St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

  "He presents a particular challenge, your Anatole. How does one destroy a man who can bat you away with one flick of his mind? One has to take him by surprise. And how can one do that when he is blessed with such an extraordinary sense of perception? But perhaps that perception doesn't work as well when he is distracted… say, with fear for the life of someone very close to him, hmmm?" Evelyn regarded Madeline with a mocking lift of her brows.

  "No," Madeline choked. "I won't let you use me to lay a trap for Anatole."

  Evelyn steadied her pistol. "You have no choice in the matter, my dear. You must help me or…"

  "Or you'll shoot me as you did Roman? Go ahead," Madeline cried. "I'd rather be dead than lure Anatole to you."

  "Don't be a fool."

  Heart hammering, Madeline braced herself as the tense seconds ticked by, wondering why Evelyn didn't simply shoot. She'd had no compunction about just killing Roman.

  Just killing Roman… the image flashed through Madeline's mind of Evelyn coming down the path behind her, the still-smoking pistol in her hand.

  She stared at the woman incredulously. "You're bluffing. That pistol is empty."

  Evelyn started then recovered with a smile. "Care to put that to a test?"

  She cocked the pistol, but Madeline had seen the hesitant nicker in her eyes.

  "You never had time to reload after you shot Roman!"

  Evelyn's smile twisted into an ugly grimace. She let the hammer fall back into place with a dull click.

  "Too clever by half, Madeline," she snarled.

  Evelyn lunged at her. Madeline tried to dodge, but Evelyn's hand clamped on her arm. Madeline struggled wildly, but the Mortmain woman was possessed of a wiry strength. She dragged Madeline to her knees and swung the butt of the pistol at Madeline's head.

  Madeline cried out, ducking to one side. The blow landed painfully upon her shoulder. Her fingers closed around a handful of earth. Before Evelyn could strike again, Madeline flung the dirt at her face.

  Swearing, Evelyn released Madeline to claw at her own eyes. In that brief second Madeline scrambled to her feet. She ran blindly into the fog, with no idea of where she was going.

  Away from Lost Land and its blackened ruins, away from Evelyn Mortmains fury. She heard the woman bellowing her name, loading it with curses.

  Madeline ran harder. The ground began to slope upward, making the going more difficult. She tripped, fell, and managed to get up again. Half running, half stumbling, she forced her way up the hill.

  Her breath came in agonized pants, a painful stitch blooming in her side. She had no notion where she was, but she could not stop.

  She believed she had put some distance between herself and Evelyn, but the woman would not be long in recovering. She would know this land so much better than Madeline did, even in a dense fog.

  What am I going to do? Madeline wondered frantically, feeling her steps beginning to lag. Perhaps she should stop, find some sort of weapon. A rock. She could bring it crashing down on the Mortmain woman's head and—

  But Madeline recoiled at the thought of such violence, the danger of getting that close to Evelyn again. No, she must go on, elude the woman somehow, find help, pray that Anatole did not find her first.

  If only she could reach the cottage of some stout fishermen, enlist their aid. Evelyn could be caught, arrested. If she were locked away somewhere, then surely Anatole would be safe.

  But first… Madeline staggered to a halt. She had to catch her breath, gain some sense of her bearings. Her hand pressed to her thudding chest, she listened intently for any sound of Evelyn's pursuit.

  But she could hear nothing beyond the roaring in her ears. The sea… waves breaking against the shore… somewhere close. But where? The fog played such tricks with sound.

  She spun around, taking a hesitant step back, trying to pierce the thick haze. She cried out the next instant as the ground gave way beneath her.

  Her arms flailed as she fell, slipping down a sharp incline. Pebbles and rocks abraded her hands as she scrabbled for purchase. Her fingers struck up against a gnarled root, and she clung desperately, dangling until her feet found the support of a narrow ledge.

  Her heart pounded, and she cursed her own stupidity as she realized what she'd done: backed right off a cliff. Luckily, not of such terrifying heights as the ones at Castle Leger. When she dared glance down, she caught glimpses through the mist of the sea, only yards below. Cold, angry waves lashing hard at the rocks, raking back with a savage undertow. Each time the water struck, it sent up a salt spray, dampening the hem of her gown like the slavering of some hungry beast.

  Madeline turned her eyes upward, trying to gauge the distance she had fallen. Not as far as she would have supposed. The cliff's edge was a few feet above her, if she but had the strength to pull herself up, if the root would hold. She had to try.

  She was testing it gingerly when she heard movement above her. Evelyn Mortmain's face appeared, staring gloatingly down at Madeline.

  Evelyn muttered something too low for Madeline to hear, but she braced herself as Evelyn stretched a hand down to her. Uncertain if the woman meant to retake her hostage or send her crashing the rest of the way into the sea, Madeline shrank down as low as she could without losing her grip.

  But the hand was withdrawn as quickly as it had been offered. Evelyn tensed. Her mouth pulling back in a strange smile, she vanished from the edge. Madeline peered upward, bewildered until she heard it, too.

  The voice calling her name. Anatole.

  "Oh, dear Lord, no," Madeline said, choking on a half sob as she realized in her blundering just what she had done.

  She had helped Evelyn to lay her trap after all.

  * * * * *

  Only minutes earlier Anatole had ridden into Lost Land.

  He slowed his stallion to a walk, both horse and man scenting danger ahead. As his mount shifted uneasily beneath him, Anatole attempted to penetrate the fog that hung like a shroud over the ruins.

  His extraordinary perception was bombarded by too many sensations. From somewhere behind him, he felt Marius and Fitzleger attempting to follow. But ahead all was swallowed up by the aura of Lost Land itself, a feeling of evil, the hatred of an ancient enemy dormant for years… now awake, waiting for Anatole with a deadly patience.

  She was out there somewhere, the woman of flame. Her presence raked dark fingers across Anatole's mind. He fought off the insidious sensation, groping for Madeline instead. Groping, but not finding her, the silence, the emptiness settling like a cold weight in the pit of his stomach.

  He never saw the body sprawled in the path ahead until the stallion shied back with a frightened whinny. Muttering a startled oath, Anatole brought the horse back under control and stared down at the blood-soaked form.

  Roman. The flattened grass, the black stains on the ground leading down the path from the cottage bore mute testimony to Roman's desperate efforts to crawl, to reach help. He'd clearly been left for dead, and Anatole had no doubt by whom. But despite Roman's deathlike stillness, Anatole could sense a faint threading of life, a soul hovering on the brink of slipping away from its earthly confines.

  Anatole fought a strong urge to simply ride on, Roman's fate only adding to his fears for Madeline. This was the cousin he'd hated for so long, the cursed fool who'd introduced the Mortmain woman back into their midst. Let him die like a dog by the side of the road.

  But somehow Anatole couldn't bring himself to do it. Swearing, he vaulted down from the saddle and rushed over to his cousin. Bending down, he turned Roman over.

  "Roman!" Anatole called, loosening the wounded man's cravat. A useless gesture. He could feel Roman's life flicker like a candle left in the wind.

  Roman stirred at his touch, his eyes fluttering open. The blue depths seemed clouded, already beyond recognizing anything in this mortal world.

  But he murmured, "Anatole?"

  "Aye, 'tis me," Anatole said. "What happened here?"

  "B-bloody woman
shot me," Roman groaned. "Played me for a fool. Never was any rich countess. Never a Frenchman. Only a—a cursed Mortmain."

  "I know," Anatole said. "But what about Madeline? Was she here? Have you seen her?"

  "She… tried to help me, but that creature came. I played dead. Did too good a job." Roman gave a weak laugh that sent him into a pain-racked cough.

  "Where is Madeline now?" Anatole demanded.

  "Don't know. That—that woman attacked her, but Madeline got away, ran… woman went after her. Both disappeared into—into the fog."

  Roman's hoarse voice went through Anatole like the cold whisper of steel.

  He swore hoarsely and started to wrench himself to his feet. But Roman clutched at his cloak.

  "Wait! Don't go," Roman said.

  "I have to," Anatole ground out. "I have to find Madeline before it's too late. Marius should be along soon. He will…"

  Anatole trailed off, knowing there was nothing Marius would be able to do for Roman. Roman's time was nearly spent. But then, so was his own.

  He tried to rise again, but Roman clung to him with the last of his strength.

  "No. Must—must tell you something before—" The effort cost Roman another spasm of pain, a thick trickle of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth. But he persisted, pressing an object into Anatole's hand.

  Anatole's fingers closed over the cold circle of his father's watch, stained wet with Roman's blood.

  "Yours… always was supposed to be," Roman said. "On his deathbed, Uncle Lyndon said to make sure you—tell you how much he loved—ask for your forgiveness.

  "Only I never did. Because you already had everything, the power, Castle Leger."

  "Damn it, Roman," Anatole said fiercely. "None of this matters to me anymore. I have no time—"

  "It—it matters to me," Roman whispered. "Can't die without telling you how I—I took watch, how I lied."

  "And what do you want from me? Absolution?" With a ruthlessness born of desperation, Anatole wrenched himself free.

  "No, too late for that. Was too late from moment I cut you with the knife." Roman's mouth twisted in a semblance of his mocking smile. "Brought down by the old family curse. Damned strange, isn't it? Dying, and yet for first time in my life, I feel like a St. Leger…"

  His eyes closed, his hand falling limp to his side.

  Anatole experienced an unexpected pain, sharp, swift, a snapping sensation as though a branch had been torn from a towering oak.

  Roman was gone.

  Tucking the watch in his pocket, Anatole straightened, gazing down at his cousin. He never would have expected to feel anything at Roman's death, except a savage sense of satisfaction. This odd emotion of something akin to regret surprised him, but he had no time to explore it further.

  Without Roman's tormented spirit to cloud his mind, Anatole's perceptions quickened once more to the whispers of danger. His own. Madeline's.

  Anatole stalked toward his horse. The stallion, too well trained to bolt, was on the verge of doing so. Ears flattened, it had backed away from the scent of blood, the smell of death on Roman.

  The wind had picked up, shifting the mist, beginning to clear patches of it. Anatole tensed, probing. Madeline was out there and at the mercy of a Mortmain. He could feel traces of his wife's gentle spirit and the chilling presence of the other, closing in.

  A surge of pure panic shot through him, and he fought to quell it. Fear for Madeline could only blind him, and he needed the clarity of his mind's eye more than he ever had before.

  He trained it outward, pressing his fingers to his brow. Which way had she gone? Toward the ruins? No, away from them, toward the headlands rising upward, ringing Lost Land's bleak and dangerous cove.

  Anatole grabbed for his horse's reins only to reject the notion. That slope of land was far too treacherous, too unfamiliar, the fog still too heavy for him to go charging in on horseback like a reckless fool, alerting the enemy to his arrival.

  Tethering the stallion, he set out on foot, resisting the urge to run. He strode up the hill, every muscle tensed, every fiber of his being alert to the possibility of sudden attack. He could feel her more strongly now, the strange woman who had disguised herself, hidden her very soul in the trappings of an insipid Frenchman no one would perceive as a threat. She'd even managed to fool Marius.

  And now she awaited Anatole, hating him, wanting him dead for no other reason than he was a St. Leger and she was a Mortmain, woven into his destiny perhaps from the day he was born.

  A destiny he could not avoid. He only prayed to do so long enough to find Madeline, see her safely away from this cursed place.

  He felt as vulnerable as a man pacing out those last steps across a dueling field as he strode up that hill. He could sense his enemy, nearer now, obscured by the veil of mist. Just like in the vision.

  Her hatred seemed to crush down on him like a giant fist. But beneath that suffocating darkness, he could also feel Madeline, drawing him to her like a beacon of light.

  When he heard her frightened cry, he forgot all else. Racing forward, he roared out her name.

  "Madeline!"

  Damn it. Why didn't she answer him? She was very close. He could sense that as though he cradled her racing heart in his hands. He bellowed her name again, clutching his forehead, honing in. There. She was over there. But as the mist parted before him, he saw nothing but the drop-off to the sea.

  His own heart thundering, he stumbled forward, dropping to his knees to peer over the side. His gut clenched. Madeline dangled just out of his reach, scrambling so frantically to scale upward, she was in imminent danger of losing her precarious footing.

  She froze when she saw him, no relief in her agonized features, only sheer horror.

  "No!" she screamed. “Get away from here. Run!"

  He scarce registered her words. Leaning down, blotting out all else, he focused his power, tightening it around her hands like a thick rope. Pain flashed behind his eyes as he hauled her upward until she was within his grasp.

  Closing his hands over her upper arms, he dragged her to the edge. She sprawled forward, legs still dangling. One more tug and—

  "Anatole," Madeline cried, lifting her head. “Watch out!"

  Like a fluttering of dark wings, he felt the Mortmain woman close in for the attack, but had no time to spin around. She brought her pistol crashing down on his head. He felt Madeline slip from his grasp. Pain exploded inside his skull, and he fell back, stunned.

  Through a haze, he saw the creature hover over him, her witchlike hair tangling in the wind, her grotesquely painted features contorted into a grimace. Something flashed in her hands.

  Anatole fought to concentrate his power, defend himself. But it was of no use. His head throbbed. His vision blurred. Evelyn Mortmain raised her knife.

  Madeline clawed wildly at tufts of grass, her nails digging into the dark earth. She struggled to pull herself the rest of the way over the ledge. To fling herself at Evelyn. To stop her.

  But she was too late. The knife arced downward. Like in a bad dream. Like in a crystal-wrought vision seen through a wall of mist. But Anatole's agonized cry was all too real as Evelyn drove the knife deep into his chest.

  "No!" Madeline shrieked, fear replaced by a rush of fury like nothing she'd ever known. She hurled herself forward, catching Evelyn's wrist before the woman could strike Anatole again.

  They locked in a deadly struggle for the knife, a tangle of fire-colored hair and fierce emotion, swaying dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Evelyn's teeth were bared and her eyes glowed with crazed intensity, but Madeline was possessed of an instinct equally as feral, the need to protect her mate.

  Evelyn bore down, forcing the blade toward Madeline's neck. Madeline's arms ached, shuddered with the effort of holding the weapon at bay. The knifepoint inched closer to her throat.

  With a strength born of desperation, she twisted Evelyn's arm to one side. Dropping her shoulder, she drove into the woman's chest, s
hoving hard.

  The force of it sent them both off balance. Evelyn teetered back to the edge, fury giving way to panic as the ground crumbled beneath her. She made a wild grab for Madeline as she fell. Madeline's heart lurched as she felt herself being pulled over the cliff.

  The world flashed before her, dipping in a blur of rock, sea, and sky, Evelyn's savage, distorted features. Then strong arms locked about Madeline's waist, holding her fast.

  Her hand slipped from Evelyn's frantic grasp. Evelyn hurtled down the embankment, her guttural cry lost in the roaring of the sea. She struck hard against the rocks, the cold gray waves crashing over her.

  Madeline felt herself being pulled back to safety. Her legs shook as she settled once more on solid ground. Dazed, she peered downward through the haze, but there was no sign of Evelyn. Only the unyielding rocks, the relentless sea.

  Shuddering, Madeline turned away, instinctively seeking comfort from the arms that had saved her. Anatole… Somehow she expected to find him standing behind her, indomitable as ever, miraculously restored.

  But he wasn't there. The sensation of being wrapped warm, safe in his arms faded, and she found him collapsed at her feet, exactly where Evelyn had first struck him down.

  He'd managed to drag himself up onto his elbow, one hand pressed to his brow, and Madeline realized what he'd done. Used the last of his strength, what remained of his power to save her.

  A muffled sob escaped her as Anatole's hand fell away from his face, and he sank back down. Dropping to her knees, Madeline bent over him. She pressed her hands to his chest in a desperate effort to stop the flow of blood from his wound, but it was as if she could feel his life slipping through her fingers.

  Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she groped within herself, seeking out the calm, practical Madeline who had always been equal to dealing with any emergency. But she could not seem to find her.

  She wept, trembling with helpless anger, shocked to hear herself swearing as though she'd discovered a second language. Cursing Evelyn Mortmain, herself, Anatole.