The St. Leger sword.
The fragile hope that Anatole clutched so awkwardly in his hands splintered into a thousand shards.
"She refuses to even see me?" Anatole murmured, swallowing hard. "Did you tell her that I swear not to use any of my powers? That I will keep my distance? I won't even try to touch her."
"I'm sorry, my lord," Fitzleger said. "I have told her all that you instructed, and it makes no difference."
"Then… then she still desires to leave Cornwall?"
"Aye, she wishes to return to London at once."
Anatole told himself he had been expecting this, dreading it. Like a prisoner in the docks waiting to hear himself remanded for life. Then, why did the sentence still come as such a cruel shock?
He sank back down behind the desk. Madeline wanted to leave him. Not just for a week, a month, but forever. She feared him that much. Despair threatened to overtake him in one huge black wave, but he closed his eyes, fighting against it.
"Very well," he whispered.
Reaching numbly across the desk, he found his quill and dragged forth a sheet of vellum, his movements stiff and mechanical.
"I will instruct my solicitor to place whatever funds she needs at her disposal. I have already dispatched much of her clothing down to the rectory, but I'll arrange for the rest of her things to be sent on to London. She…" He faltered, his throat constricting. "She'll be wanting her books."
Marius had listened in silence all this while. But he burst past Fitzleger, leaning across Anatole's desk to exclaim in disbelief, "Good God, Anatole, what are you saying? You cannot possibly mean to let her go."
"What would you have me do, cousin?" Anatole demanded wearily. "Force Madeline to stay with me? Chain her to the walls?"
"No! You would not have to. Madeline does not fear you, my lord."
"You were not there that night. You did not see into her heart. But your powers would not have been necessary. Any fool would have known how terrified she was."
"I'd have been terrified too if you had flung half the castle at my head," Marius cried. "But I have examined your lady's heart before and seen only strength and courage there. And love for you."
Love? Anatole's mouth quirked into a tired, bitter smile. "Your powers must be weakening, Marius. It is impossible that any lady should love me. I have always known that. My only mistake was in forgetting it."
A choked sound escaped Fitzleger. Turning away from the desk, he paced off several steps, saying, "May God forgive me. This is all my fault."
"No, old friend, you are not to blame. You did your best. The fault rests entirely with me."
* * * * *
But rather than giving comfort, Anatole's words only seemed to increase Fitzleger's agitation. Bracing himself against the mantel, he buried his face against his sleeve, but not before Anatole saw a single tear slide down his withered cheek.
Fitzleger was… weeping.
Anatole cast a glance of horrified helplessness toward Marius, but for once his cousin's usual empathy was not in evidence. Marius stared at Fitzleger through narrowed eyes.
"He is concealing something from you, Anatole," Marius pronounced at last. "Something about Madeline."
Fitzleger concealing something? Marius's powers were indeed off, Anatole thought. The vicar was the most transparently honest man he'd ever known. The only time in his entire life he could ever recall Fitzleger being evasive was… when he had struggled to bring about the match between Anatole and Madeline.
Anatole tensed, coming slowly to his feet.
"Fitzleger?"
The old man seemed to shrink deeper inside of himself at the sound of his name. He groped for his handkerchief, mumbling to himself.
"I—I don't think I can bear this. Seeing him so hurt. Far worse than when his mother rejected… But I promised Madeline."
"Promised her what?" Anatole demanded.
"I think it has something to do with Madeline's reason for leaving you," Marius said.
Fitzleger blew his nose with a gusty snort, shooting Marius a look of mild reproach. "I can bare my own secrets, thank you, young man."
"Then, you'd best do so. At once." Anatole came around the desk and rested his hand heavily upon Fitzleger's shoulder.
The old man made a great show of refolding his handkerchief, still avoiding Anatole's eyes. "Madeline thought—and I agreed with her—that it would be better if you did not know the true reason she refuses to come back to Castle Leger."
"Which is?"
"Your lady is not leaving because of fear of you, my lord—"
"I knew it!" Marius interrupted triumphantly.
"But out of fear for you."
"Talk sense, Fitzleger," Anatole said, striving to remain gentle with the distraught old man, but feeling his patience strain to the snapping point.
"If Madeline stays with you, she fears she will kill you."
"She's killing me now!"
"No, I mean truly destroy you. She… she had a vision."
Was Fitzleger's distress starting to addle the old man's wits? Anatole wondered.
"You know that's impossible. Not unless you've recently discovered that Madeline is descended from another of Prospero's by-blows, and she has St. Leger blood."
"She used the sword. The power trapped in the crystal, your own power, my lord," Fitzleger insisted, his reddened eyes earnest and remarkably sane.
"It happened once before. The poor lady thought she was only imagining things, but the sword predicted to her the afternoon that you would take her riding to see the standing stones."
The old man's words filled Anatole with unease. He slipped his hand from Fitzleger's shoulder, scowling. "I cannot believe it."
"Why not?" Marius asked. "You're a St. Leger. You should be able to believe damn near anything. We've all heard the legends surrounding that sword."
"Our family spawns legends like the sea does shellfish," Anatole snapped.
"And most of them are true."
Anatole clenched his jaw, knowing Marius was right. His gaze shifted toward his desk where the St. Leger sword lay hidden beneath the canvas covering, like a serpent coiled to strike.
Aye, he vaguely recalled hearing some tales himself, of brides being able to share in their husband's powers through use of the sword. But most St. Leger women had tucked the formidable weapon away somewhere and never looked at it again.
It had never even occurred to him to warn Madeline that she should likewise do so. For what lady would be likely to toy with such a dangerous sword, examine it?
His own lady, that was who, with her ever bright, too inquisitive green eyes.
Oh, Madeline, Anatole thought with a groan. Flinging off the canvas, he snatched up the weapon, chilled by the mere possibility that his wife could have stumbled onto its dread power. He should have flung the infernal thing off the nearest cliff years ago.
There was only one way he could verify what Fitzleger had told him. Peer into the crystal himself, try to see what the old man claimed that Madeline had seen.
Gripping the hilt, Anatole held the sword aloft, staring hard at the glittering stone, allowing himself to be pulled deeper into those mysterious depths.
Mist… the same useless vision he had entertained all those months ago was what danced before his eyes.
He was lost in the mist with the ghostly figure of a woman, her bright-colored hair tangled about her shoulders. The same cold feeling of apprehension, the same vague warning.
Beware the woman of flame.
Gritting his teeth, he strained to force the mist to part before him, concentrating harder than he had ever done before. The crystal flashed, and suddenly the scene unfolded with blinding clarity.
And Anatole understood why he had never been able to bring the image into focus before. It took courage, even for a St. Leger, to look upon the face of his own death.
As the image faded, he laid the sword carefully back down upon the desk.
"Well?" Marius prodded
when Anatole remained wrapped in his silence.
"Fitzleger was right. Madeline did see something," Anatole murmured. "I'm going to die."
Marius uttered a startled oath and turned pale. But Anatole was amazed by how remarkably calm he felt.
So Madeline was not leaving because he terrified her. If not for that vision, she would have found the courage to return to him. To have accepted him. To have loved him… A soft smile curved Anatole's lips, his entire soul lit with a quiet joy.
He had no hope of defeating the vision, of avoiding his death. But whatever time remained to him, he intended to find Madeline, love her enough to make up for a lifetime.
But this thought was crowded out by a more disturbing realization. If Madeline believed that she was going to be the cause of his death, then she had not seen the vision in the sword with full clarity, either. Fearing for him, she likely had no notion of her own danger.
It all began to form a rough sort of pattern in his mind. Fitzleger's sighting of the mysterious woman weeping over old Tyrus's grave, Roman's purchase of Lost Land, and the arrival of that so-called friend of his… Yves de Rochencoeur.
Small wonder Anatole was seeing visions of his own death, images that had nothing to do with Madeline.
She was not the woman of flame.
"I have to go find my wife," Anatole muttered, striding toward the door.
"No!" Fitzleger cried out. "That is exactly what you must not do, why Madeline did not want me to tell you any of this. Do you not understand, lad? She is trying to save you."
Anatole paused long enough to cast the old man a sad half smile. "She already has."
Before either Fitzleger or Marius could stop him, Anatole bolted from the study. He raced through the house toward the morning room, the door leading out into the gardens, and the path to the stable yard.
Flinging the door wide, he plunged out into… a morning choked with mist. A heavy fog seemed to hold all of Castle Leger captive, stretching toward Anatole with suffocating fingers of white.
His footsteps faltered. There had been a reason, then, that the vision had suddenly emerged so clear. A chill worked through him that had nothing to do with the damp mist or the raw spring air.
He had hoped to be granted a little more time, but it was obvious the prophecy's fulfillment was imminent. Today within the hour perhaps. He experienced a fleeting moment of fear, then shrugged it off.
Charging into the fog, he strode by instinct toward the stable yard, shouting for his stallion to be saddled. His hounds raised a fearsome racket, their baying echoing eerie and ghostlike through the mist. Ranger went nigh wild, refusing to heed any of Anatole's commands. It took the efforts of two stout stable boys to haul the hound away from his master's side, lock him with the rest in the kennels. Almost as if the old dog also knew…
Anatole reached out with his mind, stretching his powers to the limit, trying to find Madeline through the fog, across the distance to the village. To Fitzleger's.
Groping and finding nothing. She was no longer there. Cursing, Anatole roared for his groom to make haste. As the black stallion was led out, Anatole started forward only to have a hand clamp down on his shoulder.
He was wrenched around to confront Marius's tense face, his slender cousin's grasp surprisingly strong.
"For the love of God, Anatole! Fitzleger is beside himself, on the verge of collapse. You must—"
Marius broke off, tensing, his eyes roving fearfully as though trying to pierce the mist that enveloped them. They were both too well attuned to the dark side of their heritage, he and this cousin of his, Anatole thought. He could tell that Marius was feeling it, too… the impending death of a St. Leger.
Marius's grip tightened. "Come back to the house."
"No, you must take care of Fitzleger for me. I have other matters to attend."
"Such as what? Rushing off to your death?"
"If that is my fate, I cannot avoid it."
"You can bloody well try."
Anatole wrenched himself free. "You don't understand, and I've no time to explain. Madeline may be in danger herself."
"Then, let me go to her instead," Marius said, desperately barring Anatole's path.
"Get out of my way, Marius," he growled.
"No, I'll be hanged before I just step aside and let you fling your life away in this foolhardy fashion."
"And what would you do, cousin? If you had the chance to hold your Anne one last time, make sure she was safe, would you do it? Even if it cost you your life?"
Marius didn't answer him. It was obvious from the agonized look in his eyes that he couldn't.
He stood numbly aside as Anatole brushed past him. Seizing the reins from the groom, he vaulted into the saddle. The stallion pranced beneath him, and Anatole struggled to bring the restive horse under control. As he did so, he stole one last look at Marius's tormented face, the cousin whose blood he so reluctantly shared, the St. Leger he had fought more than any other to keep at a distance all these years, the man who would have been his friend if he had ever allowed such a thing.
But it was too late now, even for regret.
"God keep you," Anatole said hoarsely. Wheeling the stallion about, he rode off into the heavy mist.
Guiding his horse along the treacherous path above the cliffs, he kept a wary eye on preventing them both from plunging to the rocks below.
He reached further ahead with his mind, searching for Madeline until he found her, a distant glimmer of light piercing his soul. She shimmered through him, slipping from his grasp like fragments of a rainbow.
But it was enough to tell him where she was, enough to fill him with dread.
She was already moving inexorably toward the one place she should not go, the destination that could seal both their fates.
Lost Land.
* * * * *
The mist billowed around Madeline, chilling her even through the thick folds of her cloak. She clutched the bandbox containing her few meager possessions tighter against her, picking her way carefully along the path.
Was it her imagination or was the fog heavier, colder here? Her logic would have told her it was because of the nearby sea, but during these past harrowing days, reason had been replaced by an older, more primitive instinct that she had not even realized she possessed.
It wasn't the fog or the haunting whisper of cold waves lapping the distant shore. It was the place that iced her blood. Lost Land. The villagers were so fearful of this isolated strip of coast, it had taken what coin she had left to bribe one of them to fetch her out here. The old fisherman had allowed greed to overcome his good sense, his terror of Lost Land, and his reluctance to incur the wrath of the dread lord by helping his bride escape from him.
Staring up at the twisted ruins and blackened battlements protruding through the mist, Madeline wondered what had become of her own good sense. Bleak, barren, and silent, it was as though spring itself had died stillborn in this disturbing place.
Once the home of the Mortmains, her husband's mortal enemies. Did their ghosts yet walk abroad, craving vengeance, the blood of another St. Leger? Anything was possible. Madeline shivered.
She'd once fancied herself a rather brave person, but it hadn't been courage at all, only a mind fortified with disbelief. Those fortifications had come crumbling down, and she was left trembling with fear.
It took all the bravado she possessed to force her unwilling feet forward. Or perhaps it was sheer desperation. How far did one have to go to outrun a prophecy? She had come to the conclusion that London might not be distant enough. She had to disappear abroad for a while, at least until she reasoned out what to do next. And there was only one man who could help her with that.
Yves de Rochencoeur. The Frenchman had once declared himself her friend, had said he would do anything for her, even aid her in escaping her husband.
Had it been idle words, a fleeting promise? When it came down to it, she knew very little of Yves, the man she had decided to entrus
t with both her future and Anatole's.
But what choice did she have? She could no longer depend upon Fitzleger. She worried that she had made a grave mistake by ever confiding in him what she'd seen in the crystal. He'd agreed with her that she must stay away from Anatole, but the old man's heart had clearly been torn in two, wanting to save his beloved young master, also wanting to spare him any more pain.
She realized now that Fitzleger had actually been delaying her departure, hoping for Madeline scarce knew what, a miracle, some magical spell that would help them undo the dire prediction trapped in the sword. She had indulged in such foolish hopes herself during the long lonely nights away from Anatole, only to end by weeping with despair.
When she had awakened to a world blanketed with mist, she had known she could bear this no longer. She could not spend every morning the fog rolled in from the sea choked with fear, dreading that this might be the day she would inadvertently destroy the man she loved.
She had insisted that Fitzleger tell Anatole she had to leave at once. The old man had departed to do so, shoulders bowed down with grief. She had watched him go, doubted that the good, honest vicar would be able to continue deceiving his lord. As long as Anatole believed she remained terrified of him, he would stay away.
But if he were to learn the truth… Nothing in heaven or hell would keep him from her side, not even the prospect of his own death.
It was then that Madeline realized she had to get away and at once. She'd thought of appealing to one of the other St. Legers, Hadrian, perhaps, with his fleet of ships. But she had no notion where to find the bluff captain, nor was she at all certain of receiving his help.
St. Legers had a grim way of accepting their fate, just as Marius had done. What if they thought it more important that Anatole hold fast to his chosen bride, keep the love that was destined to be his… more important even than his own life? Hadrian might well just escort her firmly back to Anatole.
Madeline could not take the risk. And as for her own family, they would think her quite mad if she attempted to tell them anything about legends, powers, visions. Even if they could be brought to believe her… Madeline was appalled to think it, but Mama and Papa might not see anything wrong with the prospect of her ending up a wealthy widow.