration.

  "Blast Fitzleger," he said. "He would pick this particular time to come calling."

  He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until Bess replied, "No, m'lord. Tis not Fitzleger, but that there French gentleman who came to dinner last night."

  Rochencoeur? Roman's ridiculous little toady? Anatole scowled. "What the deuce does he want here?"

  "I believe he came on an errand for your cousin, sir. Roman St. Leger."

  Roman. The mere mention of the name caused Anatole's gut to clench. "What kind of errand?"

  "Why, Roman sent the mistress the most glorious bouquet of roses I have ever seen." Bess's gaze dropped scornfully toward the brace of daisies Anatole held crushed in his fist.

  He felt the sting of red in his cheeks, and he snapped, "You can be about your business, girl."

  When Bess moved to clear the table, he added with a snarl, "Elsewhere."

  She backed away with a respectful curtsy, but as she quit the room, a thin smile curled her lips. A smile that splintered in his heart like a shard of glass.

  He glanced down at the daisies he clutched, and was not at all surprised to find the blasted things crushed in his hand.

  * * * * *

  Madeline arranged the lush red roses in a crystal vase, jerking her hand back when she pricked her thumb on a thorn.

  Pulling a rueful face, she sucked at her injured fingertip, thinking it appropriate that of all flowers, Roman St. Leger would choose to send roses. Exactly like the man himself, beautiful but somewhat treacherous.

  The flowers had come with a charming note expressing Roman's regrets for his conduct at the supper party. But Madeline feared she should have accepted neither the roses nor the message. Anatole had expressly forbidden her to have anything more to do with his cousin.

  She ran a grave risk of courting Anatole's anger, and matters already stood badly enough between her and her husband. But Roman had been clever, sending his poor friend as his ambassador.

  Rochencoeur looked ill at ease to find himself back at Castle Leger. Madeline didn't have the heart to distress the Frenchman further by thrusting the flowers back at him and showing him the door. She could always dispose of the roses later when Yves had gone.

  While Madeline arranged the fragrant blossoms, Yves paced about the parlor, the stiff satin of his breeches crackling with every step. Powdered, patched, and perfumed, he should have been a gentleman in waiting at Versailles instead of paying a morning call in the backwaters of Cornwall.

  The rugged St. Leger males would no doubt have sneered at the Frenchman's effeminate mannerisms, but Yves's elegance made Madeline conscious of her own bedraggled appearance, her hair straggling from beneath the lace cap tied under her chin, her gown as gray as her mood.

  Though it took great effort, she summoned a smile and motioned Rochencoeur toward a chair.

  "Pray, monsieur, do sit down and allow me to offer you some refreshment."

  "Oh, non, Madame is tres gentille, but I must not detain you. Certainement you have many affairs of the more importance. Your husband…" Rochencoeur's throaty voice faltered a little as his eyes flicked toward the door. "He will be wanting you, oui"

  After what she'd said to him in bed last night? Madeline winced. No, not likely.

  "My husband is not here, monsieur," she said. "He is out attending to estate business."

  Madeline thought the lie fell awkwardly from her t
ongue, but Yves appeared too relieved by Anatole's absence to notice.

  She felt glad, for it would have been mortifying to confess the truth to a stranger, that she had not the least notion where her husband was.

  After Anatole had left her, all efforts to cry herself to sleep had proved to be in vain. By the time the first light of morning had broken over her windowsill, she'd waxed desperate enough to brave the uncharted reaches of Anatole's bedchamber, to apologize.

  But all she'd found was his bed, not slept in. Sometime during the night, the man had vanished. Out in the darkness, out in the storm, and on foot. He hadn't even bothered to saddle his horse.

  No one at Castle Leger had any notion where he'd gone or when he might return. Madeline had gone nigh frantic imagining him lost out there on the moors or fallen from one of the cliff paths, his body broken and bleeding. And it would be entirely her fault.

  But none of Anatole's household dared question the master's actions, let alone brave his wrath by presuming to go in search of him. Torn between fear and frustration, Madeline had worked herself up into such a state, even the surly Trigg had taken pity on her.

  "There's no sense frettin' yerself, mistress," the old man had said. "Master has a habit of going off by himself. He'll return when he's good and ready. You'll just have to get accustomed to it."

  Accustomed to it? That she never would.

  Damn the man, she thought bleakly. Was he going to run off this way every time he made love to her?

  Forgetting all about her guest, she drifted over to the parlor window and plucked back the curtain to peer out at the carriage drive, as she had done more than a dozen times already that morning. Staring down that long road leading to Castle Leger, so desolate even in the bright sunlight.

  It filled her with a certain bleak amusement to note that Anatole's old hound was doing the same thing. Ranger perched atop the portico steps forlornly awaiting his master's return.

  She let the curtain fall back into place with a soft sigh, cursing herself yet again for her blunt tongue. When would she ever learn to curb it? When would she ever learn, especially with men, to stop being so blasted honest?