Summer's Bride

by Catherine Archer

Was that his voice whispering her name? The sheer wanting in that one word made him shudder.

  Catching her breath, she leaned toward him. Without knowing that he was going to do so, Marcel closed the space between them with his own lips.

  Genevieve was drowning, her mind reeling as his lips, so oft thought of, so vividly recalled, came into contact with hers. So sweet, so stimulating was the contact that a piercing shaft of heat raced through her though their bodies touched at no other point.

  When his arms came around her and pulled her close to his hard warmth, she thought she might surely expire from the sheer and unadulterated thrill of it. She was shaken by the wonder of being in his arms once more when she had never thought that such a thing could happen again.

  She was completely lost in the pleasure of this embrace. His lips slanted across hers and, when his tongue begged entrance, she gave it. Willingly, joyfully, her own inexperienced tongue twined with his in a dance that she learned to follow quickly. Her breasts seemed to swell and become more sensitive against the hardness of his chest as his hands slid confidently down the length of her back to settle on her hips. She squirmed restlessly, pressing herself closer and closer as an ache that was impossible to ignore began to grow in her lower belly.

  There seemed no relief for her discomfort. His kisses and the able pressure of his hands only seemed to increase it.

  Marcel felt as if his head was swimming, his pulse racing like a raging river in his veins. It was as if every part of him were alive to the taste and feel and warm, soft scent of the woman in his arms.

  Gently he lay her back upon the bed, never breaking the contact of their mouths. So readily did she react to that gentle pressure that it was as if her own body was joined to his by some invisible link that connected their two separate selves and made them one. One in need and pleasure.

  With her soft form resting beneath him, he brought up one hand and closed it around the swell of her breast. She gasped against his lips, her back arching as her nipple hardened beneath his palm.

  Driven by his own pulsing reaction to her response, Marcel slid his other hand up beneath the wool houppeland and soft linen shirt she wore. He connected with the softness of her belly, spreading his fingers over that velvet flesh with wonder.

  The fluttering of her belly as he touched her made him press his hips more closely to hers. She reacted in kind and he took a sharp breath as his manhood reared in response.

  Genevieve felt as if she could not breathe, could not think of anything save the steadily rising passion inside her. Her every nerve called out with longing and anticipation as that gentle hand on her belly slowly slipped up along her ribs, then closed around her naked breast. She cried out then, arching her back as her thighs clenched around the sweet ache at their joining.

  “Marcel, Marcel,” she cried out his name as his mouth left hers to leave a hot trail of longing across her neck. When he dipped his head to the collar of her houppelande she reveled in the thrill that made the hairs stand up along her nape.

  He pulled the cloth down and nuzzled the top of her breast, which he continued to hold in his large warm hand. She whimpered, her breath coming in shallow gasps and it seemed as if her body begged him to nuzzle lower, to do something to…

  Heaven help her, she did not know exactly what he would do, only that she wanted his mouth on her breasts.

  The words he whispered against her ear made her shudder with desire. “I want to see you.”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “Oh yes.”

  When Marcel reached down and grasped the hem of her garment she did not demure, but raised her hands over her head. The houppeland was removed in an instant and she kept her arms high as he now reached to take off the linen shirt she wore beneath it.

  It was as he leaned to kiss her before removing it that her hands came into contact with a very similar fabric, clenching around it convulsively. At first her passion-befuddled mind did not grasp what her fingers were curling around.

  His kiss was so distracting, making her heart hammer in her breast.

  But then as Marcel leaned away, for how could she be holding her shirt in her fingers when he was about to take it from her, to dispense with the barrier between her flesh and his lips…

  And then, in a vivid flash of recall it came to her, where she had seen such a fabric before. Constanza. It was her nightrail. The one she had worn the first time Genevieve had seen her.

  Dear heaven, Constanza.

  With a horrified groan, Genevieve folded her hands across her chest just as the unsuspecting Marcel made to raise her shirt. Her action successfully blocked him and he looked up into her eyes, his own dark with passion and confusion.

  Before he could speak, she said the one word that must bring him to his senses. “Constanza.”

  He started away from her as if struck, rising to stand with his back to her where she lay upon the bed. Seeing this, and the way he raked a shaking hand through his hair, made Genevieve’s heart ache. That he was sickened by what they had just done was obvious. Although it hurt her to see how upset he was, Genevieve told herself that she must be grateful that they had come to their senses before things had gone any further.

  Before…God help them, someone had come in and discovered them….

  Quickly she sat up on the bed and searched for her houppeland, which she found lying on the floor beside the bed. She slipped it over her head, aware that Marcel was moving away from her to gaze out the portal.

  With awkward fingers she tucked her hair into the velvet cap, just as the door behind her opened.

  Genevieve did not want to look around, did not want to see who it was. But as the silence lengthened, she realized that she must.

  Constanza stood in the doorway, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. That she was aware of the tension in the air was obvious in her dark brown eyes.

  The Spanish woman said hesitantly, “Perhaps I should go?”

  Marcel swung around with what Genevieve could see was forced calm. “Nay, there is no need. There is nothing you need be absent for.” He motioned toward Genevieve. “Genevieve’s hands were not up to the task of plaiting ropes.”

  Genevieve looked down at her hands with a guilty start. She had completely forgotten her injury. The bandage Marcel had begun to put on had long since fallen away.

  Constanza came toward Genevieve with an expression of concern. “May I do something to help?”

  Quickly Genevieve grabbed one from the bed and began to apply it to her own injury. “There is no cause for concern. I am near finished and it is not so bad as that. Marcel has already done too much.”

  At his muffled grunt, she glanced at him and saw how he had taken her statement. She closed her lips on any explanation, though she felt that what had happened was certainly more her own fault than his. He had simply reacted to her own desires. For she was in no doubt of the fact that she had wanted what had occurred, wanted it desperately no matter how she had tried to convince herself otherwise in the past days.

  She flicked another glance toward Constanza and saw the sympathy in her brown eyes. Quickly she looked away, feeling her face heat even more than it had been. Guilt rose up in her like an inky stain. She had no right to kiss Marcel, to touch him. He belonged to this gentle woman.

  Genevieve could not help considering how hurt she would be if he was hers and betrayed her. Heaven, how hurt she felt even now, and he did not. How greedy and possessive she felt of his hands, his mouth, all of him.

  She spoke through tight lips, unable to look at either of them. “I am very tired now.”

  Constanza said, “You must go to sleep then.” She moved to the bed and pulled back the cover.

  Looking at the bed, the last thing Genevieve wanted to do was get into it. How could she sleep in the bed where Marcel and Constanza had…?

  Where she and Marcel had just…?

  But how could she refuse? And where was she to lay her head if she did?

  With an abrupt nod,
Genevieve moved to the bed and lay down fully clothed. She did not care what the other two made of her silent refusal to disrobe. Her ability to behave as if nothing was wrong had been completely submerged in her confusion and hurt.

  When the other woman pulled the quilt up close over her shoulder, Genevieve felt the sting of tears behind her lids, the kindness nearly being her undoing. She refused to shed those unwanted tears.

  As when she was a child and all seemed to be in chaos around her, Genevieve told herself that she must go inside herself. Only there could she find a place where none of it could touch her, where she need rely on no one but herself.

  Yet even as she went over this familiar pattern of thought she realized that her heart still ached, that Marcel still belonged to another.

  Marcel felt Constanza’s gaze upon his back, but he refused to look at her. With deliberate casualness he went to the table and poured himself a glass of wine from the pitcher on the tray.

  He immediately realized that it might not have been wise to bring attention to the tray of food, for it was obvious that none of it had been touched. He knew Constanza would not miss this detail. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye as he raised his cup to his lips, he saw that she was indeed eyeing the still laden tray.

  Again he felt her gaze upon him, but he did not want to talk. The passionate embrace he had just shared with Genevieve was still too vivid in his mind, too powerful, too moving to set aside.

  He did not know why Genevieve affected him this way, only that she did and that he must wrest control of his reactions to her if either of them was to know any peace. For he was not blind to the fact that the same desires drove her. Clearly he had been right that in spite of her coming marriage, there was still some part of her that wished to be an Ainsworth, however unconscious that desire might be.

  “Marcel?”

  He looked up to see that Constanza had come close, her eyes searching his, clearly troubled. He shook his head.

  With too much care he placed the cup back on the table. He spoke with equal care. “There are some things I must see to on deck.”

  With that he turned and left the cabin, closing the door quietly behind him. Closing the door on the eyes of his friend whose gaze told him far too clearly that all was not well with him, in spite of his every wish to the contrary.

  Chapter Six

  After that night Genevieve did her utmost to avoid Marcel. But it was not plausible to think that she could do so with complete success aboard the ship. He was simply there, in the cabin going over his charts, on the deck checking the direction of the wind, or giving instruction to the crew in a tone that was both civil and commanding.

  No matter where she turned, there he was. His constant presence meant that she was unable to even hope for any relief from her tormented thoughts and emotions. She had told him that she did not want him and yet she had…What must he think of her?

  Meals in the captain’s cabin were a lesson in silence and discomfort. For two nights Constanza was the only one to even attempt to make conversation and when she finally questioned Marcel on his obvious preoccupation, he scowled at her and said that he was simply concerned about navigating the coastline.

  That had seemed to mollify her in no way for her darkly assessing gaze had fallen upon Genevieve. Genevieve had nothing to say on the matter.

  She knew that it was his guilt and regret over what they had nearly done that caused his preoccupation. The degree of regret he displayed convinced Genevieve all the more that his love for Constanza was strong.

  The next eve, Constanza did not come to the cabin for the meal. Genevieve assumed she had chosen to sup with the men. The painful experience of sitting alone with the taciturn Marcel, who left without saying a word after taking only a few bites, made Genevieve think quite seriously of joining them.

  But Marcel’s warning about the men could not be forgotten. The events of her past would not allow her to do so. She knew how men could be, smiling on the surface and seemingly civil, while underneath their hearts burned with secret malignancy.

  The last night she had spent at Treanly with her cousin Maxim was fixed in her mind for all time to come. Even though he had not succeeded in his attempt to rape her, he had come far too close for her to ever put herself in a position of possible danger again.

  Yet her efforts to avoid Marcel, while never being alone with a member of the crew, brought her into constant contact with Constanza. The Spanish woman spent most of her hours in the cabin, either sewing, reading or keeping the chamber tidy.

  Although Genevieve did not wish to be with the other woman, considering her own guilt over her actions with Marcel, she had really no choice. The fact that her hands were not completely healed did not help. She had no wish to sit on deck attracting the attention of the other crewmen with her idleness.

  By the fourth day of the journey, the cabin seemed far too small, the air far too close. As Genevieve paced the confined space she found herself growing more and more restless, her guilty gaze fixing upon the partially concealed bed too often.

  Genevieve was infinitely aware of Constanza, who sat close to the portal, sewing the seam of a garment that could only belong to Marcel. Her gaze raked that easily recognized houppeland of brown velvet, and a sense of possessiveness jabbed at her. Though she could not quite restrain these feelings, she knew she had no right to them.

  Marcel was Constanza’s lover, not hers.

  That was just fine with Genevieve. The way he continued to treat her made her more certain by the hour that she was much better off without him.

  Perhaps, she told herself, she would even reconsider Roderick’s offer of marriage when she returned to Brackenmoore. She was beginning to realize more and more clearly that she wanted a marriage, a family and life of her own.

  She wanted to be held and caressed.

  Yet as these thoughts passed through her mind, Genevieve knew she would not do this. Roderick deserved better than she would be capable of giving him.

  A husband deserved more than her confused feelings for Marcel would allow her to give. She would only marry when that changed. Change it would, if she had any say in her future. Hanging on to these unwanted feelings for Marcel would gain her nothing but heartache.

  She was brought from her reverie by the sound of the other woman’s voice. “I am going out for a walk on deck. Is there anything that I might get for you?”

  Genevieve shook her head sharply. “Nay, I am fine.”

  She could feel Constanza’s gaze, so dark and thoughtful upon her. The Spaniard had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if all her secrets were revealed.

  Firmly she told herself that this was not possible. Constanza might, indeed likely did, suspect that there was something between Marcel and Genevieve, but she could not know it.

  Hurriedly she reminded herself that there was no longer anything for her to know. There would be no more contact between them.

  The regret she felt at knowing she would never be held in Marcel’s arms again must be forgotten. She heard the sound of a heavy sigh and realized it had come from herself.

  “Genevieve?”

  She looked at Constanza, wondering if that sigh had brought the other’s attention to her again. She acknowledged that it had when Constanza asked, “Are you sure you are well? You seem…” She shrugged those white shoulders, which were revealed by her low-cut gown of scarlet velvet.

  Ruefully Genevieve raised her bandaged hands. “I fear I grow mad from having naught to occupy me.”

  Constanza gave a sympathetic smile. “They are healing more quickly than I expected but unfortunately are not equal to more than the lightest of activities. I am not surprised you grow restless at the restriction.”

  Genevieve watched the other woman as she spoke, saw her genuine sympathy. She was not able to deny that Constanza was both beautiful and sweet of nature. ’Twas no wonder Marcel cared for her. As her gaze ran over the exotically lovely face, she found herself asking.
“How is it that you came to know Marcel?”

  The Spanish woman looked up with an astonished expression at this abrupt change of topic. Yet she spoke with resignation. “’Tis not an easy tale to tell, Genevieve, but one which I agree you must hear.” Her dark eyes became distant. “I met Marcel shortly after my husband died nearly a year ago.”

  Genevieve exclaimed, “Your husband?”

  Constanza flushed slightly at her shock. “Does it surprise you so very much that I would have been married?”

  Genevieve looked down, contrite. “Forgive me. I did not mean—”

  Constanza interrupted, “Of course you did not. It is I who should ask for forgiveness. It is just that my circumstances here aboard the Briarwind have made me…protective of my…”

  This time it was Genevieve who interrupted. “Let us not talk of that, but of your husband and your meeting Marcel.” She meant this most wholeheartedly. She did not wish to even think of the difficulties, nor the benefits, of Constanza’s position as Marcel’s mistress.

  Constanza seemed happy to comply with her request. “My George, he was English, a successful merchant. I met him when he first came to visit my father on business in San Sebastian. I was seventeen then, and my George, forty.” Genevieve was not blind to the true affection in her tone as she said, “He was older, sí, but a very kind and gentle man. Also very handsome. I fell in love with him in an instant. When he asked my father for my hand I begged him to agree. My father was sorry to see me depart from our home but wanted me to be happy.”

  Her tone was even more wistful as she went on. “It all happened so quickly there was little time to speak of anything save our love. It was not until we came to England that I learned that my George had a child from his first marriage, a son, named Burford. From my first meeting with him I knew that Burford did not approve of our marriage. But he was near a grown man then at nineteen, and soon made his own home with his wife, whom he wed not long after my arrival in England. George and I were so happy for eleven years. There were no children, but I continued to hope. That is until my George became ill. Only then did I realize that our days together were numbered, our hopes for a child together, our future, gone. For the doctors gave little hope, saying that it was his lungs.” She raised damp eyes to look at Genevieve. “Burford and his wife moved back into our home to be with his father, though his dislike of me was still in evidence. George died only weeks later.” She paused for a long moment, wiping at the tear that trailed down her cheek with the back of her hand. “Burford waited no more days before casting me out with only the clothes upon my back.”