Summer's Bride

by Catherine Archer

  When her hands clasped his hips, Marcel closed his eyes on the resulting flash of heat that throbbed in his belly. He reached up to slide his hand between their bodies, closing around the firm weight of her breast, hearing her cry of yearning and reveling in it.

  Genevieve was on fire, her blood turned to a molten river of desire—a desire for something she could not name. But as her breast seemed to swell beneath his questing hand, she realized that her body knew what she wanted, knew and was more than prepared to seek the answer to this indescribably delicious longing—this all-encompassing need.

  Marcel was at first only distantly aware of a strangled gasp that came from neither himself nor the woman in his arms. Breathing heavily, he pushed back and looked in the direction of the sound.

  Lily stood in the entrance to the chamber, her fingers covering her mouth in obvious surprise, but he could see no hint of condemnation in those gray eyes.

  As her gaze met his, she spoke hastily. “I…forgive me.”

  Marcel felt Genevieve start and he reacted instinctively, pressing her face protectively against his chest as Lily went on, her expression seeming to display approval. “I did not know that you were…I thought Genevieve was alone. I will speak with her on the morrow.”

  With that, Lily was gone.

  That approval made Marcel realize just how wrong he was in what he was doing. He had no right to hold this woman, kiss her, and lead others to believe that he had feelings for her. Not only did his life at sea lie as a barrier between them but there was also her future marriage to Beecham to consider. He took a deep breath, concentrating on easing the erratic beating of his blood, calming the fierce need in his belly.

  Finally Marcel let his arms fall away from Genevieve’s and stepped back. Dear God, what had he done?

  He could not meet the probing weight of her gaze, as he spoke. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I…” There was nothing he could say that would not make things worse. His assurances that he felt nothing for her that was not brotherly seemed very foolish now.

  He squared his shoulders and went to the door. He paused only briefly when he heard her plaintive cry of “Marcel!”

  “There is nothing to say, Genevieve. I am very sorry.”

  He was more sorry than he could ever say. Sorry that no matter what his resolutions now and the last time he had been with Genevieve, he still had no power to resist his attraction to her.

  It was best that he was leaving in the morning. Not only for himself, but for both of them.

  He could only pray that time and her marriage would eradicate the wildly confused feelings that existed between them, for he had no wish to hurt her. The sorrow in her voice as she had spoken his name could not be missed.

  Though he felt a tug to return to her, he would not allow himself to do that. He would go back to the sea, to the life he had made for himself, where he was sure of what he wanted and why.

  Genevieve could only stand there staring at the closed door in stunned silence, her heart beating so fiercely and painfully that it felt as if it might surely break through the wall of her chest.

  Why had Lily come?

  The thought was immediately followed by a horrified thanks to God she had done so, for if she had not…Genevieve was afraid to even contemplate what might have occurred. She had been past reason and sanity, aware of nothing save the way it felt to be kissed and held in Marcel’s strong arms—save her own desire for him.

  Surely he felt something, too.

  Yet his distress at Lily’s having seen them together was more than evident.

  Genevieve put her hands to her head, her headdress falling unheeded to the floor as she ran her fingers through her too heavy hair. She gained no relief from her anguish, only a horrifying certainty that her feelings for Marcel were stronger than they had ever been.

  Stronger, the word was such an understatement. Heaven help her, she loved him. All these long months when she had tried to convince herself she did not care for him in that way had been nothing more than a lie. A lie to hide the truth of her own feelings from herself, for surely she had loved him all along.

  Marcel’s reaction to her told her that he was not immune to her, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Even she, as innocent as she was of such matters, knew that his kisses had been far from indifferent or even brotherly.

  Why should this displease him so? Whatever could make him wish to deny the depth of passion and sense of deep connection that had overtaken them?

  They were surely the same unknown reasons that had made him leave Brackenmoore two long years ago.

  If he would only talk with her she was sure his reservations could be overcome. Surely her love for him would be enough to turn his passion to true caring. The problem lay in the fact that he would have to be convinced to tell her what was troubling him, why he was holding back from her. His departure in the morning would severely limit any opportunities for them to speak.

  Who knew how long Marcel would remain gone this time?

  If they were apart, she could have no opportunity to overcome his unexplained reticence, make him see that with her love as a basis their feelings could grow. There was no conceivable way for a man to kiss a woman the way he had Genevieve lest he have some feeling for her.

  Suddenly Genevieve knew what she had to do. She could not allow Marcel to walk out of her life again.

  She would simply have to go to West Port, board the Briarwind and go to Scotland with him. Then she would have an opportunity to convince him that they belonged together. How she would manage this feat would take some contemplation, but Genevieve was not afraid of either planning or executing the deed.

  She had escaped from the unwanted advances of her cousin Maxim Harcourt by running from Treanly in the dead of night, when she was barely more than a child. She would find a way to get to West Port and board that ship.

  Her love for him would be her guide.

  A few hours later, Genevieve wrapped her hair tightly in a wide strip of fine cloth and tucked it into a floppy velvet cap of William’s. As she stepped into the other garments she had taken from William’s chamber, Genevieve knew a moment of regret. She did not care for the idea that she had taken his clothing without permission, but she dared not bring him into her confidence. She was very sure that he would only tell his sister Raine, and Raine would certainly stop her.

  It seemed like a sign of some sort that neither William nor Kendran had been in their rooms. Maeve had informed her that both of them were in the hall with the others, visiting with Marcel.

  Maeve’s expression had plainly shown her surprise that Genevieve was not there with them. It was to her credit that the head woman had held her tongue concerning the subject. A most unusual restraint.

  Surely these occurrences were a portent of the fact that she was doing the right thing. All would be absolved when she and Marcel returned together.

  Her feelings for Marcel were the only thing that mattered. The members of this family knew well that in the name of love one must ofttimes overcome difficulty and sometimes even behave in ways that one never would in other circumstances.

  Of all those involved, she was most concerned about the reaction of Marcel himself. She was well aware that he would be angry when he saw her. Of that she had no doubt, but she meant to hide her presence until they were well at sea and hopefully give them an opportunity to talk before he could return her home. Surely he would forgive her once he had seen the truth, that they must be together. He would realize that the two of them must be together, marry and have children, who would grow to adulthood in this wonderful loving family.

  Her heart swelled at the very thought. Anything, any hardship she had to face was worth her eventual union with Marcel. For she could not doubt that it would come.

  It was this thought that bolstered her courage as she wrote a note and left it with one of the serving boys. She had addressed it to Benedict saying very little more than that she had gone after Marcel. More than that she did no
t disclose, though she suspected that Benedict knew far more of her feelings for Marcel than he had ever said. She could only pray that the boy would do as she had instructed and show it to no one until it was too late to stop her.

  Her courage stayed with her as she went to the stable and took one of the horses. The one she took was Kendran’s horse, which she had apologized for in her letter. She hoped that in the dark and in her boy’s garb, she would be mistaken for Kendran. All knew that he had an occasional nocturnal tryst and he was far less likely to be challenged at the gate than she was.

  Yet she could not deny a lagging of her determination as she rode out from the castle gate, having gotten no more than a wave from the guard. It was very dark outside the castle walls, the moon being only a curved sliver in the early summer sky. The horse knew where the trail lay this close to the castle, but Genevieve was suddenly less certain about farther out from there. Though she had been to West Port on more than one occasion, it was not by any means a common destination.

  The night she had escaped from Treanly it had been in absolute desperation, feeling that nothing could be worse than remaining in the clutches of her predatory cousin, Maxim. Her memories of being at Brackenmoore had burned like a beacon in her mind, lighting her way during the night.

  Now the heavy darkness and the looming shapes of the trees as she moved farther away from the protective mass of the castle were somewhat disturbing. Only the belief that she and Marcel would soon be together kept her going.

  Marcel stayed in the hall as late as he could, smiling, talking and drinking. He told stories of his adventures at sea to the wide-eyed amazement of Raine’s brother, William, and Sabina, not to mention the genuine interest of the others.

  He could not miss the fact that Genevieve stayed away. Nor could he help seeing the way Lily watched him, her gray eyes assessing.

  While one part of him was glad of Genevieve’s absence and that he need make no pretence at treating her with polite civility, he felt sick, with himself and the Fates. He should not have touched Genevieve, should never have kissed her. He had simply not been able to stop himself.

  Why could he not get over whatever mad attraction he had for her? Perhaps it was just being back at Brackenmoore, where the memories of his youthful infatuation with her lingered. Perhaps he was simply lonely from being so long from home.

  He was not in love with Genevieve. Genevieve, who was to wed another man. No one had mentioned the forthcoming marriage again and for that he was grateful, for he was not sure how well he could hide his unwanted discontent over this from his brothers.

  His stomach tightened each time he thought of her with Beecham—his hands touching her…he groaned. The sooner he got back to the Briarwind, the better.

  Feeling a gentle touch on his shoulder, Marcel looked down. Sabina stood watching him with steady regard in her gray eyes, which were so like her mother’s. “You are sad, Uncle.”

  He hugged her quickly. “I am not sad, dear heart. I am happy, happy to be here with you all.”

  She smiled up at him. “I have missed you, Uncle.”

  Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he ruffled her soft dark hair. “I am so glad that you remember me, sweeting.”

  She grinned, her small face lighting up. “Mother and Father and the uncles, they speak of you always.”

  Marcel felt a wave of love sweep over him. He might be gone from here, but he was not forgotten. He held out his arms. “Are you too big a girl to sit upon my lap?” She came into his arms without hesitation.

  Glancing up to see the affection in his family’s eyes as they viewed this, Marcel again felt an overwhelming sense of love for them. His sadness at saying good-bye to them only made controlling his emotions all the more difficult. He did regret leaving them again, in spite of his certainty that he was only doing what was right—in returning to his life aboard the Briarwind.

  His choice had been made two years ago. The sea had been good to him, taught him things about himself that he had not known. The responsibilities of command rested well upon his shoulders. Marcel had found the place where he alone was in control of the decisions that were made, and accountable for them.

  The men who sailed beneath him treated him with a respect born not of his name but his abilities. They did not know he was an Ainsworth.

  He’d resisted the urge to take a woman who wanted him for that name alone, and gained all through his own efforts. He would not now regret his decision. No matter how alone it made him feel.

  Chapter Three

  The arrival of the first creeping light of dawn just happened to coincide with her entering the town of West Port, and Genevieve did so with her head down. She knew that her horse would mark her a young nobleman, but she did not wish to press fortune by hoping that her face would not give her away.

  The narrow streets were not busy at this early hour of the morning, but she knew they presently would be. This was a fishing, shipping port. Men who worked the sea did not linger long abed.

  After stabling Kendran’s stallion at a reputable hostelry she made her way to the docks. The heels of William’s oversized boots clumped noisily upon the wooden walk, and she tried to go more quietly while keeping in mind her need for haste. She had no trouble locating the Briarwind It was a large three-masted merchant ship with a wide belly that she had seen on more than one occasion since coming to live at Brackenmoore. Along with the usual clutter of sailing paraphernalia, the deck bore a large structure at one end and what she knew was the captain’s cabin at the other. Genevieve was sure that once she got on board she could find a place to hide.

  The sounds of male voices told her that at least a portion of the crew was up and about. A stack of barrels and wooden crates rested along the dock near the stern of the ship. She ducked in amongst them.

  As she looked up over the side of the ship, she began to grow more nervous and uncertain, for there were more people up and about than she had at first thought. Several men were milling about the deck, exchanging jests and conversation as they worked, braiding ropes and stitching sails.

  There was no way she could simply step across the gangway without notice. What would she say if someone attempted to stop her from going aboard?

  As the question ran through her mind, a man came toward the gangway. With a silent groan of frustration she ducked behind a barrel.

  She had delayed too long in making sure Kendran’s horse was taken care of. Now what was she to do?

  Marcel left Brackenmoore with a heavy heart. He rose long before dawn, saying good-bye only to his brothers, who were clearly saddened by his leaving. Marcel could not help seeing the way Tristan watched him the whole while that he was making ready to go. He was fairly certain that after they had sought their beds only short hours ago, Lily had revealed what she had seen in Genevieve’s chamber.

  Thankfully, Marcel was spared from having to explain what had happened between him and Genevieve. Tristan, in spite of his steady regard, kept his opinion of the matter to himself.

  As he left the keep alone, the Scot having refused to return by sea, Marcel told himself he was glad that he had not seen Genevieve. Another meeting would serve neither of them, for he had nothing to say that could possibly improve the situation.

  He had gone a short way down the road when he found himself pausing to look back at the castle in the distance. He could not deny his sadness—not entirely due to his leaving his family.

  That kiss. His body burned at the memory of it. It had been more powerful, more shattering than anything his wayward imagination had been able to conjure in his waking hours or in his restless dreams.

  Squaring his shoulders, he went on, determined this time to leave his feelings for Genevieve behind for good. She would be much better off with Lord Roderick Beecham. A more honorable and suitable man could not be found.

  Unfortunately, this thought did not bring the peace he sought. He felt only an aching emptiness.

  With a growl of frustration, Marcel pro
dded his mount to a gallop. All he needed was an invigorating ride to clear his mind.

  Marcel was still riding at a gallop when he entered West Port some hours later, having made the journey in far less time than he’d expected. He moved through the port without paying much attention to the bustling activity around him. He had to see to the outfitting of his ship, and in short order.

  He was not sorry for the pressing haste of his mission. He only hoped it would help keep his mind from thoughts of Genevieve and the way she had felt in his arms as the hard ride from Brackenmoore had not.

  Resolutely he went about the business of ordering supplies. Although the journey to Scotland was not a long one, he never set out without enough rations to see them through untoward circumstances. It cost him extra to have his goods delivered with such speed, but he was assured that all would arrive at the Briarwind within the hour.

  Leaving the horse at the establishment where he had hired it, Marcel then made his way to his ship. As he approached, he experienced the same rush of pride that he felt each time he saw her.

  She was a fine vessel, which his father had purchased from a Venetian shipbuilder. In her he’d sailed throughout Europe and the Holy Land. They’d carried English wool and Arabian spices, and Chinese silks in the hold. The captain’s cabin was visible from where he stood and forward of that on the starboard side was the galley, and the pen for the livestock that provided fresh meat for the crew. In the forepeak was a small chamber for the bow watch. In between was an ordered jumble of spare sailing parts, benches, spars, casks, chests and so on.

  He was not at all surprised to see the amazement on the face of his first mate, Harlan, as he stepped up onto the gangplank. Harlan dropped the rope he was repairing and came toward him, that tall, deceptively slender frame seeming poised for action as always. He spoke with no small measure of surprise. “Captain, why are you returned so soon?”