St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  No, she realized she had only one hope left of cheating destiny… her friend Yves. Creeping past the fire-scarred remains of the Mortmain manor house, her eyes strained to part the fog and locate the cottage where Yves had told her he was staying.

  She prayed she would find it, would find Yves at home. Casting a nervous glance over her shoulder, she feared she might have already delayed her flight too long.

  These past few steps, she had become increasingly conscious of a presence. Nothing evil or sinister, but a warm loving one, like strong arms reaching through the mist to hold her fast.

  Anatole… he had told her he could sense her wherever she was, wherever she would go. How far did his power truly extend? She had no notion, but she tried to quiet her own breathing, still her thudding heart from calling out to him.

  A sharp sound cracked through the fog's deathly silence. Like the snap of a tree branch or—or—Pulse leaping, Madeline peered around her only to realize she was much closer to the cottage than she had supposed.

  The stone walls and shuttered windows appeared comforting and solid in this nightmare-spun land lost in mist. With a glad cry Madeline rushed forward only to stumble to a halt.

  A gray mare was tethered to the rickety gate, pawing nervously at the ground, the spirited mount not the sort of animal Yves would have chosen to ride.

  Madeline believed she had seen both this mare and her rider galloping through the village one afternoon when she had chanced to look out the front window at the vicarage.

  Roman's horse. Her heart sank in dismay at the thought of encountering Roman's mocking smile, his piercing gaze. It should have occurred to her that he might be here. He likely rode over often to consult with Yves about the progress for the new house.

  What was she to do now? Madeline hesitated. She had intended to tell Yves that he had been right, that she needed to escape from Anatole because he was abusive and cruel to her. Roman had no love for his cousin, but he would never be brought to believe that.

  The least he could do was delay her flight by demanding better explanations from her. And the worst, if he should somehow come at the truth in that uncanny way of his… Madeline had no doubt Roman would do his best to see the prophecy fulfilled.

  She fretted her lip, wondering if she dared wait until Roman had gone. But while she attempted to decide, the cottage door suddenly swung open and Roman himself lurched out.

  Madeline started to shrink back into the fog, when she realized something was terribly wrong. Roman staggered away from the cottage like a drunken man, grabbing at the gatepost for support.

  He fumbled with his horse's reins only to let loose of them as soon as he'd freed the hitch from the gatepost. Swaying, he crashed down to his knees, and Madeline saw the dark crimson stain spreading across the front of his cloak.

  Horrified, she forgot all else as she rushed to his aid. The horse shied back at her approach. Roman lifted his head to stare up at her, stunned, his eyes glazed with pain. '

  "Madeline! What the devil—"

  She cried out as he fell forward. Dropping her band box, she tried to catch him, but she could not prevent Roman from sprawling face first in the dirt.

  She struggled to roll him onto his back. His hand flashed out, using what remained of his strength to push her away.

  "Get out of here!"

  "But you are hurt," she said. "What happened?"

  "No time for—for questions," he panted. "Get on my horse. Ride… fetch help."

  She feared Roman would not last that long, blood spilling from the gaping wound in his chest at an alarming rate, leaving him white, drained. His eyes closed, and she was terrified that it was already too late.

  With a toss of its head, the horse turned and bolted into the mist, spooked by the scent of blood or something else... Madeline felt the presence at her back before she ever saw or heard him. He had crept down the path from the cottage as silently as the billowing fog.

  "Ah, Madeline, what are you doing here, cherie?"

  It was Yves's voice with that queer husky rasp.

  When she dared to look around, she saw him, his elegant clothes torn and disheveled, his powdered wig pulled askew. His appearance shocked her, but not so much as the smoking pistol he clutched in one elegant hand.

  Madeline slowly straightened, stepping in front of Roman's inert form.

  "Yves?" she faltered, her mind reeling in confusion and disbelief.

  "No, my dear." Yves smiled sadly and reached up to wrench away the wig that was slipping off his head.

  "The name is Evelyn… Evelyn Mortmain."

  But Madeline barely heard the echo of the dreaded name. She clutched the gatepost for support, feeling as though the entire world had just shifted beneath her feet into the realm of nightmare… or of a vision only partly seen and not clearly understood. Until now.

  As if a veil of mist were being torn from her eyes, Madeline watched in horror as Evelyn Mortmain slowly shook out her hair. Wild hair as long and brilliantly red as her own.

  "Dear God," Madeline whispered. "The woman of flame."

  Chapter 21

  She needed to run, escape from this place as fast as she could. A voice deep inside urged Madeline to do just that, but her limbs refused to obey. It was as though the mist itself had seeped into her mind, choking her with fear and confusion.

  She could only stare at the person she had once thought of as Yves de Rochencoeur, unable to credit the transformation of the cultured Frenchman into this creature with her mass of flame-colored hair, her torn shirt revealing a hint of breasts cruelly flattened by a corset.

  "Do not look at me as though I were a ghost," Evelyn Mortmain said, her throaty voice losing all trace of its French accent. "I am but a woman, the same as yourself, although not blessed with your charms. We Mortmains, alas, have never been noted for our beauty."

  "But—but all of you Mortmains are supposed to be dead," Madeline faltered.

  Evelyn regarded Madeline with amusement. "A wistful delusion on the part of the St. Legers, I am afraid."

  As she came closer, Madeline shrank back, but Evelyn glided past her to stand with her pistol aimed at the man collapsed on the path.

  Roman. In her shock Madeline had all but forgotten him. She needed to do something, try to help him, but she feared Roman was well beyond her aid or protection.

  When Evelyn nudged him roughly with the toe of her boot, Roman did not stir. The Mortmain woman's mouth snaked back in a satisfied smile.

  "Ah, well, that appears to be one less St. Leger I need worry about."

  "You've killed him?" Madeline whispered.

  "I had no choice." Evelyn shifted back in Madeline's direction. "He discovered my identity and attacked me in a most ungentlemanlike fashion."

  She gave a raspy chuckle. "Strange, is it not? Ever since I came here, I have walked in dread of all the other St. Legers with their uncanny powers, fearing exposure. But that I should be unmasked by this one…"

  She made a contemptuous gesture toward Roman. "A person as mundane as I am. That he should divine my secret by simply having me investigated… amusing, isn't it?"

  Madeline shuddered. Evelyn was addressing her in the most blood-chilling conversational tone. As though they were back in Madeline's parlor, sipping tea, discussing Milton and Moliere. But they were not.

  They were locked together in this bad dream of suffocating fog, isolation, and death. Evelyn trained upon her the same pistol she had used to kill Roman, and yet Madeline felt oblivious to any sense of her own danger.

  Her thoughts flew instead to Anatole.

  How could she have misinterpreted so badly what she had seen in the crystal? Instead of saving Anatole by running away, her mistake in coming here might well cost him his life. The thought filled her with horror.

  She endeavored to hide her fear from the Mortmain woman. There was no reason that Anatole should be seeking her out there, riding inexorably toward Madeline and his own destruction, no reason that he should eve
n know where she was.

  No reason at all, except that he was Anatole. And a St. Leger.

  Madeline's stomach tightened on a wave of rising panic. She had to race back to Castle Leger, find Anatole first, and warn—No! that was exactly what she must not do. She had to keep Evelyn as far away from Anatole as possible, somehow deal with the woman herself.

  But how? She tried to remain calm, to think, but it was difficult as Evelyn edged closer, her pistol aimed straight at Madeline's heart.

  "And now, my dear," Evelyn said softly, "perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what you are doing here?"

  "I—I ran away from my husband."

  "I am already aware of that. Every dolt for miles around talks of nothing else but how the dread lord's bride fled from him and sought sanctuary at the vicarage. That still does not explain your presence at Lost Land."

  "You said that if I ever wanted to leave Cornwall, you would help me."

  "Yes, but as you can see—" Evelyn cast a wry glance at Roman. "You have chosen a most inconvenient time."

  "Then, perhaps I should just go away."

  Evelyn laughed.

  "Or perhaps we should both go," Madeline continued desperately. "You will be wanting to escape yourself now that your identity is known. We—we could leave here at once, find a boat bound for France."

  And as far away from Anatole as I can persuade you to go, Madeline thought, anxiously watching the woman.

  After a nerve-stretching pause, Evelyn shook her head.

  "I don't see the necessity for me to flee. Only two people know my secret, and one of them is already dead."

  Evelyn stalked closer, the muzzle of the pistol all but brushing up against the fabric of Madeline's gown.

  "I would not tell anyone." Fearing her face might betray her, Madeline ducked her head. "I detest St. Legers as much as you do. They—they are all so frightening and strange, my own husband the worst. We should both get away while we still can."

  Evelyn's hand shot out and caught Madelines chin, wrenching Madeline's head upward. The empty look in Evelyn's eyes was replaced with one far more shrewd.

  Her voice was sad, almost tender as she said, "You are a very poor actress, my dear friend. Perhaps your husband is strange, even cruel. But like all the other poor little chosen brides who have gone before you, you have fallen in love with your wretched St. Leger."

  Despite the threat of the pistol, Madeline jerked free of Evelyn's grasp, backing away. "Are you Mortmains also mind readers?"

  "No, I obtained information the way our too clever Roman did. Through the use of a paid agent, one that I placed at Castle Leger myself."

  "None of Anatole's servants would ever have—" Madeline began only to break off at the realization.

  "Bess Kennack," she murmured. “You sent Bess to spy on us."

  "Perceptive as always, my clever Madeline," Evelyn mocked. "Yes, I encouraged Bess to seek employment at Castle Leger, and find out anything she could that might help bring about the downfall of the St. Legers. It took very little coin to persuade the girl, considering the way she blames your husband for the death of her mother. Hate, as I have discovered for myself, can prove a very useful emotion."

  An image flashed into Madeline's mind of the Kennack girl and her pale face, her quiet way of creeping about the corridors. Dear God, had the girl listened at keyholes, actually eavesdropping on Madeline's most intimate moments and conversations with Anatole? She sickened at the thought.

  "But how could you possibly know about Bess?" she asked. "About her bitterness toward Anatole?"

  Evelyn gave her a condescending smile. "After waiting over twenty years for this revenge, do you not suppose that I would try to learn all that I could about the St. Legers? I studied the entire family from a safe distance before I ever made myself known. That is how I came to seek Roman's acquaintance first. He was their weakest link: a selfish, greedy man. I lured him in easily, pretending to be his friend, advancing him the money to buy Lost Land, dangling out the prospect of marriage to a wealthy countess. He was completely taken in. Or so I thought."

  Evelyn's mouth twisted into a moue of distaste. "But he was more clever and suspicious than I had ever supposed. I might have bribed him into helping me destroy the rest of the St. Legers, if he had not been so furious when he learned the truth. Perhaps he didn't like me playing him for a fool, or maybe he finally remembered his damnable St. Leger blood."

  Evelyn shrugged. "Who knows?"

  Her callous dismissal of Roman's death, the calm way she talked of destroying St. Legers, chilled Madeline to the core.

  She scanned Evelyn's hard, painted features, seeking some trace of the gentleness she had known in Yves, some sign that the woman could be reasoned with.

  There was none.

  "You've spent twenty years of your life planning this revenge?" Madeline asked. "You must be mad!"

  "No, merely patient. You see, that blackened shell of a house behind you was once my home, Madeline."

  Evelyn's brittle calm cracked, affording Madeline a disturbing glimpse of the hatred seething beneath the whitened mask that was her face.

  "I was only fourteen years old when I barely escaped from that fire. I had a voice then as lovely as yours, but I lost it that night, the heat and the smoke clawing at my throat, tearing at my lungs. I couldn't even scream as I cowered in the shadows, watching my entire family being burned alive by those damned St. Legers."

  "But—but I was told your own father lit that fire."

  "So he did. What else could he do? He had to save himself from being taken alive, dragged off like a dog in chains."

  "Because he had murdered Wyatt St. Leger."

  "It was not murder," Evelyn said through gritted teeth. "It was war. The war that has always existed between Mortmains and St. Legers, ever since the St. Legers stole our rightful land, using their cursed sorcery and witchcraft."

  "No, Evelyn," Madeline tried to soothe. "I don't know what you remember from your childhood, what your father might have told you, but you don't understand—"

  "Be quiet!" Evelyn flashed. She took a menacing step closer. "It's you who doesn't understand, Madeline. My father never told me anything. But I heard him often enough, lamenting he had no sons, only a weak daughter to carry on his fight against the St. Legers.

  "And I was weak. I ran away that night, and hid the first place I could find."

  "Surely that was not necessary. I cannot believe any of the St. Legers would have harmed you. They would have seen you were taken care of and—" But Madeline stopped cold at the black look Evelyn shot her.

  "Do you think I would have accepted charity from those murderous bastards?" Evelyn demanded fiercely. "No, I had to get away. I stowed aboard a fishing vessel that carried me off to France. When the captain discovered me hiding below, he simply had me tossed ashore like a stray rat."

  Evelyn came closer still, her eyes lit by a strange fire and boring into Madeline's.

  "Do you know what it is like, my friend, to find yourself alone in the world, abandoned in a foreign country?"

  Madeline swallowed, shaking her head.

  "After the first time I was raped, I quickly learned the wisdom of disguising myself as a boy."

  "Dear God!" Madeline breathed.

  "I became rather good at disguising myself?' Evelyn went on bitterly. "Good at many things. Acting, thieving, whoring. Whatever it took to survive, whatever it took to make my fortune and bring me back here one day to prove that my father was wrong. That he didn't need a son to avenge our family. He only needed me!"

  She brandished her pistol, shoving her face only inches from Madeline's. For once Evelyn was not able to disguise the pain, the hatred, the degradations of a past that had bent and twisted her soul. Madeline stared at her with a mingling of pity and horror.

  "I'm sorry," she said gently. The words seemed foolish, inadequate, but they had the effect of snapping Evelyn back to herself.

  She retreated a step, muttering dark
ly, "Don't be sorry. Not for me. Save your pity for your husband."

  The mention of Anatole caused Madeline's heart to miss a beat.

  "You have no quarrel with Anatole," she struggled to reason with the woman. "He is not responsible for what happened to you or your family. He was not even born then."

  "It doesn't matter. He's a St. Leger, and the head of his cursed line. He has to die. As all the others do."

  "But you cannot possibly hope to kill them all. You will be caught, perhaps even killed yourself. Yves… Evelyn, please. You shot Roman in self-defense. You could plead that it was an accident, stop now, and leave all this behind you."

  "I don't want to stop," Evelyn said with chilling softness. "And yes, I can destroy them all. One by one, slowly, carefully as I had always planned to do."

  She showed no sign of raving madness, but that terrible calm had descended over her again, which Madeline found somehow worse. That dark emptiness that placed Evelyn beyond reason, beyond compassion, beyond any hope of persuasion. As inexorable as the vision in the sword.

  Was it truly impossible to stop Evelyn, to defeat the prophecy? Madeline wondered in despair. Evelyn's eyes flicked over Madeline in a hard, assessing manner, but her voice held a note of regret as she said, "I am sorry you had to be caught up in all of this, Madeline. I liked you. I genuinely did."

  Liked? Evelyn spoke of her as if she were already dead. Madeline's veins turned to ice.

  "Unfortunately," she went on. "Now that you are here, I am compelled to make use of you."

  "What—what do you mean?"

  "No doubt your husband will come looking for you."

  "No! No, he won't," Madeline said too quickly, betraying her fear. "I—I mean why would he? He has no idea of where I am."

  "But he has his own special means of tracking you, does he not?"

  "I don't know what you are talking—"

  "Don't even think of trying to deny it, Madeline," Evelyn interrupted coldly. "I am fully aware of the extent of your husbands powers. Whatever information I was unable to wheedle out of Roman, Bess supplied.