She answered, “Thank you,” careful to keep her voice low, and he hobbled away with that uneven gait of his.
For some reason the utterly unexpected kindness from the dour cook made her eyes sting for a moment. Quickly she took a deep, calming breath.
Genevieve did not cry.
With a determined sniff, she began to eat the savory fish soup with the heavy wooden spoon that rested inside the bowl. It tasted far better than she would have expected, or mayhap she was very hungry. Or mayhap it was the cook’s compassion that made it so.
That surprising event had occurred quite some time ago. During the ensuing hours, Genevieve had found her fingers working ever more slowly as the skin became more and more abraded, the pain from those abrasions harder and harder to ignore.
When the door of the cabin finally opened and Marcel and Harlan came out, Genevieve glanced up then bent to her work once more. Only as Marcel’s shadow fell across her did she look up into his blue eyes.
For a moment they simply stared at each other.
At last he said, “You must be tired. Surely you must feel that you have more than proved your willingness to work and can rest now.”
She gave a quick nod. She then waited until he had turned away to go about his own business before setting aside the rope she’d held in such a way that it effectively hid how damaged her hands were. She did not wish Marcel to see how shaky and sore they were, having no desire to give any hint of weakness.
When she stood, it was not without ginger care. Her back and legs were somewhat stiff from sitting on the wooden crate. With a sigh of relief she went into the cabin, holding her raw hands together carefully. Sighing again, she collapsed onto the bench beside the table.
Marcel entered the cabin and carried the tray to the table where he and Harlan had spent hours going over the charts earlier in the day. The trip to Scotland was not a long one, and would only take a matter of days with good wind. Even with the storm, they had not been much delayed. But it was a somewhat difficult journey as there were many small islands and shoals that must be avoided along the way.
Constanza had opted for eating with the crew, and Harlan had assured Marcel that he would see to her. Marcel knew that it was not easy for the Spanish widow to be in the same room with Genevieve, given what Genevieve believed of her, for there was no more virtuous woman than Constanza. Harlan, who was the only member of the crew to know of Constanza and Marcel’s true relationship, would see that the men treated her with respect.
Marcel’s gaze searched the cabin for Genevieve. At first he did not see her, then something, an inner awareness directed his gaze to the narrow shelf that ran along the front of the cabin beneath the portal. She was seated there, her back to him as she gazed out the portal, which would offer little in the way of interest as night had fallen over the sea.
He set the tray upon the wide oak table and said, “Come, I have brought food.”
She turned to him then and Marcel realized that he could read nothing of her expression in the pressing shadows inside the cabin. Quickly he moved to light more candles, telling himself that it was only prudent to have some idea of what the damsel was thinking at all times.
When he finished, the room was brighter, shadows hovering only in the more remote corners. Moving back to the table, he saw that Genevieve was now standing looking at the bowls of soup, bread, sliced meat and cheese.
Yet she made no move to eat.
He went toward her, wondering at this sign that she might be angry with him. He frowned. She should not be angry with him. He could think of not one thing that he might have done this day. Was it not she who had made the pronouncement that they must be civil to each other?
The thought of how coolly she had treated him while making this pronouncement still prickled. Yet he was determined to set aside his own irritation in the hope of making a peace.
Resolutely he ignored her confounding behavior. He motioned toward the bench beside the table. “Sit, eat. You must be hungry.”
She looked up at him and away, conspicuously keeping her hands behind her back as she shook her head. “No thank you, I do not wish for any just now.”
Against his will, Marcel felt his ire rise. “Come now, you are the one who said we must not be at odds. Are you too stubborn then to break bread with me, Genevieve? We have been near to being brother and sister for years.” He was not at all pleased with the way his conscience rebelled at this statement.
She did not know that the suggestion of their being akin to brother and sister could not be further from the truth in his mind. He had no intention of telling her.
She stared up at him in obvious distress. “I am not refusing to break bread with you, Marcel. I…” She stopped, biting her lip as if distressed and still making no move to join him.
Because of her obvious agitation, he took a deep breath for patience. “Pray then what are you doing?”
She looked down at the floor again. “I simply have no hunger, thank you.”
She continued to stand there with her hands behind her. In spite of her boyish garb he could not help seeing how the heavy blue wool stretched tight over the fullness of her bosom in this stance, nor did the soft fabric of her trousers completely disguise the gentle roundness of her hips and bottom. His body tightened, and he forced his tortured gaze back to her pale but lovely face, which was framed by the floppy velvet cap. Her lips and nose were pink from the fresh sea air. It was completely beyond him how anyone had been fooled as to her true sex. He could only be grateful for the men’s blindness.
Those green eyes with their heavy fringe of lashes were near mesmerizing, in spite of the fact that she was staring at him as if she wished to be anywhere but here. This did not soothe his agitation as she repeated, “I am really not in the least bit hungry.”
He stood with an impatient sigh, coming around the table toward her. “That cannot be. Charley told me you have eaten nothing since very early in the day. I should have seen to the matter long since.”
She shook her head. “You need have no worry for my comfort. I am quite well.”
It was true that Marcel had been concerned when he spoke with the cook. He had been beset by guilt that Charley and not himself had been the one to concern himself with her well-being. Marcel had been far too occupied in concentrating on not thinking of her when he had so much work to do. This had proved disturbingly difficult with her sitting just outside the cabin.
Though he was a sour-looking fellow, Charley was ever one to feed stray cats on the docks when they tied up. It did not surprise Marcel that he would have a care for a lad who seemed too shy to eat with the crew. He could feel his own gaze softening as he looked down at her, for of a certainty there was something of the lost kitten in those green eyes at the moment.
Genevieve bit her lower lip as she stared up at Marcel. She could think of nothing to say to this, could think of little save the warmth that seemed to emanate from his powerful body even though he had not touched her. She looked down, feeling the weight of blue eyes on the top of her head.
She did not wish Marcel to know how she reacted to his nearness. Nor did she wish him to see how sore her hands were.
She had washed them in the basin near the bed and knew the abrasions were not so very terrible. But the wounds, however shallow, were painful and had made her fingers so stiff that she did not believe she could eat without revealing the pain.
Marcel spoke again and, in spite of the gentleness in his gaze only a moment ago, this time it was with obviously leashed impatience. “Pray discontinue this exercise in avoidance and tell me what is amiss and without further delay.”
His tone sent a wave of irritation through her, drawing the strength of defiance from the depths of her sadness and pain. Her narrowed gaze met his. “How dare you speak to me thusly, Marcel? You have no right.” She was so angry that she started to bring her hands out from behind her back to shake one in his face, then recalling her injuries, quickly tucked them back beh
ind her again.
But not quickly enough, for he said, “What are you hiding behind your back?”
Before she could even move to prevent him, he had reached out and pulled her hands from behind her. His gaze widened as he saw her abraded hands.
After a long moment, he looked into her face. “Why would you hide such a thing?”
Her answer did not come easily as her jaw was so tightly clenched. “I did not wish for you to see.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I do not require your pity, my lord. Nor anyone’s. I am quite capable of taking care of my own hurts.”
There was another long silence, but Genevieve did not look at Marcel even though it stretched until she thought she might scream. Finally he spoke, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. “Pity is something I will not give you, Genevieve.”
His tone seemed strange, almost tender, and she felt an unexpected and unwanted tingle of awareness. Unable to stop herself, she looked into his eyes, seeing that he had turned so his face was now cloaked in shadow.
His tone was rife with disapproval in spite of the softness as he said, “I did tell you that you need not work at all.”
She scowled. “And I told you that a cabin boy must not remain idle for the whole of the day, not if you wished to avoid comment. And it was you who told me that you wanted me to continue to play the part I had adopted.”
He then asked, with obviously forced reason, “Why did you continue when your hands became sore?”
She shrugged again. “I chose to. I am not so helpless, Marcel, nor thoughtless that I do not know a cabin boy must pull his weight. It would be a strange thing, indeed, if he began a task and quit it only moments later.”
She halted abruptly, feeling a strange thrill go through her as his gentle fingers traced the ill-used skin on her palms. She took a quick, shallow breath, her gaze fixing on the top of his down-bent dark head.
He seemed to be unaware of her attention as he cradled her sore hands in his, but his tone was matter-of-fact when he ordered, “Sit down. I will see to them.”
She stiffened. “I have done so. I will be fine.”
He made a noise, which she could only interpret as exasperation and, swinging around, led her toward the section of the cabin where the bed lay. Genevieve had no choice but to follow as he held securely to her wrist.
Yet he did not hold her tongue and she sputtered, “Marcel.”
If he heard her he gave no indication of it, but continued forward with purpose. When they reached the bed, he pushed her down upon the coverlet and turned to pour fresh water into a basin on a shelf beside the bed. He then took a clean cloth from a small chest on the floor next to the bed and wetted it before turning back to her.
Genevieve curled her hands close to her stomach. “I tell you I do not need…”
Again he ignored her, taking hold of one hand and drawing it toward him as he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed.
She tried one more time. “Marcel, I do not want…” But the warmth of his long fingers closing around hers made a shudder pass through her that even he must have felt.
Horrified, she looked into his eyes as he turned to her. But his words made her realize that he had completely misread her reaction. “Why do you shiver so? Am I so very distasteful to you, Genevieve?”
She looked down, breathing deliberately, still infinitely aware of the strength and deftness of his hands, the heat of his body so very near hers. “Nothing could be further from the truth…” she began, then stopped for fear of what this statement might reveal. “My hands are simply tender and you startled me,” she prevaricated.
He frowned, looking down at the raw skin. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I did not mean to cause you hurt. I will have more care.”
Guilt assaulted her, but she made no effort to reassure him. For it was the very sweetness of his actions, the tenderness of his touch that brought about her dilemma.
Even now as he stroked the cool cloth gently over her palm did she have to close her eyes to hide the thrill that coursed through her at the contrast between that cool cloth and the warmth of his own flesh.
When he finished washing the first hand and reached for the other, Genevieve was forced to lean close to the solid wall of his shoulder. For a moment she remained stiff and tried her best to keep her body as rigid as possible where it touched his. The gentleness of his touch and the obvious concentration in his face as he looked down at what he was doing lulled her.
She was being foolish to hold herself so stiffly. Marcel was paying no attention to her beyond caring for the wounds. Slowly she allowed herself to lean against him, taking a comfort from the solid strength of him that she had not expected.
As she did so she told herself that she should not be surprised by her reaction. This was Marcel. She had lived in the same keep with him, had taken meals, celebrated joyous as well as sad occasions, shared laughter.
More than anything she realized that she regretted the loss of these things. Surely it would have been wonderful to find that he cared for her, that she could be a real part of his life and his family’s, to become, in truth, an Ainsworth. What she had not considered was that her desires might lead to a ruin of the friendship they had known.
It had been difficult being here with him and remaining aloof, behaving as if he were a stranger, and worse, almost as if they were enemies.
No physical attraction was worth losing him and the relationship they had shared. She must, and would, put her willful passions behind her, especially after assuring him they did not exist.
Clearly it was what Marcel wanted, as well.
If she did, for a time, continue to react to his touch in a way that neither of them wanted, she would keep those feelings to herself. She had no choice if she hoped to salvage something that meant so very much to her.
Yet as he continued to minister to her hands, she became aware of a growing tightness in her chest, a warmth in her belly that she did not wish to acknowledge. She ground her teeth together tightly, telling herself that this was Marcel—her friend.
This self-resolve did not make her feelings dissipate and Genevieve looked to Marcel, relieved at seeing how preoccupied he was with what he was doing. Again she allowed herself to relax against him.
His dark hair was thick and silky looking where it brushed the vulnerability of his nape, making her heart ache with longing at the intimacy of this moment. Genevieve closed her eyes, breathing deeply and deliberately but knowing her actions would not make the sweet yearning in her breast disappear. She was not sure that she wished it to. During the two long years he had been gone from her, she had yearned so very intensely for even one hour in his presence, to see his smile, hear the rich deep sound of his voice. And now here he was in the flesh, even more heady and intoxicating to her senses than she had imagined.
So precious were these moments here at his side, his gentle hands tending to her hurts. Perhaps, she told herself, there was naught amiss with what she felt as long as she kept it close to her. Surely, if her attraction did not leave her own mind, there was nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to castigate herself for.
Marcel was, after all, a very handsome man. She allowed her gaze to pass over his face, taking in the clearly defined Ainsworth features, which were evident in his high cheekbones and strong jaw. Her gaze lingered on the deep black fringe of his lashes, the raven hair that seemed to absorb the light of the candles.
Her gaze slid over his wide shoulders, which were encased in heavy burgundy velvet. It traveled down to his wrists, seeing the bones that were sturdy and strong but not thick. Those wrists led to fine strong hands with wide capable palms and long, supple fingers.
How good those hands had felt on her back when he held her close to him as he kissed her that night at Brackenmoore, how knowing. The warmth in her belly increased and she shifted slightly.
He looked over at her. “Have I hurt you again?”
Genevieve saw that his blue ey
es seemed darker than before, but she was too consumed by her own responses to him to wonder why. She lowered her gaze, shaking her head quickly. “Nay, you did not.” She was not blind to the breathless quality of her own voice.
She could feel him watching her for another long moment, and her gratitude was great when he finally turned away. But his doing so did not ease the growing ache inside her, nor slow the increasing tempo of her heart, nor deepen the quick shallowness of her breathing.
She was grateful, but also bereft when Marcel rose abruptly and took several strips of fine white cloth from the same chest. When he came back, he seemed to sit a bit further from her.
Genevieve frowned at her own disappointment, sharply telling herself that she was crazed.
As he began to wrap one of the cloths around her left hand, she saw that his hands now did not seem as steady as they had before. From somewhere inside her came the unexpected yet shockingly powerful thought that he was not as indifferent to her as she had imagined.
If her heart had been beating quickly before it now began to feel as though it were a drum pounding in her breast. That quivering of his hands was such a small sign, dared she even heed such a sign, believe it could mean that he was as moved by their nearness as she?
Again she was assaulted by the memory of the one embrace they had shared, the sheer passion of it. Did he never touch her again she would take those feelings, those memories, to her grave.
Looking at him closely, afraid to give credence to what her instincts were telling her, she saw a flush of color had risen along the golden skin of his throat. Before she even knew that she was about to do such a thing, she heard her own voice whisper, “Marcel?”
Slowly he turned to her, and finally she saw her answer, there in the deep indigo darkness of his eyes. His desire.
Her stomach tightened and her lips parted.
Marcel’s gaze fell to her mouth, saw the parting of those perfect pink lips. He swallowed to dampen his own suddenly dry mouth.
“Genevieve.”
Summer's Bride Page 8
