Summer's Bride

Benedict took a deep breath and held out his hand for the message. “I thank you, sir, and hope you will take your rest here with us.”

The young fellow smiled wearily, running dusty hands over his shirtfront. “I will, my lord, but I must take your answer back to the lady with all haste, as she has bid me.”

Marcel saw the lines of fatigue about his eyes and mouth. “Certainly, but as Benedict suggested, you must rest before we ask you anything more. You are exhausted,” Marcel said.

Benedict nodded in agreement, and Genevieve found herself moved by Marcel’s thoughtfulness toward the messenger. “I will first read and discuss the letter with my brothers before questioning you.”

“My thanks, m’lord. ’Tis true. I am that tired.”

Benedict raised his hand to the head woman, who stood overseeing all from beside the huge hearth, a wide smile upon her well-known countenance. “Maeve.”

She came forward quickly. “Aye, my lord.”

“Please see that this young man gets a hot meal and some rest in a quiet place.”

Maeve nodded. “I will that, my lord.” She turned her assessing but kind gaze upon the Scotsman. “Come with me, my man. I’ll see you fed and put to bed as if you were a swaddling lad.” With that she led him away.

Marcel addressed Benedict. “What has Aunt Finella to say?”

Benedict broke the seal on the roll of parchment, scanning quickly. “Good God.”

Kendran said, “What is it, Benedict?”

Benedict turned to them, his expression grave. “Aunt Finella’s grandson is being held against his will.”

Tristan rose to stand beside him, his own eyes scanning the page quickly. “What?” He, too, grew grim faced.

Genevieve watched as a clearly worried Benedict raked a hand through his thick hair, his gaze going to Raine and away. “She requests our aid.”

Raine replied evenly, “Then certainly we must give it, my love.”

Marcel spoke up. “Someone will have need to go to Scotland.”

Genevieve felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. And though she knew she had no right, nor reason, to make such a request of heaven, she prayed. Please God, not Marcel. Not now In spite of the fact that he clearly was not interested in her, she was greatly reluctant for him to go.

Raine looked at her husband with resolve. “You must do what you must, Benedict.”

He cast her a loving and grateful glance.

Lily spoke up, as well. “And so must you, Tristan. She is your aunt, our family.”

Kendran cried, “I will go.”

Benedict squared his shoulders. “Methinks we had best take this discussion to the library.”

But Genevieve knew as she looked at Marcel, saw the resolution on his handsomely chiseled face, exactly how the discussion would end. He confirmed her suspicion by saying, “You know I am the man to go, Benedict.”

An unexpected ache blocked her throat. She reached out to take up her cup, her hand made uncharacteristically clumsy by her agitation. Instead of grasping the cup firmly by the stem as she intended, she barely got hold of the bowl of the cup. She watched with horror as it tipped and the wine flowed across the table, directly into Marcel’s lap.

Marcel gasped as the cool wine met his lap.

Genevieve cried out, as well, jumping to her feet. Without thinking, she raced around the table, her eyes widening with horror when she saw the spreading stain on his dark green hose. She reached a helpless hand toward him, and Marcel sucked in his sharp breath. “Nay.”

She paused in midmotion, her eyes meeting the blue ones so close to her own. As when she had first seen him in the hall, there was no reading his expression, which was as mysterious and unfamiliar as the sea he had made his home.

She felt as awkward and inexperienced as a baby calf in the face of his coolness, his utter foreignness. His fascinating maleness.

No longer did Genevieve care what the others thought. She could not remain here in the hall with his unreadable and oh so tormenting eyes upon her. After turning on her heel, she exited the hall, not caring in the least what they might make of her flight.

Marcel sat in the library at Brackenmoore with Benedict, Tristan and Kendran. Looking across the table at his brothers, each in turn, he gave an unvoiced sigh. He knew he was the one who must go to Scotland. He also knew that there would be resistance to the idea, because he had only just returned home.

Yet his attention was not fully on that, nor on Benedict, who sat rereading the letter on the other side of the table, which was littered with books and parchments. As it had always been. The book-strewn chamber was, like the rest of Brackenmoore, exactly as he recalled it.

Except for one thing—Genevieve. She seemed somehow more vulnerable and uncertain than she had even through the painful time when Tristan was re-discovering his love for Lily. Marcel had been so angry with Tristan then. It had taken Marcel some time to realize that love knows its own rules and Tristan was driven by the force of his love for Lily. Genevieve had understood that the familial relationship she had with Tristan was no match for such love. She had shown a strength and maturity that had drawn Marcel to her like the tide to the shore.

Today she was a very different woman from the one in his memory. She seemed far more uncertain. Marcel had seen deep vulnerability in her eyes just before she ran from the hall.

In some part of himself he had wanted to get up, go after her and tell her he was fine, that a little spilled wine would not hurt him. And in another part of himself he had known that he could not go after her, that his intense reaction to the mere thought of her touching him had been far too disturbing.

Marcel had convinced himself that his coming back here would not cause difficulty, especially after so much time had elapsed. But the heat that had rushed through him at the moment of seeing her and then again, even more powerfully, as he barely touched her soft, cool fingers, told him otherwise.

His gaze went to Benedict, whose blue eyes, which were so like his own, seemed to weigh him too carefully. Perhaps this letter from Aunt Finella had arrived just in time.

With that in mind, Marcel said, “I take it you wish to debate the matter of my going to Scotland.” He had known there would be a discussion when Benedict had said they must come to the library. During his life here at Brackenmoore, all meetings of any significance had been held in the library.

Benedict nodded. “Yes. First let me say that I appreciate your offering to go to Aunt Finella. But you must see that I cannot accept your offer. You have only just arrived home this very day.”

Marcel gave an offhanded grin. “How could I not go, Benedict? You and Tristan both have families. Kendran—” he looked at his youngest brother with an apologetic shrug “—is still a boy.”

Kendran groaned in frustration. “I am no boy.”

Benedict grimaced, but spoke diplomatically. “Nay, not a boy. Yet not old enough, nor experienced enough, to carry the authority the situation is sure to demand.”

Kendran folded his arms over a chest that was broadening with each passing year. “You were looking after Brackenmoore at my age.”

Marcel spoke for his eldest brother. “That is true, but ’twas only because he had no choice. Be grateful that you have the freedom to experience your youth.”

Kendran glared at him. “Someday I shall show you all that I am capable of more than you can imagine.”

Tristan arched raven brows. “You would be surprised at how much we can imagine.”

Benedict shook his head, though there was no mistaking the smile in his eyes as he listened to his brothers’ exchange. He then sobered quickly. “Enough. We must discuss this, and there is no time to squander on prideful debate. Aunt Finella’s letter is quite clear in her concern over young Cameron.”

Marcel watched as Tristan and Kendran nodded, each of them having read the missive when they first arrived in the library. “I am the logical choice.”

Benedict frowned. “I wanted you to know my Raine, our Edlynne, and Raine’s brother. Spend time with them.” The pride and love in his voice could not be mistaken and Marcel realized that there was indeed a change in his brother. He seemed less tense, more content, as if the responsibilities of his position did not rest quite so heavily on his wide shoulders as they had in the past.

Could the love of his wife have affected him so very greatly? Marcel could be nothing but glad for him, even though he felt an unwanted stab of envy—knew an unwanted vision of Genevieve, her green eyes alight.

Benedict said, “Things have not been quite the same since you left.”

Marcel forced himself to concentrate on the gratitude he felt at being so greatly missed. “I am not offering to go lightly, my brother. It was indeed time that I become acquainted with your Raine, not to mention the other additions to the family. When next I come home, which I vow here and now will be soon, I will outstay my welcome.” He laughed deliberately in spite of his sadness over leaving them.

Benedict leaned back in the chair, assessing him closely. “You are determined.”

“I am.” Marcel did not meet his questing eyes. “I have no ties to bind me to one place as you have. It would be utter selfishness on my part to do aught but accept this responsibility. My home is on the sea now and she will not lie wakeful, awaiting my return as your families would.” Not caring for the slight wistfulness in his tone, he quickly added, “I have done well there, made a good life for myself.”

Gravely Tristan said, “Is there nothing here to bring you back home permanently then?”

Marcel did not look at him, for he feared that Tristan would somehow see that the words gave him an instantaneous image of Genevieve. It was not a subject he was willing to discuss. He knew that Benedict had had suspicions about what was happening between them before he left, but he had not interfered, a fact for which he had been grateful.

Marcel did not want any interference now, from any of his brothers, no matter how much he loved them. He knew that his decision to put aside his feelings for Genevieve was the right one. For both of them.

He spoke hurriedly to forestall any more talk. “In view of the situation I believe I must leave as soon as possible. I will go by sea and take that exhausted Scotsman back with me.”

Kendran stood. “Surely not ere morning.”

“Nay,” Marcel shook his head. “I would not leave before then.” He pointed at the one small window. “’Tis soon that full dark will be upon us.”

Tristan motioned toward the door. “We’d best get back to the others. They will not want us keeping you to ourselves.”

He nodded and told himself that he was doing the right thing.

Yet as he followed Kendran and Tristan to the door, Benedict halted him. “Marcel.”

He paused and swung around to see the expression of deliberate resolve on his brother’s face. He asked, “What is it, Benedict?”

Benedict frowned, took a deep breath and said, “Roderick Beecham has made Genevieve an offer of marriage.”

The words hit Marcel with the power of a gale-force wind. He could not hide his shock. “But how? When?”

Benedict spoke softly. “A few weeks gone. They met at a tourney last year. Obviously he was quite taken with her.”

Marcel turned his back and forced himself to reply with deliberate calm. “Beecham is a good man, honorable and strong. There are none better. And there is no doubt that he is her equal in status and property, as he will become a baron on his father’s death.”

Benedict replied, “Aye, he is a very good man. Thus I…Marcel, you cannot play the role of merchant captain forever. You are a nobleman and in that guise would be of great use to us here at Brackenmoore. With my own and Raine’s brother’s, not to mention Genevieve’s lands to administer—”

“Nay, Benedict, I am not needed here.” He swung around. “But I am needed aboard the Briarwind There I am a simple sea captain, but I am respected for my own efforts, my own wits, not my name. And you will soon be rid of the responsibilities of Genevieve’s lands.”

Benedict frowned. “I did not—”

Marcel forestalled him with a raised hand, unable to hear another word with the knowledge of Genevieve’s marriage to another man making his heart beat so painfully in his chest. “Your pardon, Benedict, but I will thank you to say no more on this.”

Without another word, Marcel left the room. He needed some time to get hold of himself, to think on what was really disturbing him. To accept that Genevieve would be with another man.

Yet as he strode down the hall, he brought himself up short. Of course she would marry. Had he thought she would spend the rest of her life alone simply because he had gone away? She was a beautiful woman, one who deserved to be loved. He could never wish aught but the best for her.

He had a sudden and unwanted vision of the uncertainty in her eyes as she had looked at him before running from the hall. As always her distress moved him. He did not want her to think that they could not be friends. Perhaps it would be of benefit to both of them if he were to speak to her before he left Brackenmoore, make his position clear. He did not allow himself to think, for even a moment, that he simply wanted to see her once more before he went.

Chapter Two

Genevieve sat in her chamber staring out the high arched window. It was a very warm night, and the breeze that passed though the open window did little to cool her heated cheeks.

She cast a listless glance about the large stone chamber. It slid over the new moss-green samite bed hangings and draperies, the massive dark furnishings, the chests that contained her many garments, shoes and fine jewels. There was gold in the velvet purse she kept in her jewel chest. Though Benedict oversaw her inheritance, she had complete and unfettered access to all.

These signs of wealth offered little comfort this night. All she could think on was the fact that Marcel was home, that he seemed to have made no more than casual note of her existence. While she was as—

She started as a knock sounded upon the door. She called out, “Who is there?”

She recognized Lily’s voice as the other woman spoke. “It is me, Lily.”

Genevieve answered the door, her wary eyes meeting Lily’s gray ones. She said hesitantly, “Enter, Lily. You know there is no need for you to knock.” Though she had come to love the gentle black-haired woman in the past two years, she was not anxious to discuss what had occurred in the hall, which was exactly what she feared the other’s presence foretold.

Genevieve attempted to hide her agitation as Lily came in and stood quietly, her hands folded before her. Her demeanor only further convinced her that the other woman had something difficult she wished to say. At long last she asked, “Are you well, Genevieve? In the hall you seemed…”

Realizing that she simply could not speak of her confused feelings about Marcel, Genevieve quickly forestalled her. “Please, Lily, you came to Brackenmoore with your own secrets. I respected that. I ask that you respect my need to keep some things to myself, as well.”

The other woman bowed her elegant dark head, her gray eyes soft. “As you wish. Should you ever wish to talk I will listen.”

Genevieve nodded, her gaze grateful but resolute. “There is naught to tell. I am well and will be so.”

Lily met her gaze once more. “You are loved by all of us, Genevieve, will always be the sister of our hearts.”

With that Lily left the room.

Genevieve was glad, for she would not wish Lily to see her sadness. How easily those last words had fallen from her lips. How Genevieve wished that she was indeed a sister to this family.

She had first visited Brackenmoore with her parents when they stopped here on a journey north from their own holdings. Benedict’s family had been friend to hers. That brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life. She did not well recall Marcel’s parents. Her memories were of the boys and the joy and freedom she had known with them, wandering the forest, wading in the sea, exploring the cliffs. She had never forgotten those experiences though she had been no more than seven.

At that time, she had not taken any particular note of Marcel. He had been one of the four magical and carefree creatures who had played with her and shown her their world for two whole days. Two days in which she had not heard her mother cry even once.

It had not been until just over two years ago, long after Benedict had taken her in and made her his ward that she had begun to see Marcel as anything but one of the Ainsworth brothers. He had been kind to her, shown concern for her when others were lost in their own troubles. And her feelings for him had changed. She had found herself looking at him in a new way, feeling a strange stirring when he was near.

She had never felt anything like that toward Tristan, no matter how certain she had been that their marrying was a good idea. To be an Ainsworth was all she had really wished for in her life. Until she had come to care for Marcel.

Though Genevieve knew the Ainsworths loved her, none of them could ever understand how it felt to be on the outside, to want above all else to truly be one of them.

But she was not.

Before she had run away to Brackenmoore, her life had been very different from what it was now. And more unhappy than she had ever admitted to anyone. Somewhere in her mind was the belief that if she could only become an Ainsworth, she would be able to finally and completely erase the years before she had come to live here.

It had been for this reason that she had felt distress at learning Tristan was still in love with Lily, whom he had believed dead. Genevieve had never begrudged them their happiness, not for one moment, only mourned the death of her own dream.

Yet when she had realized her feelings for Marcel, her hope to be an Ainsworth in truth had once more come to life. Not that this was the reason for her feelings for him. That she knew. It had simply meant that her hope was reborn.

Now Marcel had returned, a Marcel she no longer felt she knew. Yet he was so very handsome and even more compelling than before. She had made a complete fool of herself by spilling wine all over his lap. Her cheeks burned at the very thought.

Hearing the door open again, Genevieve did not turn from the window. “I am fine, Lily. As I told you, you need have no concern for me.”

A deep voice replied, “It is not Lily.”

Swinging around with a gasp, Genevieve saw none other than Marcel standing just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Her eager gaze ran over him, so tall, so strange and familiar at the same time, so very handsome with his black hair, the color of which seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes.

He took a deep breath, closing the door behind him before he said, “Genevieve…” He took a step toward her then stopped. “I had to come to see you.”

She caught her own breath, the sound of her name on his lips making her realize anew just how much she had missed him, the sound of his voice, his gentle strength. She tried to answer evenly, but her own hopes, her irrepressible reactions to him brought a huskiness to her voice. “Why, Marcel?”

Marcel came toward her. “There are things I wish to say to you. Things that, I believe, must be said.”

What was he talking about? Could it be what she most desired in the secret recesses of her heart? Did he feel what she did?

As he began to speak, she understood that all these thoughts had simply been wishful thinking on her part. “Firstly, let me say that I want you to know that my presence here at Brackenmoore need not make you uncomfortable. There is no need to avoid me or to be nervous of my presence.”

She drew herself up, her heart thumping as she blushed. “What makes you think I am nervous of your presence?”

He shrugged. “Your spilling the wine.” Inwardly she cringed. As he continued, she felt torn between pleasure and embarrassment. “In all the time I have known you, you have never been aught but graceful in your every movement. Even when you first visited Brackenmoore at seven.”

Genevieve settled on incredulity. She was not usually awkward, but she had to have been so at times as a normal seven-year-old. She took his statement as an overzealous effort to put her at ease with her clumsiness in the hall.

Yet as Marcel went on, she forgot all but the utter embarrassment caused by what he was saying. “I know that before I left we had a particular…that we had certain feelings for one another. I realized soon after my departure from Brackenmoore that we had simply been drawn together through your troubles over your engagement to Tristan. I want you to know that all is forgotten. I do not harbor any feelings that would make our having a friendship difficult and my hope is that you feel the same. Any fear that you might have about my having feelings for you that are more than brotherly may be laid to rest.”

Genevieve could say nothing as his meaning found purchase in her mind, feeling as though a dagger had been stuck into her heart. He was letting her know in clear terms that he had no romantic feelings for her and that she should not harbor any such feelings.

How could he talk to her this way? Did Marcel think to put her in her place, to make certain that she did not pursue him and cause him embarrassment?

Well, he need not worry there. She had no intention of pressing herself upon him.

It was, in fact, the last thing she would do.

She drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately was not great. “Have no worry on that score, Marcel. I thought no such thing. I was simply embarrassed at having ruined your homecoming and I felt I might cry. Yow know that I have never cared to display my emotions before others.”

He frowned, and she wondered at his expression before he said, “I should have realized. Benedict has told me of your coming marriage to Roderick Beecham.” He smiled stiffly, even as she felt a ripple of shock run though her at his words. She was hard-pressed to concentrate as he said, “You have my congratulations. He is a fine man.”

Genevieve simply stood there, staring at him. It was true that Roderick Beecham had sent an offer of marriage. And that Benedict has said he would make a very fine husband. It was also true that she had, although flattered and moved by the proposal of such a gentle and handsome man, declined. He had written back and indicated that he would still be willing should she change her mind.

She did want a husband, children.

Yet in her heart Genevieve had known that she would never change her mind. She could think of no one save the very man who now stood before her and told her that he had no such feelings for her.

Genevieve offered what she hoped was a bright smile. “Thank you so very much for your kind wishes.”

She saw a strange and unfathomable expression pass over his handsome features as he said, “I am sorry that I will not be in attendance and you must be assured that I will be thinking of you on my journey to Scotland and after—”

She spoke too quickly, her shock evident. “You are the one who is leaving for Scotland then.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

She felt a jolt of renewed sadness, in spite of her resentment about his attitude. Genevieve asked, “When?”

He grimaced. “Immediately. A rival clan has kidnapped Aunt Finella’s grandson. They refuse to negotiate with her and she has turned to us, as we are her only family. We cannot ignore such a request.”

Genevieve looked at her hands as the seriousness of the summons sank home. “I see. Then surely you must go even though it will mean that you must be away from your family again so soon.” Her gaze met his. “It is very good of you to do this.”

Marcel shrugged, as if uncomfortable with her praise. And as in the hall, she could not help noting how wide his shoulders seemed to have grown.