"Is that a complaint?"
"No, certainly not."
"It sounded remarkably like it to me," he said, an undercurrent of warning creeping into his voice.
But Madeline had never been able to let any argument rest until she made her final point. "I am only saying that it was disconcerting watching you embrace my cousin under my very nose when you never even thought to kiss me."
"Fine! Allow me to remedy that." As Anatole started toward her, Madeline realized too late that she had goaded him too far.
With a squeak of alarm she whisked herself out of his reach, putting a leather-covered armchair and a heavy pedestal table between them.
But he kept coming, a look of fierce determination darkening his face. Madeline gasped as the furniture flew out of his path, and he barely seemed to have touched it.
Panicked by a display of such savage strength, she bolted for the door. She grabbed for the handle, but to her horror, it refused to turn. It wasn't as though the door were merely locked, but jammed. Almost as if the knob was held fast by some powerful invisible hand.
Tugging at it frantically, she felt Anatole's hands close over her shoulders. He wrenched her around to face him.
"No, please," she cried, her heart thundering in her chest. She flung up both hands to ward him off. "I—I'm sorry. I won't mention that kiss again."
"Damned right you won't," he growled. Whipping her hands behind her back, he held her wrists fast in the grip of one iron hand.
With his other he seized the back of her neck, dragging her closer. For one dizzying instant the warlike profile of his face hovered above her own, paralyzing her with the glittering intensity of his eyes.
Then his mouth clamped down on hers. Hot, hard, and ruthless. Crushed against the wall of his chest, she couldn't breathe, couldn't stir. She could only submit to a possession that was at once terrifying and exhilarating. A whimper escaped her that was partly the plea for some mercy and partly the urging of a darker longing she scarce understood. And still the kiss went on, bruising her lips, bruising her to the depths of her very soul.
When his mouth released her at last, she felt her knees threaten to buckle beneath her. She understood now why Harriet had swooned. She just didn't know why her cousin had screamed.
Anatole's dark eyes glinted down at her, his breath coming short and quick.
"There!" he said. "I trust there will be no more complaints about kissing."
Numbly Madeline shook her head.
He released her so abruptly, she had to clutch at the door for support. He stalked a few steps away from her, his hands braced on his hips.
When he turned to face her again, he looked detached and composed. Obviously she was the only one who felt so shattered by the embrace.
"You may go and tend to your cousin now and see about getting settled into your rooms. I have more important matters to take care of, but you may hand Trigg whatever orders you like. If he gives you any trouble, tell him he will obey or he shall have to deal with me."
"But—but I can't get out," Madeline faltered. "The door is jammed."
An odd smile touched Anatole's lips. “No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is." She jiggled the knob only to have it turn easily in her hand. Feeling like a complete fool, she let herself out of the room without another word.
Only when she was safely out of Anatole's sight did Madeline pause to press her hands to her burning cheeks. She was still trembling.
Steady, she told herself. Don't be an idiot like Harriet. No matter that it had been her first kiss. What was it after all but the pressing together of two pairs of lips? There was no reason that she should be feeling this devastated.
Except that there had been no tenderness in Anatole's embrace. He had kissed her the same way he had Harriet, the same way he would kiss any other woman. Rough and ruthless, like some marauding Celtic warrior seeking recreation between battles.
She would simply have to become accustomed to it, Madeline thought forlornly. She doubted she would receive such attention from her husband very often. She wondered if he would even have kissed her at all if she had not goaded him into it.
Touching one finger to her tender lips, Madeline resolved to take great care never to goad Anatole St. Leger again. Especially not on their wedding night.
The thought of Anatole seeking out her bed hovered in Madeline's mind like a shadow, dreadful, terrifying, and in some dark way, intriguing. But she refused to think of that now, or she would reduce herself to a useless puddle of quivering jelly.
More practical matters required her attention. Since her bridegroom could not be bothered, Madeline realized that it was up to her to see that she and Harriet were comfortably settled. She did not look forward to encountering the redoubtable Trigghorne again, but if she ever meant to be mistress of this household, she had best begin acting the part.
Stiffening her shoulders, Madeline made her way back to the entrance hall. She fully expected Trigg to give her more difficulty and was therefore surprised to discover the little man already busy, having Madeline's trunks and portmanteau carted up the wide oak stairs.
Trigg growled out orders to a lanky youth whose straw-colored hair hung over his eyes like thatch on a cottage roof. "Put your back into it, Will Sparkins. I don't want to spend me whole day a-haulin' ladies' geegaws."
Trigg hoisted one heavy trunk up on his own shoulder with a wiry strength remarkable for a man of his years and size. Straining under its weight, he shuffled toward the stairs, when he caught sight of Madeline. He cast one startled glance at her red hair, then began to complain, "Lord a'mercy, mistress. What'd you bring from Lunnon with you? The paving stones?"
"No, Trigghorne," she said calmly. "That trunk is full of my books."
"Books!" Trigg all but dropped the trunk. It landed on the marble floor with a heavy thud. "Why, what'd you bring those for? We got no use for more books here."
"One never knows," Madeline muttered. "More furniture might need balancing."
"Eh?" Trigg scowled, uncomprehending.
But Madeline swept past him, offering a smile to the lad called Will Sparkins. His crusty skin had probably only ever experienced the benefits of water when he got caught in the rain, but at least he showed more respect than Trigg. He bobbed his head and blushed whenever Madeline glanced in his direction.
Folding her hands in front of her, she proceeded to issue her instructions. "The trunks of books can be left down here for now until I am more familiar with the parlors on this floor. In the meantime, Trigghorne, I shall require three bedchambers prepared—"
"Three!" Trigg interrupted. "One oughta be enough."
"Three," Madeline repeated firmly. "I am not accustomed to sharing a bedchamber with my cousin or my maid."
"Those other two sniveling females? You don't have to worry about them. They're gone."
"What?" Madeline asked. "What do you mean—gone?"
"Those two ladies left with the rest of all those bewigged gents in their fancy breeches. They unloaded your trunks and off they all went, back to Lunnon."
"That's impossible," Madeline faltered.
"Seen 'em go with my own two eyes," Trigg said. "Didn't you, Will?"
Will nodded vigorously.
Madeline stood, stunned to silence as she took in the full impact of Trigg's words. All fled, back to London? She could believe that of the servants. Something about Castle Leger had frightened all of them from the coachmen to Madeline's flighty French maid.
Breton retainers had never been noted for their loyalty. Estelle especially had been a feckless creature. But Harriet… Madeline could not believe that her stalwart cousin would desert her in such a fashion.
Yet a disquieting memory intruded, of Harriet as Madeline had last seen her, clutching the back of the carriage seat and wailing. I won't set foot in that man's house, Madeline. I can't stay in this godforsaken place a moment longer.
A feeling of dread churned in Madeline's stomach. Lifting up her ski
rts and heading for the front door, she dashed past the astonished Trigg. Flinging it open, she bolted outside and across the portico to the top of the stone stairs.
The wind whipped her hair across her eyes but she brushed it back, scarcely knowing what she hoped to find. That Trigg merely played some malicious jest on her. Or perhaps even a glimpse of the last carriage lumbering away while she still had a chance to call after it, hail it to return.
But the courtyard below her was empty. Likewise the drive that stretched into the distance. The elegant coaches, the cavalcade of outriders, the teams of spanking bay horses. All vanished, whisked away as though by some sorcerer's hand.
"Damnation!” Madeline groaned, biting down upon her lower lip. She realized then that her bridegroom had already had a profound effect on her. He had taught her to swear.
It was the final daunting realization in a day that had been full of them. She sagged against the stone post at the top of the stairs, resting her forehead upon the cold rough concrete.
She didn't realize that Trigg had joined her until his voice proclaimed with triumph, "Told you they had all gone. But you didn't believe me."
Madeline raised her head long enough to give the old man a bleak look.
"Those fancy coaches set off back down that road like the devil hisself was after them." Trigg gave a wicked chuckle. "But then, master's been known to have that effect on people."
"I'll wager he has," Madeline said dully.
Trigg angled a sly glance at her. "Perhaps you wish you'd a gone with them, mistress."
There was no perhaps about it. But Madeline still possessed enough spirit to straighten, and face Trigg down with a haughty stare.
"I have no intention of returning to London, Trigghorne. I am the new mistress of Castle Leger, and I am here to stay. You may as well learn to accept that fact."
Trigg's smirk faded. "Whatever you say, ma'am."
It was only as the sulking old man returned to the house that Madeline allowed her brave facade to crumple. She tried to remind herself of how often, during the long journey, she had longed to be free of Harriet's fussing and nagging tongue. But that had been before she had been left stranded in this strange place, in a houseful of unfamiliar servants, all of them male. Sweet heaven, she didn't even know how she would manage to get undressed for bed tonight.
But that seemed the least of her problems when she thought of coping on her own with the dark, brooding man who was her husband, without a single friendly face to console or encourage her. She didn't weep, but she felt overwhelmed by the bitter irony of it.
She had come so far, hoped for so much, seeking to escape the loneliness that had haunted her in London. But as she gazed back at the forbidding aspect of Castle Leger, she had never felt more alone in her life.
Chapter 5
Past midnight… the hour by which anything mortal at Castle Leger had long since sought out their beds. But Anatole St. Leger often wondered which existence he more belonged to: the world of normal men or the one of the unquiet shades of his ancestors. Tonight he felt more like one of those restless spirits, haunting his own bedchamber.
Ranging before his night-blackened windows, he tugged at the neckline of his half-open shirt, righting the urge to go consult that blasted crystal again. Fighting the even darker urges of a St. Leger male who had waited for his bride too long already.
Now she was here, and it hardly seemed to matter that she wasn't the woman he had wanted. Not at quarter to two with the cartel clock on the wall ticking off the minutes in a way to drive a man insane, with the candles guttering low in their sockets, with the night pressing against the panes of his window as though dawn would never come again.
Not with his own blood pumping so hot in his veins.
Anatole stifled a low groan. Another dark of the moon. Another dark night of despair, unendurable loneliness and longings fierce enough to bring a man to his knees. Another night of sleepless hell.
He raked both hands back through his hair. He didn't need to go seek out more visions in the crystal to know his future. The damned woman was undoing him already.
He could actually hear the thudding of his own heart, the quick intake of his breath and… the infernal ticking of that clock.
Spinning about, with one glare, he wrenched the delicate timepiece from the wall, levitating it a few feet into the air. Somehow he stopped just short of dashing the clock to bits against the fireplace hearth. He whumped it down upon his feather-tick mattress instead. Mercifully the ticking ceased.
Dizzy with the pain that little outburst of temper had cost him, Anatole leaned against the bedpost for support, cursing his own folly. As his head cleared, his eyes were drawn to the far end of his bedchamber.
The silver branch of candles on his bureau sent a soft glow over his crimson bed hangings, stretching fingers of light toward the door lost in shadow. The door that connected to the room where she lay.
She had retired there much earlier in the evening, pleading exhaustion. Retired? Barricaded would be a better word. Locked herself in there to escape him.
Madeline… his perfect bride as Fitzleger insisted upon calling her, all that Anatole could ever desire in a woman. All that he could ever dread, Anatole thought bitterly. Fair and fragile, frightened half to death of him. And Anatole had not even told her the complete truth about himself as yet. He'd been too much a coward for that.
He continued to stare at the door in brooding silence, attempting to delve past the barrier, sense Madeline's movements in the way he could do with everyone else at Castle Leger. But it was useless. Even when he strained to the full extent of his power, Madeline continued to elude him. She remained outside of his range, as mysterious and unfathomable as the night that darkened his windows.
Anatole expelled a breath of frustration and baffled defeat. Curse the woman! If she was his true bride as Fitzleger claimed, then surely Anatole should be able to link himself to every breath she took, every beat of her heart, even from a league away. Instead he didn't think he could divine her presence if she was under his very nose. And this was the woman that he was supposed to face on the morrow, make to her the most sacred vow any St. Leger could give.
The pledge of his heart and soul not only for this lifetime, but the next.
"Damn you, Bride Finder," Anatole muttered. "You had best be right about her."
It was as much a prayer as it was a curse, because if the old man was wrong… Anatole scarcely dared think about the consequences, the agony of an eternity bound to the wrong woman, one who moved him not at all.
At least not the spiritual part of him. As for the physical side of him—he clenched his teeth. That was another matter.
The one kiss alone he'd forced from the woman had been enough to… The feel of her mouth beneath his, all honeyed and warm—even just the memory of it could—Damn!
Anatole rushed over to the washstand. He didn't pause for the niceties of pouring the water from the cream-colored pitcher into the basin. He splashed the cold liquid directly from the jug onto his flushed face.
And still his breeches and shirt felt too tight for his skin. He all but wrenched off the buttons, peeling open the white linen to lay his chest bare, spattering water over his heated flesh, dampening the dark mat of chest hair until he looked like a man racked with fever, soaked in sweat.
Maybe he was. Maybe he should dump what remained in the jug over the lower part of his anatomy. He couldn't believe that he lusted after Madeline this way, with an unbridled hunger that bit deep into his vitals.
She wasn't even a proper armful for a man like him. The truth was he'd simply gone without a woman for far too long. He had touched no other female since last winter, when he had sent the Bride Finder off on his quest. No matter how painfully his desires had raged, he had sought out none of the usual ways of easing his man-needs, foolish chits from the village who got some kind of dark thrill from bedding the dread lord of Castle Leger, jaded wenches who would have diddled the devil
himself for enough coin.
He'd wanted no more of them with their practiced caresses and empty sighs. He had been able to hunger and dream of no one else but the woman that Fitzleger would find for him. His one true bride who would meet him as his equal, mate her fire to his, two halves of the same whole. The wife who would bring ease not only to his flesh, but perhaps to his troubled soul…'.
What a fool he was. Anatole compressed his lips in a self-mocking sneer. What a complete and utter fool to have ever succumbed to the legends of Castle Leger, to believe that such a bride could exist when she didn't. Not for him.
All those long agonizing nights of abstinence, of burning, hoping, waiting. And all for what? Madeline Breton, the bride who shrank from the sight of him. She had actually bolted for the door rather than be kissed by him. When he'd spun her around to pull her into his embrace, her great green eyes had been luminous and pleading, begging him not to. But he wasn't sure he could have stopped even if he had wanted to. What had begun in anger, in a desire to demonstrate to her who would be master under this roof, had ended in pure, simple desire.
At least on his part. She had just looked bruised and scared. Yet the woman did not wholly want for courage. Anatole had caught glimpses of an irritating stubbornness and a spirit that belied her fragile appearance. Madeline could be brave enough as long as he didn't want to touch her.
But that was just the trouble. He did.
His ancestor Prospero would never have had this trouble with a woman. It was said that but one whisper from that cursed spell-caster had been enough to bring any female running naked to him.
But Anatole did not want to have his bride through witchery, mesmerization, and dark magic. He wanted her in the way of ordinary men. And the longer this hellish night wore on, the more he didn't see why he shouldn't have her.
Gazing at Madeline's closed door, a surge of hot bitterness rushed through him. She had agreed to stay here, be his wife. For all intents and purposes, she was already legally his. He'd paid out a handsome sum on the marriage settlement. That made her not so different from the other women he had bought and paid for, only more costly.