“But you are the one who has been through—” Aunt Finella began.
Again Genevieve interrupted her, with what he could see was a deliberately cheery smile. “I am one of the very hardiest of souls and am most well. None the worse for wear, for they did me no harm at all.”
Genevieve stood and drew his aunt up. “You go up now. I will attend to what needs doing. You have had the worry of this upon you these many weeks. Pray let us attend you, for I am sure you have had very little sleep over this time. Now that you know Cameron is doing well, mayhap you will find a bit of rest.”
Relief made Aunt Finella’s shoulders slump. With a sigh she put a fragile hand to Genevieve’s cheeks. “What a dear child you are. It is true I have not slept these many nights. You have put some of my worry to rest.”
Genevieve motioned toward one of the serving woman. “Come, take your mistress to her chamber. Darken the room so that she might have a rest.”
The woman moved to do as she was bid with a respectful and warm glance toward Genevieve. Marcel watched as they left the hall. The folk at Glen Rowan very clearly loved their mistress and were obviously grateful for Genevieve’s consideration toward her.
Marcel found his heart swelling with pride and gratitude, as well. Despite the fact that she was obviously still perturbed with him, Genevieve was able to reach out in comfort.
Without thought, his gaze met hers. His mouth silently shaped the words thank you.
In spite of all her resolutions, Genevieve felt her stomach flutter. She knew that she should not give in to it. Marcel ran too hot and cold, first warm and responsive then cool and remote and seemingly without reason.
Yet when he took her arm and led her out into a small chamber that was obviously used for storage off the hall, she made no protest. He came to a halt, releasing her, but she could still feel the touch of his fingers on the arm he had held. The sensation was far from unpleasant.
It was almost as if his touch, however benign it might be, left a permanent mark upon her, made her his. Somewhere inside her lurked a demon nymph who welcomed that sense of belonging to him.
Her heart thundering, she took a step backward.
Marcel simply moved to stand close over her, and she had to close her eyes to overcome the wave of longing that raced through her at his nearness.
His words, though, made her open them again. “I…there are no words to express my gratitude for what you have done this day. You have a concern that you will never truly be a member of my family, but your actions make it so, and not only in the case of going to Cameron. Your treatment of my aunt does you no small credit. Though I haven’t seen her often, I care a great deal for her. I…she makes me think of things I had not considered for a very long time…my mother.”
Her gaze found his profile as he went on, the words obviously painful. “Mother was very like Aunt Finella. Being with her makes me feel…think of things that I had forgotten. I recall how very hard it was after Mother and Father died. I see now that was when I began to envy Benedict his position as overlord. He had things to do, important matters to distract him from the empty and agonizing truth of their absence. I knew then that I had to be my own man. I never again wanted to be in a situation where I was left with nothing but emotions to dwell on.”
She spoke gently. “There is naught ill in being sad over your parents’ deaths.”
He grimaced. “I have been more than sad. I realize that it was when they died that I began to wish that I had something to give my time, my life to. I needed to be needed as Benedict was. It was only the passing of years that made me forget when the desire had first come upon me, when I first began to feel as if I must be of more use than my place as a third son allowed.” He shrugged seeming to have forgotten her presence. “I had the name of Ainsworth behind me. And Benedict said that all that I wished for would come to me. I could not tell him that the thing I most wanted, to be like my brother, could not come to me, but I learned something important. I knew then that I must follow my own beliefs, make my own life. I must earn what I desired and never use my name or position as aid. I could not use my name, or any other man—or woman—to gain what I desired.”
She said softly, “Yet Benedict inherited the lands.”
He shook his head. “Benedict has earned his place by his love and care for all. He was barely more than a boy when he took on the responsibilities of being baron and has fulfilled them ofttimes at great cost to himself.”
For a long moment Genevieve did not know what to say. Marcel had just given away far more than he knew. He wished to live by nothing but his own efforts in order to prove that he needed no one to succeed. He had also revealed why he had turned away from her and what they could have. If she were impoverished, with no one and no place to go, he might have cared for her. As he did Constanza. Yet she was not. She was an heiress, would bring land and fortune to her husband. And because those things were what he most desired, Marcel would deny himself the having of them.
Why must it be this way?
Why could he not see that he, Marcel, because of his many qualities of leadership and honor, would bring far more than he would gain? Without thinking, she said, “Marcel, can you not see that it is the Fates that have brought us together on this journey? That you and I have something to offer each other. I have lands. You wish to serve as overlord, would do so with a prudence and dedication that could not be surpassed.”
His expression hardened before her very eyes. “You mistake me, madam. What I said was no bid for sympathy, or charity. Think you that I would accept such an offer? Surely you would gain what you think you want most—my name. But ’twould serve neither of us if you tired of my bed and ended in expecting me to play the part of exalted castellan.” With that he reached for her, his mouth closing on hers before she realized what he was about.
To her utter horror she felt desire spring up inside her, unbidden and quite unwanted, but as fierce and hot as ever. Disgusted with herself and with him, she pushed at him with all her might.
Instantly Marcel released her as her angry gaze found his. “How could you treat me so?”
He answered with an equal heat. “How could you treat me thusly? You have admitted some time gone that I was not your equal. Why would I ever agree to such a mad idea?”
Vaguely she recalled his having said something to that effect when they were arguing on their way to Glen Rowan, and the fact that she had not disputed him. But that had only been to keep from giving away her feelings for him. Yet she knew she would never admit this as he continued. “I have my ship and the sea. I have…”
She finished for him, “Constanza.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Aye, Constanza. And you would do well to remember that you are to marry Roderick. He is your equal in stature and lands.”
Shame froze Genevieve’s blood to the very core. He had made himself quite clear. Why indeed would she ever think he would agree to such madness, to forget that he loved another? To be so carried away by this moment of sharing and suggest something so impossible.
With a sob of anguish she turned and ran from the room. She cared not what anyone might make of this if they saw her. She simply could not face Marcel and his rejection for another moment.
Chapter Ten
Genevieve spent the next morning with Aunt Finella. The elder woman was obviously still quite agitated from the previous day’s events, thus Genevieve did not try to refuse her when she insisted on bringing her all manner of garments and shoes for her use. She even went so far as to send her own maid to attend Genevieve’s personal needs.
Finally Genevieve had insisted that the older woman have a rest from their labors. Only moments after Aunt Finella had gone did she realize that she could not linger about the keep with nothing to do. The thought of coming into contact with Marcel when she was feeling so very vulnerable and frustrated—and angry with him—was just too overwhelming.
Marcel did not wish to be with her, had never made any e
ffort to imply otherwise. She had simply been so moved by what he had said, by her own recent thoughts of having neglected her responsibilities that she had been possessed by a sudden madness.
As she headed off across the courtyard, she realized there was one truth she must accept. There was very little of her relationship with Marcel that she did understand.
The previous day she had allowed herself to forget Marcel was in love with Constanza. She had allowed herself to think his confidences meant something.
He had been carried away by the feelings that had resulted from his thinking about his past. Her presence had been incidental. For her he felt only gratitude because of her kindness toward his aunt and her going to see Cameron.
His admission that Aunt Finella had brought up so many long-forgotten feelings and memories about his mother were proof of his uncommon care for her. It was that which made him seem so…vulnerable.
She would not let herself forget again.
Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she left the chamber and made her way to the castle gate. When the guard called down to ask her business, she replied evenly, “I am only going for a walk.”
Was she mistaken or was there genuine concern in his voice as he said, “Have a care. You would not wish to be lost.”
She nodded and set off at a brisk pace. During the morning Aunt Finella had told her that word had gotten round the keep about her volunteering to go with McGuire to see Cameron. She had also said that the people’s gratitude was great. Clearly that must be the case.
This made Genevieve feel somewhat uncomfortable for a moment and she wondered why. Perhaps, came the sudden thought, she was finally beginning to realize just how important such things were to the common folk. Perhaps she was just realizing how much they cared about the lives of their overlords. Perhaps she was coming to realize that her own folk had been without that connection since she had been forced to go to Treanly by Maxim.
After escaping him, she had been so determined to never look back on her old life that she had made Brackenmoore her home. She had not thought about the effect this might have on her tenants, trusting in Benedict’s man to manage. Until now.
She was realizing more and more that she had put the onus for many things upon Benedict. Matters that were her own responsibility.
Yesterday she had understood that Marcel would be a very good and conscientious overseer. Why could she not be the same?
It was with only half her attention that she left the edge of the heather-strewn moor and entered the woods at the other side.
Here the ground was dappled with shadow and the canopy over her head was more green than blue because of the thickness of the branches, though she could see blue sky in the background along with the occasional flash of a billowy white cloud. The trail was well defined and she had no trouble following it as it led around the base of the trees, up one gentle rise to dip then in a mossy hollow. All around her she could hear the sounds of the birds as they went about the work of feeding their young.
It was the pony she saw first, one of the highland variety that were ridden by the local inhabitants. And even seeing it there tied to a tree ahead of her, it was a moment before she understood what its presence implied.
She hesitated, not wanting to intrude upon anyone.
Then as she came to a halt, she saw them. Her gaze alighted on them, and the couple, who stood locked in a fierce embrace on the other side of the same tree, realized that they were no longer alone.
Instantly she recognized the boy and girl who had caught her attention at the ruins the previous day. The tension of those moments had prevented her from paying them more than cursory attention, but she did remember seeing them enter the ruins just as the meeting was ended.
The horror on their faces now left her in no doubt as to their unhappiness at being found this way. Genevieve could not be surprised. The girl had most certainly been with the Duggans the previous day, the boy with the McGuires. His resemblance to the red-haired giant could not be mistaken. He placed a protective arm about the girl’s shoulders, and demanded, “What are ye about?”
Genevieve paused at his vehemence, then replied with some indignation. “Taking a walk. Is there some ordinance against walking in Scotland?”
Clearly chagrined at having begun with what amounted to an accusation, he bowed. “Nay, there is no such law.” He looked at her closely. “Do I know ye?”
Genevieve bit her lip. “I…”
The girl spoke with amazement as she ran an assessing gaze over Genevieve. “’Tis the lad from yesterday. The one who went with your da to…”
The young man’s eyes widened in shock. “’Tis true. But ye are no lad. What game is this ye play, Englishwoman?”
Genevieve took in a calming breath, knowing she must try to explain the misunderstanding. “Aye, I am a woman. I had no intention of being taken for a boy yesterday. When your father did mistake me, I could not tell him the truth for fear of his refusing to take me to see Cameron.”
“Why should I believe ye?” He watched her with suspicion.
She shrugged. “Only ask yourself what I might gain by deliberately disguising my identity. I am most sure your father has spoken of what happened when he took me to see Cameron. What harm did I do to anyone?”
He watched her, his expression uncertain as he considered what she had said. Finally the young man answered, “Forgive my bad humor. I…” He looked down into the girl’s wide and tormented blue eyes. “We…”
Although he seemed to have a great degree of difficulty speaking, Genevieve was fairly certain she understood what he was trying to impart. He had been more upset at her having seen the two of them embracing than anything else. Clearly the problems that separated the daughter of a Duggan from the son of a McGuire were not insignificant. At the same time, Genevieve could not deny a certain frustration and anger that such ridiculous matters as birth could keep apart two people who wanted to be together.
She could not help saying so. “Clearly you two are in love.” When they looked at her with wide, horrified eyes she said, “Do not allow your families, or anything else for that matter, to keep you apart. Your love is something special and wonderful. It will sustain you if you but allow it.”
The girl shook her head in dismay. “You do not understand.”
Genevieve met her gaze with a long and assessing look. “Aye, I do. More than you will ever know. I cannot convince you of what really matters if your love for each other cannot.”
This she knew was true. If a man and a woman were not prepared to overcome the obstacles that kept them apart, there was no hope for them.
She knew all too well that if Marcel was not willing to see that the things he imagined to be problems were nothing more than his imaginings, then there was no use trying to convince him otherwise. Even if he had not been in love with Constanza, they would have little hope. Unless wholly given, love—or even the strange inexplicable bond that she and Marcel shared—could not have a chance to flourish.
So thinking, she spoke with more affront than she ever would have if her thoughts had been less distressing, “Do as you will, then. If your love is not strong enough to defy the unfairness of your families, it simply is not.” She then turned her back on them in preparation to leaving them to their own worries.
The young man’s voice halted her. “Ye think I am afraid to deny my father. I tell ye Englishwoman, the McGuire is not so fierce that I would not face him.”
Genevieve swung back around with a gasp, for it was even worse than she had thought. McGuire was the lad’s own father. He went on watching her with a scowl. “It is Fiona’s father that I fear. I would not have him denounce her.”
Genevieve took a deep breath, realizing that she had no right to plague these two with her opinions when she could not resolve her own life. She replied softly, “Pray, forgive me for my utterly capricious condemnation of you when I really know nothing of your situation. I would have no leave to judge you if I did.
I…my own troubles cloud my thinking.”
The girl spoke up. “My father might very well kill Robert if he knew that we had been together. It is for him that I fear, not myself.”
Genevieve sighed. “Again I beg your forgiveness and reiterate that I have no right to pass judgment upon you.” Her gaze met the girl’s tormented eyes earnestly. “Upon either of you.”
How sad was a world where love was not allowed to flourish where it may. How tragic that it could not dwell unchecked in hearts that longed only for the embrace of the beloved.
This time as she turned to go, Genevieve could not completely deny a sudden sting of tears. Though why they would come she could not quite explain.
What she did know was that she would speak of this to no one. The young lovers had the right to their secret.
Marcel tossed restlessly upon his bed.
He should be able to come up with a solution for bringing Cameron safe home. He tired of this waiting game, wanted to hunt the countryside high and low until he found his cousin, destroying those who had taken him in the process.
Yet here he sat attempting to think of how to get Duggan and McGuire into the same room without the constant gibes that only made the situation worse. His private audiences with the two men this day had ended in much the same way as the initial meeting in the ruins.
“God rot them.” He rubbed an agitated hand over his hair.
He was hampered, not only by his aunt’s pleadings for a peaceful solution, but also by his own realization that he would gain nothing with self-indulgent rage. By Genevieve’s own words, the boy was being kept safe and reasonably well. He could not jeopardize that because of his own frustration.
For if he were honest with himself, he knew his agitation was not entirely due to his feelings of having his hands tied in the matter of dealing with McGuire. He had other equally burdensome thoughts pressing upon his mind.
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