In spite of all reason and good sense, he wanted Genevieve more than he ever had. Why he could not find the strength within himself to crush these feelings he could not understand.
Her offer of herself and her lands was far greater than he would ever have her know. He had kissed her simply because he was so filled with longing at the thoughts her words evoked that he could not contain it. It had been the depth of his own response that made him reject her with such vehemence.
He’d been overwhelmed when she’d spoken of Constanza, and he had been hard-pressed for a moment to recall who she was.
He could not succumb, and for the very reasons he had admitted to her. Yet he seemed to have no ability to control his mind, his very dreams.
His nights were haunted by images of the two of them together, doing, saying things that left his body bathed in sweat and his heart racing. He only wished he could convince himself that the passion Genevieve displayed in those erotic dreams was nothing more than imagination. The ardor she had shown each time he touched her left him with the unwavering certainty that to lie with her would be to bring reality to each and every heated image.
His dilemma was all the more difficult because of the fact that it became harder to hide his feelings with each day that passed. In spite of the fact that Genevieve had managed to avoid addressing him directly even once in the two days since their confrontation, he was more aware of her than ever.
He knew that it was wrong of him to allow her to go on thinking he was in love with Constanza. Dear God, what kind of man did she believe him to be that he could react so strongly to one woman while loving another? But he could not see what there was to gain in telling her the truth now.
He had come to realize that his feelings for Genevieve must be dealt with moment by moment.
The note fell open on the floor, where it had slipped from Genevieve’s trembling hands. Heaven help her, what had she done?
When the message had been delivered to her chamber only minutes ago she’d had no indication of what might be contained therein. Yet the parchment, obviously penned by some cleric, and signed by young Robert McGuire explained all. The lovers had run away together and all because of what she had said.
’Twas sheer folly. They should never have heeded anything she might say. No one’s life was in more turmoil than her own. She could not control her desire for a man who wanted nothing to do with her. She’d run after him witlessly only to discover that he loved another.
They should never have listened to her. She should never have spoken to them as she had, all that crazed talk of love and following one’s heart.
Yet they had heeded her words. What was she to do?
Suddenly she knew that she could not keep this to herself. She must tell Marcel and immediately. When the lovers’ families learned of their running away together, the repercussions might very well impact one poor captive boy who had no blame in any of it.
So thinking, she reached down and picked up the note, shrugged into the robe Aunt Finella had supplied. In the same haste she picked up a candle and hurried from the room, afraid she would lose her courage if she did not act now. Marcel would surely be angry with her, and justifiably. She would not shrink from that anger. ’Twas no more than she deserved.
Yet at the door of his chamber she hesitated, her heart thumping, her throat dry.
Then taking a deep breath, Genevieve drew herself up and knocked upon the door.
It was jerked open after only a moment by a bare-chested Marcel. When he saw who was standing there, he took a step backward. “Genevieve.”
Her gaze took in that too oft remembered golden expanse, which seemed to almost glow in the light of the one candle he held in his hand. He pulled his robe more closely about him, seeming uncomfortable with her close regard.
Genevieve felt herself flush to the tips of her toes. She took another deep breath, forcing herself to concentrate on what she must say. What was wrong with her that she could not control her reaction to this man in even the most dreadful of circumstances?
Especially when his displeasure with her interest was so very obvious.
Quickly she began, attempting to pretend that the last moment had not taken place, though she was not unaware of the huskiness in her voice. “Marcel, I have come here because I have something of import to show you.” Abruptly she held the missive out toward him.
He reached to take the parchment with a perplexed frown, and she cried, “I have committed the most dreadful of follies.”
One quick glance at the signature at the bottom of the page prompted Marcel to pull her inside without another word. As he read the dratted note, she set her candle on the table and busied herself with looking about the room. She took in the one tall window, the same as the one in Cameron’s chamber, the high, heavily curtained bed, the table, which bore a cup and pitcher, the softly glowing candle. Anything was better than seeing the condemnation that would come into his eyes the moment he realized what had happened.
The fact that it would only be made worse when she admitted that it was indeed her own fault did not help.
He lowered the note and turned to her with puzzled eyes, asking, “Why are they thanking you for helping them to see that they must do this mad thing?”
She sighed. “I am to blame for all, Marcel. I spouted some ridiculous gibberish about love being all and that they should have the courage to face their families if they really loved one another. I have ruined everything. For now, when their families learn of this, they will be even more at odds. How are we ever to get Cameron released?”
Holding up both hands, he took a deep breath. “What are you talking about? How do you even know them?”
Briefly she explained how she had come upon the couple in the forest and her subsequent foolishness in telling them that they should not allow the wishes of others to stand in their way. She ended by turning her back to him, saying, “Thus you see I have brought about this horrid state of affairs.”
Before she knew what he was going to do, Marcel had put his hands to her shoulders and turned her to face him. His tone was surprisingly reasonable. “Did you advise them to run away together?”
She looked at him with misery. “Nay, I did not go so far. Yet ’tis my fault that they have done so. Have you not heard me? I told them that true love should overcome any obstacles. I had no right to speak thusly. I was only thinking of my o—” She halted, realizing that she had been about to divulge the truth of her own confused and unresolved feelings for him.
He shook his head. “This is no fault of yours. You spoke from your heart. Obviously they do love one another enough to risk the wrath of their families. They only needed the courage to act on what they wished to do. People will always take another’s advice if it aligns with their true desires. Only the most weak-minded will do so under other circumstances.”
He paused and, when he went on she felt his words sink into her in spite of her guilt and confusion. “You have met many of the folk here about. Would you term them weak-minded?”
Genevieve found herself shaking her head. “Nay, but…”
“There is no but. You did not make this happen. If there is one thing I know of a certainty in this world, it is that you would not deliberately harm or manipulate anyone.”
She watched his eyes, so deep and intensely blue, so sincere, and felt a now familiar ache of longing rise up inside her. She put her hands over her face, trying to hide the desire he would surely see. Why did he say such things to her, make her want him in spite of all the hurt that lay between them?
He reached out and pulled her hands away, and when he did, their eyes met. In those blue depths she thought she saw…heaven help her, she could not help seeing, could not ignore the fact that his gaze had changed. There was a heaviness to his lids, a barely leashed heat in those blue orbs.
Her breath caught and she felt a tremor of desire race through her as he passed a trembling hand over her hair and spoke her name with quiet desperatio
n. “Genevieve.”
The raw need of that one word emboldened her to reach out and put her hand against his chest, slipping inside the folds of his robe. Her eyes told him what her voice could not, that she wanted him, too, had always wanted him. From the beginning of time it seemed this wanting had been smoldering inside her.
When he gasped as her fingers inadvertently found his nipple, Genevieve felt another wave of longing so intense it weakened her knees. She closed her eyes, becoming aware of her madly thrumming pulse.
Marcel could no longer fight his need to touch and hold this woman. He had been so shocked to see her at his door, looking tousled and oh so lovely with her gold-streaked curls falling about her. He had grown too accustomed to seeing her garbed as a boy of late. Each time he saw her looking so softly feminine, her beauty nearly rendered him speechless. It was especially difficult given the path of his thoughts this very night.
Then as she had spoken to him, shown him the letter, he had made himself concentrate on her words, forget how his blood heated when her gaze brushed the skin of his chest as he’d opened the door. When he’d realized that she felt herself to blame for the actions of the young couple who had run away, this had brought such a feeling of compassion and protectiveness that he was shocked by it.
But it was not until he saw the path of her thoughts that the tight control he had on himself began to dissolve. He’d seen the yearning and, yes, need in her gaze. Feeling the spark of awareness that passed between them, Marcel could no longer ignore the need inside him. When her cool fingers touched his nipple it hardened, sending a flash of heat through his body that would not be denied.
The only thing he could do was take her in his arms.
Genevieve found herself crushed against the wall of his chest. She pressed against his hard length, her body seeming to meld itself to his. He held her there for a long moment, and she felt the pounding of his heart beneath her ear, the shallowness of his breathing with senses that were both heightened and numbed by the sheer enormity and wonder of what was taking place.
When he drew back slightly, she opened dazed eyes just in time to see his face above hers. Then as his lips closed on her own, there was nothing but sensation, a spinning, whirling abyss of pleasure that spread through her limbs and left her clinging to him as if her very life depended upon it.
And, in truth, did it not? For she knew somewhere deep inside her that if he did not touch her, hold her, ease the ache in her belly, that she would surely go mad.
His hands traced the curves of her hips and she groaned, pressing her mouth and body more fully to him. She wanted to be a part of him, Marcel, the man who turned her blood to flame.
He slipped one hand inside her robe and her belly fluttered against his fingers. Her breasts swelled, aching with anticipation. She caught her breath, her whole being becoming focused on the path of that warm hand as it passed over her belly, her ribs, the under-sides of her breasts, tracing, exploring, seeming to memorize the curves of her flesh as it went. When he finally touched one breast, his hand closing with gentle assurance over that aching mound, she sighed, sagging against him as he began to massage it through her shift. Her nipple hardened, becoming so sensitive that even the soft fabric of the shift seemed abrasive.
She could not keep her own hands still, the desire she felt growing inside making her restless and eager to experience the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. She groaned with impatience as his robe hampered her efforts to touch him as she wished. She wanted nothing between them but their own flesh, and pushed back from him in frustration.
She met his passion-darkened eyes. Her breath came quickly through parted lips as did his.
That blue, blue gaze seemed to be asking a question. She answered him directly, unable to play the coy maiden in the face of her own overwhelming longing. She dropped her robe to the floor. “I want to feel your hands on me. To put mine on you.”
He groaned, needing no further encouragement. Without a word he pushed his robe back from his shoulders, stepping away from it and toward her as it dropped to the floor.
She gasped with wonder as his magnificent body was revealed to her in the glow of the candles. His wide shoulders, flat belly, narrow hips and long muscular legs were enough to inspire any warm-blooded maid to a covetous response. It was the rise of his manhood that brought a strange liquid warmth to that secret place betwixt her thighs. Though why this should be she was not sure, for Genevieve knew no more details about the act of joining than the ribald confidences that women sometimes shared as they worked about the keep at Brackenmoore.
Yet it seemed as if in some deep part of herself her body knew, understood that this proud part of him was to somehow become a part of her. It told her the pleasure to be gained in that act of joining would surpass even what she had experienced with him thus far.
Genevieve was ready for this joining, would let nothing—not modesty, not conscience, not the devil himself—stand in the way.
She reached down and pulled her shift over her head. When his breath caught and his eyes seemed to scorch each part of her, she knew only elation. He spoke in a voice that was harsh with wanting. “You are lovely. More lovely than I could have imagined.”
Her own breathing stopped as she reached out to him. Marcel took her up against him once more, their flesh and hands no longer restrained by the constrictions of clothing.
When he slid his hands down her back, she pressed herself close against him even as his hands found her hips. His strong fingers closed around her firmly and drew her into full contact with the hard rise of his manhood.
The warmth inside her lower belly thickened, the ache making her shift restlessly against him.
Wanting more of him, she lifted her face for his kiss and he bent to her, his mouth parted. She answered his invitation by sliding her velvety tongue along his lips, and he shuddered.
When he lifted her in his arms, Genevieve’s heart hammered against her ribs. His gaze held hers as he moved. She did not have to watch where he took her to know that he carried her to the bed.
She did not look away as he lowered her to the pillows, wanting to see his reactions, wanting this with every fiber of her being.
When he bent to kiss her once more, Genevieve pulled him down to her, her hands urgent on his shoulders as she attempted to bring his body into closer contact with hers once more. But Marcel was not yet ready to comply with that urging.
His lips left hers to trail over her face, her neck, then down to the curves of her breasts. As he dipped his head further to take one turgid nipple in his mouth, she gasped, her hands tangling in the hair at his nape. He laughed huskily, reveling in her reaction to his caress and deepened the pressure, suckling her.
She cried out, squirming beneath him, “Oh please, I am afire.”
He reached out to run his other hand across her belly, then down, his fingers stilling in that nest of golden curls. When he slid his fingers lower into the wet, silken folds of her, she reared up beneath his hand.
Gently he plied her, knowing that this was her first time, determined to prepare her for his passage.
Genevieve could not breathe, could not think, nor reason. She was falling, drowning in a sea of sweet, sweet pleasure that only seemed to rise higher and higher above her as Marcel caressed her burning flesh. And then for an infinite moment, she felt as though she were hovering on the crest of ecstasy, her body arched high. Then the crest broke and she was sliding down inside it, crying out with wonder and joy as she, Genevieve, became ecstasy itself, a mindless being of delight with no thought but that of her own bliss.
Marcel was both awed and emboldened by her response. Only when she stiffened, crying out in mindless wonder did he reach to take her in his arms, holding her against him as her shudders eased, feeling an overwhelming tenderness along with the unmistakable drive of his own hunger.
When she looked up at him, her voice was hoarse with wonder as she said, “There is more?” He knew he could no longer
hold himself in check.
He rose over her and, as he did so, she opened to him, offering the dark secrets of her body without demure. His touch had indeed prepared the way, for there was only the slightest of barriers to his manhood. She pushed up to him, breaching that boundary without hesitation, encouraging him with the movements of her body. As he slipped inside her, felt himself engulfed in that velvet sheath, he lost all sense of aught but the sheer rapture of it. He groaned as they fell into a rhythm as old as pleasure. He was not unaware though of the quickening of her form beneath his, nor the pace of her breathing as she built toward another completion that only served to enhance his own. When the sweetness burst inside him, filling him with an earth-shattering delight, he heard her soft cry of joy and cried out his own in wonder that he had moved her again so easily.
Only when the ripples had passed did he roll to lie beside her, his heartbeat still a throb in his ears as he pulled her into his arms. Neither of them said a word. Marcel did not know if there were any words that could ever describe the sheer depth of his feelings and wondered if she felt the same. When he gently raised her face to look at her, he saw that she had fallen asleep.
He should not be surprised. If Genevieve had experienced even a portion of the tension he had known over the past day, this physical release had left her limp, as it had him. Marcel sighed, closing his eyes.
He knew he had to think, to understand what must be done now, but just for a moment he…
Chapter Eleven
Genevieve opened her eyes, instantly recalling the events of the night. And why would she not, for they had changed her life forever. She reached out to feel the space beside her and found it empty. An unpleasant apprehension passed through her as she sat up and looked at him, holding the bedclothes close against her breast. Immediately her gaze found Marcel where he sat in the chair beside the cold hearth.
The harsh light of morning poured through more than the window, casting its full illumination on Marcel’s face. The guilt and sadness on that all too handsome countenance could not be mistaken. Sorrow washed through her, and she said, “There is no need to say anything. We have made a dreadful mistake by giving in to this terrible, unexplainable passion. There is no need for you to tell me again that you are not interested in my inheritance or that you are in love with Constanza.”
Summer's Bride Page 17
