St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  "Well, it—it has an extensive library, the work of many generations."

  "And your Anatole, he is fond of reading?"

  "Oh… oh, yes, he makes great use of books."

  "Ah!" Madeline had sighed.

  Her own fertile mind had filled in the rest of the details about Anatole St. Leger. She could see him so clearly, this gentle scholar who preferred a life of solitary contemplation to the shallow pleasures most men sought. Likely he would be pale and slender from his long nights of study, seeking wisdom from a score of books.

  By the time Fitzleger had pressed Anatole's miniature into her hands, Madeline had been completely spellbound.

  "My young master gets very lonely there in his castle by the sea," Fitzleger had said.

  "It is possible to be lonely even in the midst of a bustling city, sir," Madeline had replied with a sad smile.

  "You could relieve that loneliness, my dear Breton. I believe you are destined to become Anatole's bride."

  "Me?" Madeline had laughed and shook her head. "I fear I have neither the wealth nor the gentle graces that most men seek in a wife."

  " St. Leger is not most men. I cannot explain how, but I know…" The old man placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. "I know that you are all Anatole St. Leger could ever want. I believe with all my heart that you are the only woman he could love."

  Madness. But staring deep into Fitzleger's earnest blue eyes, Madeline had believed it, too. It was most strange because she had long ago surrendered any hopes of marriage.

  She knew she was not possessed of the charm that could flatter a man into forgetting she had no dowry. If she had not been aware of her womanly shortcomings, she had Mama and the rest of London Society to point them out to her.

  Madeline's intelligence, her logic, her forthright manner had alarmed what few suitors she'd ever had. Poor Brixstead still hid behind the nearest pillar whenever he saw her enter a ballroom.

  At the age of twenty-two, Madeline had resigned herself to ending her days like cousin Harriet. A childless spinster, the poor relation, ever trying to make herself useful to the rest of the family, invited to supper when she was needed to even out the numbers at the table.

  Now, all of a sudden, Mr. Fitzleger was holding out to her the prospect of so much more… her own home, babes, and a husband to care for her, who would offer her more than mere wealth, but also the rich gifts of his mind, a man who would value hers in return.

  I know you are all Anatole St. Leger could ever want. Madeline had hugged those words close to her heart. Gazing at Anatole's portrait, for perhaps the first time in her life, Madeline, the practical, had dared to dream___

  Madeline was abruptly jarred out of her dreamings by a sudden lurch of the carriage that nearly tumbled her from the seat. The coach suddenly slowed.

  "Now what?" Harriet exclaimed, scowling. "Highwaymen?"

  Madeline tucked her miniature out of sight.

  "In broad daylight? I doubt that—" she began, then broke off as one of the outriders galloped into view. A young man in powdered wig and scarlet livery, he kept pace with the coach on his chestnut mount, gesturing to Madeline to let down the window.

  Over Hetty's protest, she did, bracing herself against the blast of raw spring air.

  "What is it, Robert?" Madeline called.

  "I see the castle," the youth shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. "Castle Leger."

  Madeline's pulse gave a wild flutter. Despite the threatened damage to her powder and plumes, she thrust her head partly out the window, peering into the distance.

  The land sloped upward sharply. At the crest of a rocky outcropping, Castle Leger seemed to rise out of the land itself, a granite fortress, its crenellated towers and battlements stark against the lead gray sky.

  "It's a gothic nightmare!" Harriet gasped, her face pressed close to Madeline's as she leaned across the seat to peek out.

  "Nonsense," Madeline said, although she was a little daunted herself. "It's only an old castle. That must be the abandoned keep Fitzleger told me is no longer used."

  "It looks to me as if the whole place should be abandoned."

  Madeline ignored Harriet's remark, her eyes fixed in the distance, no longer conscious of the creakings of the carriage as it strained uphill or her cousin's grumblings. As the castle loomed closer, Madeline stared as if mesmerized by the massive towers and the ancient drawbridge, slammed closed as though to forbid any unwary visitors.

  The aspect of Castle Leger was terrifying… yet wild and magnificent in its isolation, like some castle that had fallen under an enchantment. A once and forever place that seemed to defy time itself. Kings and kingdoms might rise and fall, but Castle Leger would rest there still.

  Madeline pressed trembling fingers over the region of her heart, overwhelmed by a powerful emotion she could scarce put a name to. It was as if all of her life had but been a prelude to this. She had reached her destination at last, a castle by the edge of the sea, the sweet prince trapped within those forbidding walls waiting for her to break the spell of his loneliness.

  After years of wandering, Madeline St. Leger had finally come home.

  Shrinking back from the window, Madeline shook her head as though to clear it of these strange notions. She struggled to focus on more practical matters, how in a few minutes more, she would be stepping down from the carriage to greet her new husband.

  A wave of panic assailed her, but she fought it down, nervously moistening her lips. Never in her life had she taken such pains with her appearance as she had today. It had been her younger sisters with their regal blond beauty who had brought the gentlemen flocking around. In that moment Madeline believed she would have traded all her cleverness and book learning for either Louisa's tall, buxom figure or Juliette's melting blue eyes.

  Despising herself for the thought, Madeline reached up to pat one powdered curl and to smooth out the neckline of her gown.

  "Hetty. Do I look all right?" she demanded anxiously.

  Harriet sniffed. "Well enough to impress some provincial oaf."

  "My Anatole is not an oooff—" The last word came out as no more than an indignant gasp as the carriage lurched to a halt.

  Madeline's heart lurched along with it. When the coach door was flung open by one of her own bewigged servants, she struggled for composure as she descended the coach steps.

  Hitching her fur-trimmed pelisse about her shoulders, she clutched at her hat to protect her hair from the stiff breeze. Even the air seemed rougher here. Heavy with the scent and power of the sea, the wind whistled with a low keening sound around the stonework of the mansion.

  The second carriage, weighted down with Madeline's trunks and her elegant French maid, had pulled into line behind Madeline's own coach. Both vehicles had halted on the gravel drive before a wing of Castle Leger that appeared to have been remodeled for a more modern look. The windows were enlarged, and a Palladian-style facade added, complete with Corinthian pillars and a portico. A double set of curving stone stairs swept up to the imposing front door.

  The place had a stateliness about it, far more impressive than the snug brick manor on her parent's country estate they so seldom visited. And yet…

  Madeline frowned. The new part of Castle Leger jarred the senses, oddly mismatched to the medieval aspect of the castle-. It was almost as if the present owner had tried to forget the existence of the grim, forbidding towers that hovered in the background.

  Released from the carriage, Harriet tramped to Madeline's side. She surveyed the mansion with her usual sour expression.

  "So where is he?" she asked. "I see no sign of this eager bridegroom of yours."

  "Robert rode ahead to announce our arrival. I hardly expected Anatole to be at one of the windows, watching out for me. We are, after all, several days early."

  "One would expect to see at least a groom or some sort of servant stirring. Where is everyone? Are they all gone away or merely dead?"

  Before Madeline c
ould reply, she caught the faint echo of masculine laughter. But the direction of the sound was difficult to trace. Her gaze was drawn inexplicably back to the distant tower.

  Someone had been watching out for her after all. She could just make out the silhouette of a man pacing along the ramparts, a rather odd figure with a pointed beard, wearing a—a tunic and cloak? Madeline's lips parted in surprise as the strange figure paused to sweep her a courtly bow.

  She shielded her eyes for a better look, but the man was gone, leaving her to doubt if she had seen anything at all. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a trick played upon her by the sun breaking through the clouds.

  She shivered all the same, dragging her pelisse more tightly about her. But she forgot all about the strange vision at the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone was running eagerly down the mansion's stone steps. Pulse racing, Madeline turned, preparing to sink into her most respectful curtsy for her new husband.

  But it was Madeline's own outrider, panting to catch his breath.

  "Robert! Did you not announce us?" Madeline asked.

  "Yes, madam. But they won't let us in."

  "What!" Harriet exclaimed.

  "A horrible old man answered the door. He said St. Leger is not at home."

  "Not at home?" Madeline repeated weakly.

  "He said we should go away and come back later."

  "Of all the impertinence." Harriet bristled. "Did you tell him who we were?"

  "I'm sorry, Breton. The old fool never gave me a chance. He slammed the door in my face."

  Harriet's lips folded with steely purpose. "We'll just see about that."

  "No, Harriet," Madeline said. "There is no sense flying into a pelter until we find out what—"

  But Madeline's caution was lost on her cousin. Harriet was already charging up the stone stairs like a general setting out to take the castle by storm. Madeline exhaled a deep sigh, and minced after her cousin as well as she could in her uncomfortable heels. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Harriet was hammering out a tattoo with the brass knocker, calculated to rouse the entire household.

  Before Madeline could beg her cousin to proceed more gently, the door cracked open. A grizzled old man with a balding pate peered out. His bright black eyes glistened beneath bushy brows, reminding Madeline of a tale her old nurse had spun about a gnome who had mined for gold in the dark secret places of the earth.

  This particular gnome's lower lip jutted out in annoyance. "I told you people to go away," he growled. "Lucius Trigghorne don't let no strangers in when master's away, 'specially not women" He spat out the last word as though he were referring to some annoying species of vermin.

  "We are not strangers, you impertinent dolt," Harriet said. "Now, where has St. Leger gone?"

  "He's gone out ridin'."

  "When is he likely to return?"

  "Couldn't say. Maybe within one hour, maybe within ten. The master don't account for hisself to no one."

  "That is one thing that is going to have to change," Harriet began haughtily, but Madeline cut her off.

  "Harriet, please!" With an experience borne of smoothing over countless contretemps in her parents' household, Madeline stepped in front of Harriet. She faced the old man with her most confident and placating smile. "Of course, you are very right to obey your master's orders, Mr…-er—Trigghorne, was it? But you don't quite understand the situation, sir. I am your master's bride, come all the way from London."

  "Aye." Trigghorne did not yield the door an inch, regarding Madeline with even more contempt than before. "I heard tell about the master taking hisself a Lunnon wife."

  "And I am she. So if you would just be good enough to allow us inside and perhaps summon the housekeeper—"

  "Haven't got none." Trigghorne's thin chest puffed out with obvious pride. "Been no females on these premises for many a year."

  He added under his breath. "Leastwise none that stayed sane."

  "What!" Harriet gasped, but Madeline strove to ignore the remark, struggling to hold on to her patience as well.

  "Then, at least show us into a drawing room to await your master's return."

  "Not possible. Not when master's away," Trigghorne repeated stubbornly.

  "But she is his wife, you idiot," Harriet snapped.

  "No 'ceptions." And with that he slammed the door in Madeline's face. She stood there, stunned until she was roused by the sound of Harriet's indignant voice.

  "Of all the outrages! What sort of welcome is this? What kind of place have you brought us to, Madeline, where the mistress of the house is not even allowed to set foot across her own threshold?"

  "I don't know, Hetty," Madeline murmured, turning slowly away from the house, feeling daunted herself. First no tender bridegroom, then the way to her enchanted castle barred by a grumpy troll of a man. Nothing was unfolding as she'd expected.

  As she retreated from the doorstep, Harriet trailed after her, shrilling, "And what did that Trigghorne person mean when he said there were no women at this place, at least none that stayed sane?"

  "I don't know, Harriet. I don't know." Madeline pressed her fingertips to her brow in an effort to think. "Perhaps it was just that odd little man's notion of a jest, or he thought it his duty to drive us away. Obviously there has been some sort of mistake."

  "And you made it by coming here." Harriet clutched at Madeline's arm. "I think you should leave here while there is still time. This is a very dark and strange place." Glancing back at the grim aspect of the castle, Harriet gave an eloquent shudder. "I'm sure no one would blame you if you headed back to London at once."

  No one? Madeline felt the weight of the miniature between her breasts. The memory of the lonely young man depicted on that smooth oval of ivory helped to fortify her.

  She shook free of Harriet's grasp. "I am not about to be chased away by a servant who is simply a little… overzealous. I'm sure when St. Leger returns, he will be appalled at the way I was treated."

  "And what do you plan to do in the meantime? Sit down on the front steps and wait for him?"

  "Yes, if I have to."

  Harriet shot her an exasperated look. They were still debating the matter when a shout arose from the foot of the stone stairs.

  Young Robert ran halfway up, his powdered wig going askew as he waved his hat in excitement. “A rider approaching, madam. Perhaps it is your husband."

  Madeline tensed, becoming aware of the thunder of approaching hooves herself. From her vantage point on the stairs, she could make out the silhouette of a lone rider galloping down the track leading to Castle Leger.

  It must be Anatole. It could be no one else. She looked back at Harriet to give her a triumphant smile.

  "Anatole is coming home. Now you will see, Hetty. Everything will be fine."

  She didn't wait for her cousin's reply, but turned back to shield her eyes and watch the road with a mingling of excitement and nervous anticipation. But as the horseman loomed closer, Madeline's smile faded.

  It was not her Anatole, but a tall and powerful stranger, a man who looked far more like one of Harriet's dreaded brigands than Madeline's gentle bridegroom. Garbed all in black from his riding cape to high-top boots, he rode a large midnight-colored stallion. His shoulder-length dark hair tangled about his face in a mane as wild as that of his horse.

  "Merciful heavens!" Madeline heard Harriet breathe. "Never tell me that that great brute is your—"

  "No!" Madeline's hand groped toward the miniature of Anatole, clutching it as though it were a talisman to ward off evil. “Certainly not!"

  But a foreboding crept over her the closer the rider came. She experienced a strong urge to flee back to the safety of her coach.

  It was already too late. The horseman galloped into the courtyard, Madeline's own servants scattering back as though the ground had split asunder spewing forth the lord of Hades.

  The stranger drew rein abruptly in the courtyard below. "Where is she?" he roared out in a voice rife wit
h eager impatience.

  "Where the devil is my bride?"

  Chapter 2

  The dark stranger's words seemed to reverberate all around Madeline, echoing off the castle walls with a harsh mockery.

  Where the devil is my bride… my bride?

  Her heart stood still, her fingers clutching the miniature until she all but crushed the delicate ivory.

  "No!" she breathed, but the word came out more plea than denial. Through the haze of her shock, Madeline became aware of Harriet eyeing her doubtfully.

  "No, it is not him, I tell you!" Madeline blurted out before Harriet could speak. "That is not Anatole. It cannot be." But her voice sounded fierce with desperation even to her own ears.

  "This is some sort of mistake. A dreadful mistake," she repeated weakly.

  Or a bad dream.

  As the stranger dismounted from his horse, Madeline gazed at her portrait, half dreading, half hoping she would find some resemblance between this alarming man and the Anatole she so long had dreamed of. There was none. The man in the courtyard below bore not a trace of dreamy-eyed gentleness about him.

  He moved more with the gait of a warrior than a poet, the set of his powerful shoulders carrying an aura of authority, the kind that brooked no disobedience. Stable hands who had been conspicuously absent before when her own carriage arrived, now seemed to scurry out of nowhere. Bowing and scraping, they crept forward to take charge of the spirited stallion.

  The dark-haired man tossed off the reins with a careless grace, then strode across the courtyard with a bold assurance. As though he owned the place.

  Madeline felt her heart sink. Even Robert appeared deferential as he directed the man's attention toward the top of the stairs.

  As he gazed upward, Madeline shrank back, no longer able to fight off the realization. Deny it though she would, the dark-haired man could be no one other than Anatole St. Leger.

  Her husband. Madeline's stomach gave a sickened lurch. The miniature slipped from her fingers to dangle at the end of its ribbon. Feelings of complete betrayal warred with heartsick disappointment only to be replaced with a more immediate emotion as Anatole mounted the stairs. A strangling sense of panic.