"But how could your father have behaved so?" she asked. "Turning away from you, shutting himself off from the world. You were so young when your mother died. Who looked after you and the estate?"
"I had Mr. Fitzleger. He helped me learn my duties as the heir to Castle Leger."
"But you were not much more than twelve years old, were you not?"
"Little more than ten, but I aged quickly."
Too quickly, Madeline thought, noting the lines carved deep by Anatole's eyes, the brackets that framed his mouth, marks of care and sorrow that belonged to a much older man. She had never met the late Lyndon St. Leger, but she felt a strong resentment toward the man who could be so selfish in his grief, abandoning both his responsibilities and his son.
Her thoughts must have showed in her face, for Anatole rushed to his father's defense.
"My father did what he could to help on the days that he was stronger. Occasionally he would allow some of the villagers or Mr. Fitzleger to consult with him. My father had a—a unique knack for locating lost things. The only thing he never seemed to remember was where he'd misplaced his son."
Anatole attempted to jest, but the humor never quite touched his eyes. Madeline could see traces of the boy he must have been, hovering in the shadows, lonely, burdened down with responsibility too great for his years. Forever waiting for that library door to open to him. A door that never had.
She comprehended his pain all too well. She had never been the sort of daughter her parents wished for, either, with her love of books, blunt tongue, and mad red hair.
She longed to fling her arms about Anatole's waist and tell him she understood, to coax him to share more of his past with her. But this was the closest the man had ever allowed her to his heart. She hardly dared breathe, for fear of shattering the moment.
Gently she laid her hand atop his fist, where it rested upon the windowsill, for perhaps the first time in her life abandoning all words, trusting to her silence.
Anatole stared down at her fingers, as though such a gesture of comfort was an alien thing to him. Then slowly he turned his hand over. Unfurling his fingers, he intertwined them with hers one by one.
"Madeline, I—"he began, then broke off with a grimace. "Ah, hell! I've had to apologize to you so many times, you'd think I'd be better at it by now.
"About last night…"
He trailed off again, and a hot blush seared Madeline's cheeks. What had happened in her bedchamber or what had failed to happen was too raw and painful a subject for either of them to discuss.
Anatole rushed on instead, "I'm sorry for everything. For tossing your French friend out of here. I suppose I was jealous. I don't have his polished manners, and yesterday was such a damned mess. I have never been any good at supper parties and such like."
"Neither have I," Madeline said.
When he shot her an incredulous look, she nodded her head vigorously. "It's true. I have always had this awful penchant for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. I have been dismissed in disgrace from far more elegant dinners than yours, Mr. St. Leger."
Her words wrung a smile from him.
"I never meant to offend your family last night. Or Mr. Fitzleger."
"It's not important."
"But it is. You were already estranged from your relatives, and now I have made it worse. I should never have said what I did about not believing in the Bride Finder."
"Why not? It is a damned fool legend. I don't half believe it myself sometimes."
She should have been glad to hear him say so. For Anatole to abandon his superstitions, to be more enlightened, that was what she wanted, wasn't it? Then, why did his words fill her with a peculiar kind of sadness?
"That's the dangerous thing about legends," she mused aloud.
"What is?"
"Sometimes…" She faltered. It was a difficult thing to admit, even to herself. "Sometimes even the most sensible person in the world can end up wishing the legend was true."
He carried her hand to his lips, his mouth lingering, warm against her skin, and there was nothing sensible about the way her heart responded, pounding madly.
"Perhaps we simply haven't tried hard enough," he said. "Perhaps even a legend requires a little mortal help."
"Perhaps. But you must own it is rather difficult with me curled up in the library, and you… you too often vanishing into a world where I cannot follow."
"I wish I could show you that world, Madeline. There's so much more here than you have seen."
"Like the old keep?" she asked hopefully.
"No, not the damned keep. I'm talking about the land itself, more power and magic woven into it than you'd ever find in my ancestors' moldering bones. The way the mist settles over the hills like the smoke from a sorcerer's kettle. Or the sea during a thunderstorm, the foam breaking like a herd of wild white stallions. Or the cliffs on a moon-spun night—"
Madeline had rarely heard him speak with such passion. But he checked himself looking sheepish. "I sound like an idiot. I'm a poor hand at explaining such things."
"Oh, no, you do it beautifully."
A poet's words, an artist's eye, and a warrior's battle-roughened voice. She found it an enchanting combination. "Please go on."
"It would be better if I could simply take you out with me."
"I wish you could. But you would not have much patience with me jogging after you on a pony or some sluggish old mare, which is the most I could manage."
He frowned, chafing her fingers in thoughtful silence for a moment. "There is another way," he said at last. "If you could but have enough faith that I would keep you safe. Could you do that, Madeline? Could you trust me?"
Trust him? He'd said that once before, demanded it of her, in fact. But this time he was asking with all the eloquence of his dark eyes, all the warm strength of his hand enfolding hers. She didn't have the least notion what he had in mind, but it didn't seem to matter.
"Yes, my lord," Madeline" whispered, staggered to discover just how much she did trust Anatole St. Leger. Enough to follow him anywhere.
As Anatole led her from the library, all of Yves Rochencoeur's dire warnings were entirely forgotten.
Chapter 16
The roan horse galloped along the beach, spraying up ocean and sand, the whitecap waters lapping against the animal's powerful legs. Perched before Anatole in the saddle, Madeline felt the hunter's muscles bunch beneath her, and she clung harder to her husband's neck.
The horse, Anatole had insisted, was one of his more gentle mounts, a sturdy gelding, noted for its endurance rather than its speed. Gazing up at the beast, Madeline had feared the great brute would prove more than fast enough. But Anatole had given her no time to think or reconsider. He had swept her up before him, carrying her off to his world, a land of lonely moors, stark cliffs, and sprawling sky.
Peeking from beneath the broad brim of the sensible bonnet she had worn to protect her easily burned complexion, the landscape seemed to pass Madeline by in a dizzying blur. And yet she felt more breathless than afraid, cradled between Anatole's hard thighs, protected by the strength of his arms, the ends of his black cloak enfolded about her, sheltering her from the stiff breeze raking in from the sea.
The sun had begun its downward arc, and they had covered a vast distance already. Over meadows, past fields dotted with sheep and dark stands of trees, isolated cottages, farms and gardens hewed out of places so rough, it seemed a miracle anything could survive, the people equally as rugged.
They had cantered along the dusty lane that snaked through the village, scattering chickens, causing old fishermen mending their nets to start up and take notice, grubby-faced urchins to point and shout. Past the Dragon's Fire Inn, where Anatole informed her bold cavaliers had long ago gathered to plot the ruin of Cromwell's army. Past the spires of St. Gothian, the old church built upon the spot where pagan Celts had once held their wild revels. Past the quiet rectory, with ivy clambering up its worn stone walls, where Mr. Fitzleger pl
ayed on the lawn with his golden-haired little granddaughter.
Madeline had been allowed no more than time to wave at the astounded clergyman before Anatole had turned the gelding away from the village.
Heading down to the shore, he'd worked the horse up the steep paths carved into the cliffs and back out into the windswept hills again to show her the standing stone at the crest, rising up from waves of purple heather.
Like the famous Stonehenge in the south of England, Anatole told her, these mystifying monuments were scattered throughout Cornwall. No one knew from whence they came; they were obviously no trick of nature. The mass of granite that towered at the top of the hill appeared like something that had been cast aside by a giant's careless hand.
It didn't surprise Madeline to find such a strange object gracing Anatole's land. For if ever there had been a place destined to be marked by magic and mystery, it was Castle Leger.
In the shadow of the stone, Anatole offered both her and the gelding some respite from the pounding pace he'd set all afternoon. Swinging out of the saddle, Anatole lifted her down. Stiff from the long, bruising ride, she staggered like a sailor struggling to find his shore legs. Anatole banded his arm about her waist to steady her, at the same time releasing the horse. The gelding ambled off toward the straggling shade of some trees, cropping at tender shoots of spring grass.
It seemed the most sweet and natural thing in the world for Anatole to take her by the hand, and they strolled in companionable silence through the heather. All shadows, secrets, misunderstandings that stood between them felt far away, reduced to insignificance beneath such a canopy of azure sky.
With their backs to the standing stone, they looked out over the breathtaking slope of countryside. From these heights they could see all the way to the inlet that shimmered far below Castle Leger. Shrouded by a ring of jagged cliffs, the sparkling sea seemed to stretch on forever, its glass surface dotted with the white sails of fishing sloops, skimming the surface like gauzy butterflies.
"You have seen all of Castle Leger now," Anatole said. "Or nearly so. What do you think?"
The question was voiced with seeming casualness, but she could sense how anxiously he awaited her answer.
"Magnificent, my lord," she murmured.
His eyes gleamed with pride, but her gaze was more for the man himself than any vista of land, sea, and sky. Before they'd set out on this venture, Anatole had insisted upon bathing, donning fresh linen, tying his hair back. But the wind fought to uncivilize him again, tugging at the black flaps of his riding cloak, snatching away the thong that bound his queue, and Madeline felt grateful to it.
It suited him far better, the flow of hair whipping back from his proud shoulders, tangling about the swarthy contours of his face. Like his land, he was battle-scarred, weather-toughened, untamed, and free. Madeline wondered how she could have ever wished him otherwise.
When he glanced down at her, she lowered her gaze, embarrassed to be caught devouring the man with her eyes.
"It is all far more beautiful than I had ever imagined it could be when I first arrived here," she said. "Your—your land, that is."
"Your land now, too, Madeline," he replied softly. "You are the mistress of Castle Leger."
It was a fact she tended to forget, had never fully believed until this moment, standing with him on a heather-strewn hillside, her hand linked to his. She could almost feel the power, the pride of Anatole St. Leger flowing into her through his calloused fingertips, causing her heart to swell.
Their eyes met as they had done so often these past hours, only to dart away again like the wild gulls that circled up from the sea. Never had they been so much at ease in each other's company, yet at the same time, so self-conscious.
Easing her hand from his, she found it easier to direct her attention to the stone that loomed behind them, the gigantic rock towering above her. A circle had been worn smooth through its center like an enormous eye, large enough for a man to crouch down and pass through.
"It would have taken an amazing feat of engineering to have moved such a thing to the top of this hill," she said. "How do you suppose it came to be here?"
"I've no idea. Some believe it was the work of my ancestor Prospero. He was a… rather peculiar man." Anatole ran his hand over the rock's worn side. "But I'm certain the stone is far older than that. The monument to some ancient culture. The Druids, perhaps the altar stone of a priestess."
Madeline tipped her head to one side, considering. "No, I doubt this was the property of any woman. It seems too… well, too arrogant, too masculine."
Anatole smiled. "In any case, the villagers think there's magic in it. Crawling through the stones eye is supposed to cure a man of anything, from the gout to being hilla-ridden."
"Hilla-ridden?"
"Beset with nightmares."
"And have you ever tried the powers of the stone?"
He looked sheepish as he confessed, "Perhaps once or twice. When I was a lad."
"Because you had bad dreams?"
"No."
"You must have been such a strong, strapping boy. I cannot imagine that there could have been much else ever wrong with you."
He said nothing, only smiled again, but this time it was tinted with sadness. Madeline was beset with an image of him, playing here by himself as a lonely child, creeping solemnly through the circle in the stone. Hoping… for what? To be healed of whatever it was that made him so unlovable in the eyes of his parents? Just as she had so often lingered before mirrors, wishing away the cursed red hair that marked her as so different from the rest of her family.
But there were no miracles to be found in wishing or in blocks of stone, no matter how mysterious. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so when something in Anatole's face as he gazed at the stone stopped her. Something a little awed, a little vulnerable.
She examined the rock again herself, allowing her sense of wonder to overcome her reason. Removing her gloves, she laid experimental hands upon the granite mound's cool surface. Then hiking up her skirts, she ducked down, struggling her way through the center of the eye. The toe of her kid boot caught on the edge, and she stumbled, clutching at the edge of the ring to keep from falling.
Anatole rushed to her rescue, his eyes lit by a tender amusement as he helped her through to the other side.
"Ow," she said, examining the raw skin where the rock had abraded the sensitive wrist area below her sleeve. "Your stone doesn't seem to have had a very healthy effect on me."
"That's because you didn't do it right. You have to crawl through it backward, nine times against the sun."
"I believe I'll defer that until a time when I am desperately ill."
Her words caused him to pale.
"God forbid," he said fervently. "That such a time should ever come." He drew her injured wrist to his lips and brushed his mouth lightly across her skin.
It was as unreasonable to believe healing could be found in a man's kiss any more than it could in a granite stone. And yet Madeline felt warmth that tingled to her innermost core, the throbbing pain displaced by a far sweeter ache that made her feel suddenly trembling and shy.
She retreated around the rock, cradling her hand to preserve the warm feel of his mouth, the kiss, like this golden afternoon to be pressed between the leaves of her memory forever.
Anatole made no effort to follow. He studied her through half-lowered eyelids in a way that was as unsettling as his kiss had been.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" she asked, somewhat unsteadily.
"For everything. For bearing my company this afternoon. For trusting me about the horse. For not telling me what a superstitious fool you think I am."
A guilty heat crept into Madeline's cheeks as she recalled how close she had come to doing just that, how little she deserved his gratitude.
"My cousin always said this stone was nothing but a blasted eyesore, and perhaps he's right," Anatole said. "If he had been the lord of Castle
Leger, he would have found a way to tear it down."
Madeline didn't have to ask which cousin he meant. To even speak Roman's name threatened to invoke some evil spirit that would put a blight on the day, the newfound harmony between them.
"It is a good thing, then, that he is not Castle Leger's master," she said. "He could never be at one with the land or its people the way you are."
Anatole gave a wry laugh. "Meaning that I am as ignorant as any of my peasant farmers."
"No! But you do understand them, respect their beliefs. I suppose that is why they all adore you so."
Anatole looked as though he thought she'd lost her mind.
"Have you never noticed?" she asked. "I have, even in the short time I have been at Castle Leger. They all hold you in great esteem, your servants, your tenants, even the folk in the village. They fear and love and respect and… and are fiercely proud of you. You are ever their own dread lord."
He laughed outright in disbelief at her words, but a hint of embarrassment stained his cheeks.
"And you?" he prodded. "What about you?" He was still smiling, but his eyes were in earnest.
Madeline's heart skipped a beat, and she scarce knew how to answer him.
"You are my own dread lord as well," she said with a teasing smile, then ducked her head, lest he see something in her eyes she was not even sure of herself.
She drifted away from him, feigning a deep interest in a butterfly flitting amongst the heather. Anatole watched her go, suppressing a stab of disappointment. The day had been too perfect, the sun too bright, the sky too blue, enough to give a man unreasonable hopes again.
Yet he felt he had accomplished more with Madeline in this one afternoon than he had done with all his damn fool efforts at garden walks, teatimes, and supper parties. He should have had the wit to realize it sooner. If there was any place he would be good at wooing a woman, it was from the back of a horse.
She was looking happier than she had since her arrival at Castle Leger, the shadow that had so alarmed him, darkening her winsome features this morning had passed away, gone for the moment.