St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  When he had first told her of this ability, she had felt uneasy, violated, her very privacy threatened. But now the notion that Anatole could always sense her whereabouts was oddly comforting, like being sheltered in the warm folds of his cloak, redolent with his strong masculine scent. No matter what distance parted them, she would never have to feel alone again.

  That only made it all the more unbearable to think of him out there somewhere, solitary, hurting. She loved him far too much… loved him.

  The thought caused Madeline's heart to still. She had never whispered those words before, not to herself, not even to him when they had so passionately made love upon the hillside.

  And yet it was like something that had always been a part of her, something she always should have known. In spite of all that he was, nay, because of the man that he was, she loved him. And if she had ever been able to turn away from her precious reason, and listen to her heart instead, she would have recognized that fact much sooner.

  Madeline jerked upright, muttering, "You were not wrong, Mr. Fitzleger. I may be a great fool, but I am the woman destined to love Anatole St. Leger. And I am the one that he needs right now."

  But what was she to do about that. How in the world could she find Anatole with Mr. Fitzleger already long gone? If only she had a bit of her husband's ability to reach out with her mind and feel his presence. If only she could share some of his power—

  But she had already done so once before, a soft voice seemed to remind her.

  The sword.

  No. Madeline trembled at the very notion of testing the weapon's mysterious magic again. And yet… Had she not already played the coward enough for one night?

  Forcing herself to her feet, she crept about the room, searching for the weapon. Not a difficult task in the tiny vicarage. Mr. Fitzleger had left the mighty sword propped up against the hall table bearing his discarded gloves and Effie's pink ruffled bonnet.

  Madeline stared at the weapon for long moments, working up her courage. Finally she approached with all the trepidation King Arthur must have felt upon first stumbling across the legendary sword in the stone.

  Wiping her damp palms in her skirt, she forced her trembling fingers around the hilt, half wincing, as though expecting the weapon to flash lightning. She was prepared to let go at any second should the crystal begin to do anything strange.

  She carted the sword gingerly back to the fireside, holding it so the crystal-embedded pommel rested against the palm of her hand. Although she was quite alone in the parlor, she stole a self-conscious glance over her shoulder, feeling singularly foolish.

  Now what? Did she need to chant some sort of magic incantation? No, she had not had to do anything like that the first time.

  All she had done was peer into the crystal and concentrate.

  "If you really do possess magic," she murmured, "then show me Anatole. Show me where to find him."

  She stared until her eyes ached with the effort, the crystal reflecting back facets of firelight and a distorted image of her own pale face. Images that gradually shifted and blurred to become… mist.

  The crystal was clouding with it, the fog parting enough to reveal the dark figure of a man kneeling.

  Madeline's breath snagged in her throat. Anatole! Only he was not alone. A cloaked figure hovered near him, fiery red hair tangling in the wind. Surely herself… although Madeline could not clearly see her own face.

  The sword was not showing her Anatole's present whereabouts, but affording her another glimpse of the future. A cold chill crept over Madeline's skin, but she forced herself to keep looking, willing her future self to reach out to Anatole.

  The cloaked figure did indeed reach out. The mist swirled, there was a flash of steel. And then blood. Anatole's chest streaked crimson as he fell to the ground.

  A horrified cry breached Madeline's lips. She dropped the sword. It clanged against the fire irons, then thudded to the carpet as she backed away trembling. For long moments she could not even bring herself to look at the weapon.

  When she dared to do so, she saw only a sword, the crystal dulled and still in the dying firelight. But the dreadful vision remained, branded upon Madeline's mind.

  Anatole. The mist. The blood.

  She pressed a shaking hand to her lips. No, it couldn't possibly be… But her mind was already racing, remembering. Hadn't Anatole said that he had seen something similar in the sword? A warning that he was to beware the woman of flame.

  He'd smiled and said the danger was only to his heart, not his life. Yet Madeline had clearly seen herself lift the knife and—

  "Dear God, no!" she whispered vehemently. "It won't happen. I would never… There is nothing that could possibly make me—"

  Make her turn against her own husband? Had she not already done so once tonight? Backed away in panic, fending him off with his own sword.

  What would she have done if he had raged closer? She clutched her hands to her stomach, suddenly feeling sick. She didn't know the answer, only that she never intended to find out.

  This was one vision she would not allow to come true. She would find a way to prevent it. But how many times must Anatole have thought the same thing?

  Once more she could hear his despairing voice. "It's like a nightmare I know will come true, and there's not a God-cursed thing I can do to prevent it."

  "Oh, Anatole," she mourned. With all else he had been forced to endure, the loneliness, the rejection. To be afflicted with this sort of torment. She should have held him, comforted him, let him know for once in his life there was someone who understood, who loved him. But now it was all too late.

  Her heart broke for him and for herself as well.

  For she knew she must never go near her husband again.

  Chapter 20

  All was not well at Castle Leger. The whispers scattered through the village like the crackling of dried leaves blown by a chilling wind. The dread lord's bride had fled from him, and was refusing to return. Roman was hell-bent on taking a wife of his own choosing and resurrecting Lost Land, the home of his mortal enemies.

  Somehow Fitzleger, their venerable Bride Finder, had failed. Perhaps he had finally grown too old for his office, and there was no other to take his place. The dark days threatened to return all over again, that grim time when Cecily St. Leger had gone mad and the Lord Lyndon had shut himself away, abandoning his lands and his people.

  Bess Kennack, recently dismissed from service at the castle, declared that this time it spelled the doom of all St. Legers. Soon every last one of them would be destroyed. But no one else in the village shared her malice-filled joy. The prosperity of the St. Legers had always meant their prosperity, and in the ensuing days cottagers all along the rocky coast turned anxious eyes toward the castle on the cliffs___

  Anatole wandered aimlessly through the front hall, servants whisking out of his sight. But he scarce noticed. They were no more than shadows hovering on the periphery of his senses as he made his solitary way through the house.

  A house that continued to be haunted with her presence, Madeline's workaday bonnet and gloves still lying on the hall table, one of her books—the woman seemed to scatter them everywhere—abandoned on the seat of a tapestry-covered chair.

  Anatole picked up the volume, his gaze falling upon the title. The Odyssey of Homer. During that week when he'd been trying so awkwardly to woo Madeline, he recalled allowing her to read portions of the work aloud to him.

  He had become surprisingly caught up in the tale of Odysseus, a lost warrior struggling to return home to his faithful wife, fighting his way through countless perils and adventures. Or had the magic of the story all lay in the soft lilt of Madelines voice?

  Strange, Anatole thought as he thumbed through the pages. It was Madeline who had fled, wandering from home, yet he was the one who felt lost… He dropped the book back on the chair with a dull thud. For days after her flight, he had insisted upon keeping everything just as she'd left it. Ordering the can
dles lit in the library, the furniture dusted, the vases kept filled with her favorite flowers. Holding himself in readiness in case by some miracle she discovered she could love the devil after all and decide to return to him.

  And each morning as his prayers went unanswered, he allowed things to slip a little more. One less fire lit, one more curtain closed, the flowers left to wither and die. Until the house had become shrouded in gloom like himself, a hollow-eyed wreck, knowing more of nightmares than of sleep.

  Hope, he was fast discovering, could be a killing thing, cutting a man down an inch at a time. More than once he'd thought of putting an end to this agony of suspense by saddling his horse, thundering into the village, where she sought refuge with Fitzleger, and forcing her back into his arms.

  Something always restrained him. His pride, all the villagers thought. But Anatole knew better. It was fear. Fear of seeing that stricken look on her face, of feeling her shrink away from him.

  It had driven him nigh to madness when she'd done it the first time. He could not endure it again. His only hope now was Fitzleger. If somehow the old man could persuade Madeline in time to forget what had happened that dreadful night, to forgive Anatole for being what he was, to learn to accept him.

  Once more his fate rested in the hands of the Bride Finder.

  "My lord?"

  The quiet voice obtruded painfully upon Anatole's thoughts. After all these years, he finally understood what had induced his father to shut himself away from the world.

  He turned reluctantly to face the slender figure who stood poised halfway down the stairs. Anatole's extraordinary senses had not been as keen of late. Perhaps being in constant pain began to dull the edges of a man's soul.

  He wondered exactly how long Marius St. Leger had been lingering behind him, watching. If Anatole had had his way, he would have denied admittance to his cousin and those soul-prying eyes of his. But necessity had driven him to summon the doctor. Because of Will.

  As Marius descended the rest of the stairs, Anatole asked, "Have you finished your examination of the boy? How does he fare?"

  Marius's solemn face appeared graver than usual. "Will's surgery seems to be healing as it should. We have been fortunate. No sign of infection, no fever, but…" His frown deepened.

  "But what?" Anatole demanded.

  "The boy is still wasting away. Mr. Trigghorne tells me he can get Will to take little in the way of nourishment."

  "Then, force him to eat! Can you not brew up some concoction that will stimulate the lad's appetite?"

  "I have medicines for the body, not the mind, Anatole. Will won't even sit up in bed, let alone make use of the crutches you had fashioned for him. He feels he has no reason to go on trying, no reason even to live."

  That was an emotion Anatole found all too acutely familiar.

  "Then, there is nothing more you can do for the boy?"

  "No," Marius said softly. “But you can."

  "Me? I'm no God-cursed physician."

  "But you are his master."

  Anatole stared at Marius incredulously. What did his cousin expect him to do? Command Will to live? A rather ironic order that would be coming from a man who had little regard for his own life. A man so lacking in control that he had managed to terrify his wife half to death, drive her away from him.

  "I don't feel much like anyone's master," he muttered.

  Marius said nothing, his eyes laden with sadness and disappointment. Curse him! As though he had truly expected Anatole to perform some blasted miracle. Marius, of all people, should know better. And yet…

  St. Legers looked after their own. Anatole could never escape that thought or another far more piercing one. What would Madeline say if he stood back with folded hands and simply allowed Will to die?

  He clenched his jaw. He'd imagined himself nearly past feeling anything. But he discovered he was still capable of experiencing emotion. Anger and shame burned through him.

  Muttering an oath, he thrust his way past Marius, storming up the stairs toward the small, front chamber where Will had been placed to recuperate.

  Damn the boy! Anatole would cram food down his throat if he had to. If Madeline were here… she would have known what to say, how to coax Will out of his lethargy, how to reason, how to comfort him. His wife was remarkably good at that sort of thing.

  If Madeline were here…

  But she wasn't.

  Remembrance of that drained away most of Anatole's anger by the time he reached Will's chamber. And what remained faded at the sight of the lad, small and shrunken beneath the coverlets. So apathetic he did not even shift his head to see who had entered the room.

  Trigghorne had been attempting to cajole the boy into swallowing a few mouthfuls of soup, but as Anatole approached the bed, the grizzled old man stood respectfully aside.

  Will stared listlessly up at the ceiling. His eyes, Anatole realized, were too much like his own. Empty wells of despair. He loomed over the boy, feeling goddamned helpless. He'd heard tell of a St. Leger, Deidre perhaps, who had the ability with a touch to take away pain, to grant the sufferer sweet oblivion.

  Now, that would have been a gift worth the having. But he had only his own useless powers to employ.

  Lightly touching the boy's cheek, he commanded, "Will, look at me. I want you to stare deep into my eyes."

  Marius, who had trailed upstairs after him, froze on the threshold in alarm, and Trigghorne cried out, "Oh, Gawd, no, m'lord. Not another of them cursed vision things."

  Only Will remained unmoved, surrendering his eyes to Anatole without fear. "I hope it's my death you see this time, master."

  Ignoring him, Anatole focused, peering for long moments into those wide lakes of blue.

  "It's worse than death," he pronounced grimly.

  Some of Will's defiant bravado crumpled. "W-worse? You don't mean… not—not my other leg?"

  "No. You are going to be married."

  Will gaped at him, then issued a laugh, bitter and incredulous. "Who'd have me now for a husband? A useless cripple."

  Anatole drew himself up to his full height, scowling. "Do you doubt my power, boy?"

  Will shrank deeper into the mattress. "N-no, master, but—"

  "I cannot see the face of the lass you will wed, only the outcome. You will sire twelve children."

  "Gawd a'mercy," Trigg exclaimed.

  Will's eyes widened, threatening to entirely swallow his pale face.

  "So I strongly suggest you start to eat," Anatole said dryly. "It's clear you're going to need your strength."

  Will nodded, a hint of color returning to his dazed face.

  Anatole stalked from the room, retreating belowstairs to his study. He settled behind the desk, stretching back in his chair, preparing to sink into his own dark thoughts when Marius burst in without ceremony.

  "Good Lord, Anatole. You should see the lad. Will is shoveling down food like he was expected to go out and sire those twelve children this very day." Marius gave a delighted laugh. "This is the first time you ever experienced a vision that did not portend some dire event. Do you realize what this means?"

  "It means I am an infernally good liar."

  Marius's grin wavered, became uncertain. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying I made the entire thing up," Anatole snapped, both amazed and irritated by his cousin's naivete. "Did you think that I'd suddenly turned into an angel of light?"

  He waited, expecting that would finally wipe that foolish smile from Marius's face. But the admiration in his cousin's eyes only deepened.

  "It doesn't matter. By the time Will figures out the prediction is false, he will have recovered enough, and who knows, it might even come true. A self-fulfilling prophecy. If you are a devil, my lord, you are a clever compassionate one."

  Anatole didn't feel clever, merely drained.

  "However did you think of such a thing?"

  "Since my marriage to Madeline, I've become good at concocting fairy tales."


  It was the first time he had mentioned her name since Marius's arrival. Marius became somber, his gaze flickering as he absorbed the details of the gloom-shadowed study, the drawn curtains, the ash-ridden fireplace, trying not to probe, clearly unable to help himself. He stepped farther inside the study, closing the door.

  "Anatole, I've been wanting to tell you how sorry—"

  "Don't," Anatole warned, shrinking from Marius's compassion, shrinking even more from the understanding he saw etched in his cousin's gaunt features. The understanding of a man who knew too well what it was like to face years of emptiness: dark, bleak, and alone. Something that Anatole neither wanted to know nor comprehend.

  Marius heaved a deep sigh, but before he could say anything more, Anatole stiffened, sensing another presence invading his home.

  Eamon was escorting someone toward the study. The footman's quick movements were interspersed with slow, weary, shuffling steps.

  "Fitzleger!" Anatole muttered, jerking to his feet. He tried not to hope, but it rushed the barriers of his heart in a painful flood.

  "Shall I leave you?" Marius asked diffidently.

  Anatole waved his cousin aside, far beyond mustering the effort to conceal his anxiety from anyone. As the door opened to admit Fitzleger, Marius retreated quietly toward the cold hearth.

  Anatole strode eagerly toward the vicar, only to recoil in shock. The old man had aged visibly during the past few days, the change in him even more marked this morning. Shoulders stooped, white wings of hair flattened to his scalp and his eyes. Eyes that had ever glowed with a strange combination of youthful innocence and timeless wisdom.

  Now they looked merely old.

  The answer to Anatole's question was writ large on the Bride Finder's haggard countenance. But he could still not refrain from asking it, despising the desperation in his voice.

  "You… you have talked to Madeline? Will she return to me?"

  The old man said nothing. With bowed head he trudged to the desk and laid down a long wrapped parcel. A gleaming hilt protruded from the canvas sacking.