"Harriet," she said, groping for the support of her cousin's hand.
Harriet also appeared pale with alarm, but not enough to prevent her scolding, "I told you we should have left when we had the chance. If that's not your husband, you'd best get a pistol and shoot him at once. He looks savage enough to ravish you on the spot."
"If he is my husband," Madeline whispered back hoarsely, "he doesn't have to." That thought alone was enough to make her go weak in the knees.
Anatole took the last stair and poised at the top, hesitating. He was an even more alarming sight up close, the wind caught in his wild mass of black hair, heavy brows lowering over eyes fierce enough to have belonged to some ancient Celtic warrior. If the land of Cornwall itself had been able to assume the shape of a man, it would have been him—rugged, dark, and brooding. His face was all stark angles, from the predatory shape of his nose to the high cheekbones, the broad line of his forehead slashed by a pale scar.
His intense gaze skimmed uncertainly over both women. "Madame St. Leger?" he said gruffly.
Madeline started to sink into a trembling curtsy, but Harriet swept forward, challenging. "And who is it that asks for her?"
The man's grim features lightened for a moment.
"Mister St. Leger," he said dryly.
He closed in on Harriet, his eyes raking over her with what appeared to be approval.
"So you have come at last, Madeline. Welcome to Castle Leger, lady."
Before Harriet could correct his error, Anatole yanked her into his arms like a man determined to do his duty. His head bent down, claiming Harriet's mouth in a hard kiss.
Madeline watched in horrified astonishment. After a feeble attempt to struggle, poor Harriet went limp in Anatole's arms, no match for the ruthless strength of his embrace. She had never been kissed by a man in her life.
Neither had Madeline. She had never even seen anyone kiss the way Anatole did, with such raw passion, with such unabashed hunger. It was almost as if she could feel the heat of it on her own mouth. Madeline raised her fingers to her tingling lips, a shiver coursing through her.
He released Harriet at last, his mouth quirking in a grimace that could have been a smile. Harriet stared back at him, flushed and wide-eyed.
It was the first time Madeline could ever remember Harriet being stricken to silence. A long moment passed, and then Harriet drew in a shuddering breath. She blinked and found her voice in a series of earsplitting shrieks.
Shoving past a dumbfounded Anatole, Harriet half ran, half stumbled down the stone steps. She made it as far as the bottom, where she collapsed, swooning into Robert's arms, dragging the young outrider to the ground with her.
A slow stain of red crept up Anatole's neck, washing over his proud warrior's cheekbones. An awful silence ensued in which Madeline was aware of nothing but the thudding of her own heart.
Part of her longed to rush to Harriet's aide, but she could not move a muscle. Anatole blocked her way to the stairs, a formidable barrier of wounded male pride and angry humiliation. If he had ever noticed Madeline's existence, he seemed to have completely forgotten about her.
Someone needed to explain, tell him the truth, but as Madeline glanced desperately toward the carriage drive, she knew no help would be coming from there. None of her servants milling about dared to glance up, let alone mount those stairs to inform Anatole St. Leger he'd just made a colossal fool of himself.
Instead all the men gathered about Harriet's recumbent form, offering muttered suggestions. The lady stirred long enough to moan piteously.
Anatole shot one last dark glance in her direction. Then pivoting on his heel, he stormed toward his front door. In another moment he would have barricaded himself within his fortresslike house, still not knowing his true bride hovered but yards away from him, cowering like a timid mouse.
Disgusted by her own cowardice, Madeline charged after him. She managed to catch up to him on the doorstep, reaching out to pluck at his cloak.
" St. Leger… Anatole. Sir?" She felt like an idiot, scarce knowing what to call him.
He spun around, and for the first time Madeline caught the full force of those remarkable dark eyes. They seemed to thrust her back with an impact that was almost physical. She snatched her hand away.
"Yes? What do you want?" he snapped.
"I—I—it's about your bride. I just wanted to tell you—"
"Nothing needs to be said. It's obvious my bride is frightened to death of me." Some emotion flashed in his eyes, something bleak, perhaps even a little despairing. Was it possible this rough-hewn man possessed a more sensitive side after all?
"You made a mistake, sir," Madeline said. "That lady you kissed is not your bride." She took a deep breath. "I am."
"You!" The fierce look he gave her caused her to flinch.
"Yes, I am Madeline Bret—That is, Madeline St. Leger." She forced a smile to her lips that evaporated when he stalked closer.
His eyes narrowed, tracking over the costly elegance of her gown and pelisse, the elaborately powdered headdress, absurdly out of place in this wild country setting. He attempted to circle her, but Madeline couldn't bear the thought of it. It was like letting a large predatory wolf out of one's sight. Her stomach fluttering, she skirted around to prevent him.
The two of them paced like a couple caught up in some mad minuet until Anatole roared out, “Hold still!"
Madeline froze.
As he stalked slowly around her, she could feel the hairs prickling at the back of her neck. Gripping her hands together, she held herself perfectly still, the absurd notion chasing through her brain: If I don't make a move, he won't bite. Will he?
What would he do when his inspection was over? Tender her an apology for his error? Then set upon her as wolfishly as he had Harriet? The thought made her tense, set her pulse to racing.
When he paced back in front of her, she flung up her hands as though to ward him off. But he made no move to kiss her or even touch her. The scorn in his eyes was obvious. But he had approved of Harriet. The thought stung Madeline more than she cared to admit.
Placing his hands on his hips, his face darkened with a mighty scowl. He took one more look at her and let fly an oath that caused Madeline to wince.
"The old man must have run completely mad," he growled.
"What old man?" Madeline asked.
"Fitzleger. Who else? The bloody damned fool."
Madeline did not feel in charity with the earnest little clergyman herself at the moment, but she couldn't resist coming to his defense.
"I am sure Fitzleger did his best, sir," she said. "I take it you do not approve of his choice of bride?"
"By all the powers of hell, no!"
Her new husband was obviously not one to mince words. He continued, "You don't match even one of the requirements on the list I wrote out for him."
"List?" Madeline gasped. "You wrote him out a list for a bride like—like sending a servant off to market?"
"Aye. Only instead of a sensible order of mutton and vegetables, I ended up with bonbons. I had hoped at the least for something…" Anatole's gaze traveled over her again, lingering on the region of her breasts. "A little larger."
Madeline crossed her arms in front of herself, outraged. She had thought to soothe his mortification, but he had little concern for hers. To think for a moment she had imagined that this oaf might possess some sensibilities.
She drew herself up with an air of injured pride. "It so happens you are scarcely what I expected, either, sir."
"No?" Anatole's tone suggested total indifference, although he asked, "What did the fool tell you about me?"
"It wasn't so much what he said as…" Madeline drew forth her portrait, her heart breaking anew at the sight of the handsome face that had formed such a large part of her dreams these past weeks.
She heard the sharp intake of Anatole's breath as he wrenched the miniature from her grasp. Since it was still attached to the ribbon around her neck, she was
dragged far too close. She became terrifyingly aware of the power that emanated from the man, like the force of a storm barely held in check.
Anger glittered in his eyes. "Where the devil did you get this?"
Her heart raced with fear, but she managed to reply, "From Mr. Fitzleger. He—he said it was your likeness."
"So that's how he lured you here. With this?" Anatole shoved the miniature inches from her nose, forcing her to lean back. "This is what you thought you were getting? Some God-cursed fairy-tale prince?"
"Not a prince. But at least a gentleman."
Anatole yanked on the miniature, the ribbon giving way with a brutal snap. Madeline stifled a soft cry. She pressed her hand to her stinging skin as he flung the portrait away with a savage force.
Bewildered and alarmed by the depth of his anger, she shrank back as he rounded upon her again.
"Let me tell you something, madam—" he began, only to freeze in mid-step. He stared at her as though transfixed.
What was this savage planning to rip off her now? Madeline wrapped her pelisse more tightly about her. She cowered as he reached for her again, but to her astonishment, she thought she noticed his fingers tremble.
The look in his eyes became dark and unreadable as he touched a spot near the base of her throat. He seemed to pale, but beneath his deep layering of tan, it was difficult to tell. Going nearly cross-eyed, Madeline glanced down, straining to discover what drew his attention.
All she saw was that one of her own curls had sprung loose, escaping from beneath the confines of her powdered wig.
"Your hair," he rasped. "It—it's red?
"Yes, so it is. I suppose you were hoping for a blonde."
But he didn't seem to hear her. His eyes dilated as though he had lapsed into some sort of trance, staring at some awful sight invisible to her. The expression was in its way more alarming than his anger.
"Sir? Anatole?" she breathed.
"The woman of flame," he muttered, fingering the stray curl.
"I beg your pardon?"
He snatched back his hand as though she'd scorched him. If the notion had not been so absurd, she would have sworn she caught a flash of fear in his eyes. Without another word he retreated and stalked toward the door, which seemed to fling miraculously open at his approach.
As he crossed the threshold, she heard his hoarse bellow. "Fitzleger! Somebody fetch me that son of a parson. Now!" The door slammed behind him with a force calculated to crack the very foundations of Castle Leger.
Madeline stared after him. It took her several moments to realize how badly she was shaking from her encounter with her bridegroom. Then she leaned up against one of the Corinthian pillars for support.
Not only a savage, but mad as any bedlamite, she thought with despair. She had no idea what had set him off. The portrait? Her hair? The mere sight of her?
It scarce mattered. The fact remained that for the second time Madeline found herself locked out of what was to have been her new home. With bitter irony she recalled her blithe remark to Harriet.
"Anatole is coming home," Madeline mimicked herself cruelly. "Everything will be fine."
She hardly knew whether she most wanted to laugh or cry. As though from a great distance, she could hear Robert calling her. The footman crept to the top of the steps. Even though Anatole was gone, he appeared reluctant to approach any closer.
"Madam, you must come at once," he pleaded. " Harriet, she's in a bad way. We managed to get her inside the coach, but she's acting feverish, groaning like she was possessed. I tried to get your maid to come, but she's too scared to leave the other carriage. And the coachmen—they're mighty uneasy. They say this is an evil place. They don't even want to unhitch the horses."
An evil place? Madeline thought. No, only one of desolation, emptiness. A place where she had thought to find everything and had instead found nothing.
"Madam?" Robert prompted when she didn't reply.
"I'll be right there," she said dully.
The stolid Harriet would choose this moment to have hysterics and, of course, Madeline's maid Estelle would be useless. The Frenchwoman was good for nothing but dressing hair. As always it was up to Madeline the practical to locate the smelling salts, give orders to harried servants, soothe ruffled feelings.
But Madeline had never felt less practical in her life. Even when Robert darted off again, she could not bestir herself to follow him.
She was suddenly exhausted, drained, wanting to do nothing more than sag down before Anatole's front door, cover her face with her hands, and weep. It was as if after such a long and wearying journey, so many eager hopes, she had arrived to find that the man she had fallen in love with had died.
Only she couldn't even mourn for him because that Anatole had never really existed. A lopsided smile twisted her lips. Wasn't it just her luck that things would end this way? The handsome prince turning out to be an ogre who spurned her, the princess abandoned on the doorstep, expected to go revive the other maiden who had received the kiss.
At her age she should have known enough to leave fairy tales alone.
Madeline didn't know how long she stood there, dry-eyed, aching as though a stone lodged where her heart used to be. It took her awhile to realize she was no longer alone. A soft cough sounded discreetly behind her. Thinking that Robert had returned, Madeline swung around only to come face-to-face with the Reverend Septimus Fitzleger.
She had not seen him since their parting after her proxy wedding ceremony in London. She had had still much to do to prepare for her journey to Cornwall, and he had been gone from his parish for too long already. He had been anxious to hurry back to his young master, and assure him that all was well.
All was well. Madeline compressed her lips. It only angered her the more to note that Fitzleger still looked like an absurd little angel of a man. How could anyone be as deceitful as he and not show some sign of it in his face?
His tricorne hat clasped humbly before him, the old man appeared as though he had just arrived from a bout of hard riding, his wings of white hair windblown, his withered cheeks pink from the exercise. His expression was as mournful as that of any man of God arriving to view the aftermath of a terrible battle.
"Madeline," he said. "I heard what—I—I am so sorry."
The sympathy on his face caused Madelines throat to constrict. She couldn't say anything for a moment. She could only reproach him with her eyes.
"Anatole was with me at the vicarage when word came that your coach had been seen passing through the countryside. He was off before I could stop him, and I had no hope of keeping pace with that mad beast of his. But I did so want to be here when you first met."
"Did you? How odd. I would have thought you would have desired to be elsewhere, at the other end of the earth perhaps."
"It did not go at all well, then? Your introduction to Anatole."
"You are a master of understatement, sir. Except of course when you are extolling the virtues of Mister St. Leger, telling me how wonderful—" Madeline couldn't finish. She winked back the hot sting of tears.
Fitzleger tried to clasp her hand, but she refused to let him.
"No! The—the worst part of all this is that I thought you were my friend. And you betrayed me."
Fitzleger hung his head. "I am more sorry for that than you will ever know, child. It was dreadfully wrong of me. I should have been more forthright."
"Yes, you certainly should have."
"But I was so anxious to win you as Anatole's bride. I knew no other way."
"Than by lies and deceit? Oh, come now, sir. You knew how desperate my family was for money. You only had to mention the settlement, and I would have agreed."
"Ah, Madeline." Fitzleger regarded her with those sad, knowing eyes. "Your family has been just as desperate many times before and survived. You never wed Anatole St. Leger for his money."
That Fitzleger should realize this only added to Madeline's pain. One tear escaped. Turning away from h
im, she dashed her hand angrily across her eyes. "How could you do such a thing? Encourage me to love a man who wasn't even real? Let me believe that the man in that portrait was Anatole."
"But it is."
"Then, the artist must have been blind! That painting looks nothing like the brute who assaulted my cousin, who all but trampled over me in his haste to get away."
"I fear you have seen the worst of Anatole. The true heart of the man lies buried deep beneath that rough exterior. That portrait is a reflection of his soul."
"How marvelous. It would have helped a great deal if you had mentioned that little fact sooner. Unfortunately it is his body I will have to deal with. That, let me tell you, sir, is rather formidable."
And she shuddered at the notion. Ignorant as she was of connubial matters, she had given little more than a passing thought to the prospect of her wedding night. She had been far too confident that her tender and sensitive bridegroom would soothe her maidenly fears.
But the prospect of being shut up in a bedchamber with that savage, a man who could ravish a woman senseless with just his kiss—It was enough to chill Madeline to the bone.
Fitzleger's hands closed about her shoulders, gently bringing her around to face him again.
"My dear child," he said. "I know Anatole can seem very alarming. But Anatole would never desire to hurt any woman."
Madeline arched one skeptical brow. "That's not something I really have to worry about." She gestured toward the closed door. "Because he won't even let me in."
"He locked you out?"
"Yes, he despises the sight of me." Madeline hated the quiver that crept back into her voice. "You told me that I was all that Anatole St. Leger could want, that I was the woman he would love."
"And so he will, my dear… one day."
"Apparently today is not the day. So what am I to do in the meantime, Fitzleger? Pitch a tent on his front lawn? Or better still, return to London?"
Alarm chased across Fitzleger's face. "Oh, no! You would not do that!"
Madeline regarded him in stony silence, then she relented with a bitter sigh. "No, I would not. Like it or not, my vows have all been made. My family has spent Mr. St. Leger's settlement six times over. You did your job well, Fitzleger. You have me most finely trapped."