Summer's Bride

“You have never met Aunt Finella, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head, distantly thinking that this was just one more thing that set her apart from being a true Ainsworth. Genevieve had never had an aunt of any kind. Knowing he was expecting a reply, she said, “Nay. I have not met her.”

He nodded speaking casually, “I recall her being quite the eccentric though it has been many years since I have seen her. Since before Mother and Father died. It will be good to see her again after all this time, but the fact that her grandson has been kidnapped will not make for a happy reunion.”

Genevieve murmured, “I will pray that he is returned to her well.” In spite of his declaration that he did not wish her to harbor any feelings of attachment to him, she could not deny the mad thrumming of her pulse as she looked into those dark blue eyes.

Obviously completely unaware of this, he continued. “I have never met my cousin. When Aunt Finella was last here it was with her husband, who was also Cameron. He was a great bear of a man with a craggy red beard and hearty laugh. Some time before our parents died, actually. It was as they were returning from a visit to her that their ship floundered and they were lost.” She heard the regret that entered his voice as he spoke of his parents, though the accident had occurred so many years ago. She knew that Marcel had been young when they died, as she had been when her own parents passed just before she was fourteen. They had been killed in an accident that would not have occurred had her mother not been having one of her “spells” and gone bathing in the lake on a dark, stormy night. Her father had gone in after her and both of them had drowned.

Her parents’ deaths had resulted in her being sent to her cousin Maxim Harcourt. That despicable knave had attempted to force himself upon her. Genevieve had escaped him and his keep with one thought in her mind, that of getting to Brackenmoore.

Looking at Marcel, feeling her stomach tug at the sheer masculinity of him, seeing the lean line of his jaw, which seemed to beckon her lips even now, Genevieve knew that she must take hold of her feelings for him. She was not willing to jeopardize her place in this family because of an unrequited infatuation.

Surely that was what she would be doing by holding on to any romantic notions about this man after he had made his feelings clear. If Marcel wished to put what they had once felt aside, she would do so as well. After all, she reminded herself, he was leaving again. The tightness that came to her chest made her wonder if she was as indifferent to him as she told herself she was.

Deliberately she smiled at him, aiming to be as bright in her manner as possible. “I do appreciate your coming here to see if all was well with me, Marcel, especially as you are leaving so soon and your time at Brackenmoore has become doubly precious…to us all. I am most well and contented as things are between us. Your presence here in the future will cause me no unrest.” It was suddenly very important that he believe this, that he did not again stay away for two long years.

Marcel viewed that smile, heard the cool civility in Genevieve’s voice and felt a completely unexpected twinge of irritation. He was glad that she accepted what must be, was very glad indeed to hear that she was not harboring any untoward notions about the two of them.

She seemed, in fact, to be happy about the offer of marriage from Roderick Beecham. It was a fact that made Marcel less pleased than it should have.

If only they could go back to the way they had been before their being thrown together had changed the way they…He sighed.

His gaze ran over her as she looked down at her clasped hands. He took in the sweet arch of her cheek, the dark fringe of her lashes, the lovely curve of her mouth, the slender length of her neck and the delicate golden curls that escaped her head covering at her nape. The idea of twining his fingers in those curls was somehow more intimate than he would ever have imagined. His gaze dipped lower to where her breasts pressed above the square neckline of her gown.

Genevieve made him think of a warm fire on a frosty evening, of candlelight and downy pillows and soft white sheets, of…

The sound of his own muted groan startled him and Marcel drew himself up, feeling a strangling tightness in his chest. He wanted the sea, the roll and pitch of his ship, the sounds and smells of exotic ports.

Perhaps, it was best that he was leaving immediately, given his own unexplainable reactions to the woman before him. He spoke far more gruffly than he had intended. “Well, this will be good-bye then.”

The shock on her face could not be mistaken, for she blanched and swayed. “Now?”

He was not happy with the way his voice softened in reaction to her shock. “Nay, not this very eve but on the morrow. Far before you rise.”

He looked away from her, his stomach tightening at the sadness in her gaze.

“I am sorry for being so foolish.” She turned her back to him. “You have no idea how I…we have missed you.”

Though he could not see her face, Marcel was aware of the catch in her voice, the pain. Before he knew what he was going to do, he had moved to put a hand on her slight shoulder.

The moment he touched her, he felt a piercing heat enter his body and, as she swung around to face him, he saw that she too had felt it. Her green eyes were wide with shock, and another emotion that he could not fail to recognize. It was the same emotion that had sent him from the keep two years ago.

As if through a dream he saw her reach toward him, felt the light pressure of her slender fingers on his chest. His body tightened and all he knew, could think of, was Genevieve and his own undeniably powerful reaction to her.

It had been too long. There had been too many nights when he had lain awake thinking of her, wondering what would have happened that last day at Brackenmoore if he had just turned to her, just…

His arms closed about Genevieve’s pliant form. His lips found hers as her sweet womanly shape seemed to mold itself to his.

Genevieve felt as if she had waited for this moment her whole life. No matter what she had tried to tell herself over the past two years, she had never, for one moment, stopped wanting this man. Marcel—his mouth was firm and hot on hers, the taste of him so heady, and more wonderful than she had even dreamed. His hands on her back were strong and sure, molding her to him, and she wanted to cry out with joy that he was finally touching her, kissing her as she had longed for him to.

She gave a husky gasp and whispered, “Marcel.”

When his tongue flicked over her lips, she opened to him, welcomed him into her, felt a spark of something hot and fluid move in her lower belly. This was Marcel, the man she had longed for with each aching part of her as she lay in her lonely bed. She raised her hands to hold the back of his head, threading her eager fingers through his thick black hair. She strained into him, increasing the pressure of their kisses with a growing urgency, knowing a sense of pleasure as his hips pressed in to her.

Marcel drew her closer to the length of his ardent and increasingly eager body, running his tongue over hers, reveling in her responses to him. Never, even in his most heated dreams, had Genevieve been this pliant, this responsive, this enticing.

He was infinitely aware of his own readiness, the aching need of him. As his manhood pulsed against her belly, she gasped, wriggling closer to him. Awed and humbled and undeniably aroused by her response, Marcel felt an indefinable something expanding inside him. It radiated out through his body, rippling in wave upon wave of not only pleasure but also a tenderness so overwhelming that he was dizzied and shaken by it.

When her hands clasped his hips, Marcel closed his eyes on the resulting flash of heat that throbbed in his belly. He reached up to slide his hand between their bodies, closing around the firm weight of her breast, hearing her cry of yearning and reveling in it.

Genevieve was on fire, her blood turned to a molten river of desire—a desire for something she could not name. But as her breast seemed to swell beneath his questing hand, she realized that her body knew what she wanted, knew and was more than prepared to seek the answer to this indescribably delicious longing—this all-encompassing need.

Marcel was at first only distantly aware of a strangled gasp that came from neither himself nor the woman in his arms. Breathing heavily, he pushed back and looked in the direction of the sound.

Lily stood in the entrance to the chamber, her fingers covering her mouth in obvious surprise, but he could see no hint of condemnation in those gray eyes.

As her gaze met his, she spoke hastily. “I…forgive me.”

Marcel felt Genevieve start and he reacted instinctively, pressing her face protectively against his chest as Lily went on, her expression seeming to display approval. “I did not know that you were…I thought Genevieve was alone. I will speak with her on the morrow.”

With that, Lily was gone.

That approval made Marcel realize just how wrong he was in what he was doing. He had no right to hold this woman, kiss her, and lead others to believe that he had feelings for her. Not only did his life at sea lie as a barrier between them but there was also her future marriage to Beecham to consider. He took a deep breath, concentrating on easing the erratic beating of his blood, calming the fierce need in his belly.

Finally Marcel let his arms fall away from Genevieve’s and stepped back. Dear God, what had he done?

He could not meet the probing weight of her gaze, as he spoke. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I…” There was nothing he could say that would not make things worse. His assurances that he felt nothing for her that was not brotherly seemed very foolish now.

He squared his shoulders and went to the door. He paused only briefly when he heard her plaintive cry of “Marcel!”

“There is nothing to say, Genevieve. I am very sorry.”

He was more sorry than he could ever say. Sorry that no matter what his resolutions now and the last time he had been with Genevieve, he still had no power to resist his attraction to her.

It was best that he was leaving in the morning. Not only for himself, but for both of them.

He could only pray that time and her marriage would eradicate the wildly confused feelings that existed between them, for he had no wish to hurt her. The sorrow in her voice as she had spoken his name could not be missed.

Though he felt a tug to return to her, he would not allow himself to do that. He would go back to the sea, to the life he had made for himself, where he was sure of what he wanted and why.

Genevieve could only stand there staring at the closed door in stunned silence, her heart beating so fiercely and painfully that it felt as if it might surely break through the wall of her chest.

Why had Lily come?

The thought was immediately followed by a horrified thanks to God she had done so, for if she had not…Genevieve was afraid to even contemplate what might have occurred. She had been past reason and sanity, aware of nothing save the way it felt to be kissed and held in Marcel’s strong arms—save her own desire for him.

Surely he felt something, too.

Yet his distress at Lily’s having seen them together was more than evident.

Genevieve put her hands to her head, her headdress falling unheeded to the floor as she ran her fingers through her too heavy hair. She gained no relief from her anguish, only a horrifying certainty that her feelings for Marcel were stronger than they had ever been.

Stronger, the word was such an understatement. Heaven help her, she loved him. All these long months when she had tried to convince herself she did not care for him in that way had been nothing more than a lie. A lie to hide the truth of her own feelings from herself, for surely she had loved him all along.

Marcel’s reaction to her told her that he was not immune to her, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Even she, as innocent as she was of such matters, knew that his kisses had been far from indifferent or even brotherly.

Why should this displease him so? Whatever could make him wish to deny the depth of passion and sense of deep connection that had overtaken them?

They were surely the same unknown reasons that had made him leave Brackenmoore two long years ago.

If he would only talk with her she was sure his reservations could be overcome. Surely her love for him would be enough to turn his passion to true caring. The problem lay in the fact that he would have to be convinced to tell her what was troubling him, why he was holding back from her. His departure in the morning would severely limit any opportunities for them to speak.

Who knew how long Marcel would remain gone this time?

If they were apart, she could have no opportunity to overcome his unexplained reticence, make him see that with her love as a basis their feelings could grow. There was no conceivable way for a man to kiss a woman the way he had Genevieve lest he have some feeling for her.

Suddenly Genevieve knew what she had to do. She could not allow Marcel to walk out of her life again.

She would simply have to go to West Port, board the Briarwind and go to Scotland with him. Then she would have an opportunity to convince him that they belonged together. How she would manage this feat would take some contemplation, but Genevieve was not afraid of either planning or executing the deed.

She had escaped from the unwanted advances of her cousin Maxim Harcourt by running from Treanly in the dead of night, when she was barely more than a child. She would find a way to get to West Port and board that ship.

Her love for him would be her guide.

A few hours later, Genevieve wrapped her hair tightly in a wide strip of fine cloth and tucked it into a floppy velvet cap of William’s. As she stepped into the other garments she had taken from William’s chamber, Genevieve knew a moment of regret. She did not care for the idea that she had taken his clothing without permission, but she dared not bring him into her confidence. She was very sure that he would only tell his sister Raine, and Raine would certainly stop her.

It seemed like a sign of some sort that neither William nor Kendran had been in their rooms. Maeve had informed her that both of them were in the hall with the others, visiting with Marcel.

Maeve’s expression had plainly shown her surprise that Genevieve was not there with them. It was to her credit that the head woman had held her tongue concerning the subject. A most unusual restraint.

Surely these occurrences were a portent of the fact that she was doing the right thing. All would be absolved when she and Marcel returned together.

Her feelings for Marcel were the only thing that mattered. The members of this family knew well that in the name of love one must ofttimes overcome difficulty and sometimes even behave in ways that one never would in other circumstances.

Of all those involved, she was most concerned about the reaction of Marcel himself. She was well aware that he would be angry when he saw her. Of that she had no doubt, but she meant to hide her presence until they were well at sea and hopefully give them an opportunity to talk before he could return her home. Surely he would forgive her once he had seen the truth, that they must be together. He would realize that the two of them must be together, marry and have children, who would grow to adulthood in this wonderful loving family.

Her heart swelled at the very thought. Anything, any hardship she had to face was worth her eventual union with Marcel. For she could not doubt that it would come.

It was this thought that bolstered her courage as she wrote a note and left it with one of the serving boys. She had addressed it to Benedict saying very little more than that she had gone after Marcel. More than that she did not disclose, though she suspected that Benedict knew far more of her feelings for Marcel than he had ever said. She could only pray that the boy would do as she had instructed and show it to no one until it was too late to stop her.

Her courage stayed with her as she went to the stable and took one of the horses. The one she took was Kendran’s horse, which she had apologized for in her letter. She hoped that in the dark and in her boy’s garb, she would be mistaken for Kendran. All knew that he had an occasional nocturnal tryst and he was far less likely to be challenged at the gate than she was.

Yet she could not deny a lagging of her determination as she rode out from the castle gate, having gotten no more than a wave from the guard. It was very dark outside the castle walls, the moon being only a curved sliver in the early summer sky. The horse knew where the trail lay this close to the castle, but Genevieve was suddenly less certain about farther out from there. Though she had been to West Port on more than one occasion, it was not by any means a common destination.

The night she had escaped from Treanly it had been in absolute desperation, feeling that nothing could be worse than remaining in the clutches of her predatory cousin, Maxim. Her memories of being at Brackenmoore had burned like a beacon in her mind, lighting her way during the night.

Now the heavy darkness and the looming shapes of the trees as she moved farther away from the protective mass of the castle were somewhat disturbing. Only the belief that she and Marcel would soon be together kept her going.

Marcel stayed in the hall as late as he could, smiling, talking and drinking. He told stories of his adventures at sea to the wide-eyed amazement of Raine’s brother, William, and Sabina, not to mention the genuine interest of the others.

He could not miss the fact that Genevieve stayed away. Nor could he help seeing the way Lily watched him, her gray eyes assessing.

While one part of him was glad of Genevieve’s absence and that he need make no pretence at treating her with polite civility, he felt sick, with himself and the Fates. He should not have touched Genevieve, should never have kissed her. He had simply not been able to stop himself.

Why could he not get over whatever mad attraction he had for her? Perhaps it was just being back at Brackenmoore, where the memories of his youthful infatuation with her lingered. Perhaps he was simply lonely from being so long from home.

He was not in love with Genevieve. Genevieve, who was to wed another man. No one had mentioned the forthcoming marriage again and for that he was grateful, for he was not sure how well he could hide his unwanted discontent over this from his brothers.

His stomach tightened each time he thought of her with Beecham—his hands touching her…he groaned. The sooner he got back to the Briarwind, the better.

Feeling a gentle touch on his shoulder, Marcel looked down. Sabina stood watching him with steady regard in her gray eyes, which were so like her mother’s. “You are sad, Uncle.”

He hugged her quickly. “I am not sad, dear heart. I am happy, happy to be here with you all.”

She smiled up at him. “I have missed you, Uncle.”

Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he ruffled her soft dark hair. “I am so glad that you remember me, sweeting.”

She grinned, her small face lighting up. “Mother and Father and the uncles, they speak of you always.”

Marcel felt a wave of love sweep over him. He might be gone from here, but he was not forgotten. He held out his arms. “Are you too big a girl to sit upon my lap?” She came into his arms without hesitation.

Glancing up to see the affection in his family’s eyes as they viewed this, Marcel again felt an overwhelming sense of love for them. His sadness at saying good-bye to them only made controlling his emotions all the more difficult. He did regret leaving them again, in spite of his certainty that he was only doing what was right—in returning to his life aboard the Briarwind.

His choice had been made two years ago. The sea had been good to him, taught him things about himself that he had not known. The responsibilities of command rested well upon his shoulders. Marcel had found the place where he alone was in control of the decisions that were made, and accountable for them.

The men who sailed beneath him treated him with a respect born not of his name but his abilities. They did not know he was an Ainsworth.

He’d resisted the urge to take a woman who wanted him for that name alone, and gained all through his own efforts. He would not now regret his decision. No matter how alone it made him feel.

Chapter Three

The arrival of the first creeping light of dawn just happened to coincide with her entering the town of West Port, and Genevieve did so with her head down. She knew that her horse would mark her a young nobleman, but she did not wish to press fortune by hoping that her face would not give her away.

The narrow streets were not busy at this early hour of the morning, but she knew they presently would be. This was a fishing, shipping port. Men who worked the sea did not linger long abed.

After stabling Kendran’s stallion at a reputable hostelry she made her way to the docks. The heels of William’s oversized boots clumped noisily upon the wooden walk, and she tried to go more quietly while keeping in mind her need for haste. She had no trouble locating the Briarwind It was a large three-masted merchant ship with a wide belly that she had seen on more than one occasion since coming to live at Brackenmoore. Along with the usual clutter of sailing paraphernalia, the deck bore a large structure at one end and what she knew was the captain’s cabin at the other. Genevieve was sure that once she got on board she could find a place to hide.

The sounds of male voices told her that at least a portion of the crew was up and about. A stack of barrels and wooden crates rested along the dock near the stern of the ship. She ducked in amongst them.

As she looked up over the side of the ship, she began to grow more nervous and uncertain, for there were more people up and about than she had at first thought. Several men were milling about the deck, exchanging jests and conversation as they worked, braiding ropes and stitching sails.

There was no way she could simply step across the gangway without notice. What would she say if someone attempted to stop her from going aboard?

As the question ran through her mind, a man came toward the gangway. With a silent groan of frustration she ducked behind a barrel.

She had delayed too long in making sure Kendran’s horse was taken care of. Now what was she to do?

Marcel left Brackenmoore with a heavy heart. He rose long before dawn, saying good-bye only to his brothers, who were clearly saddened by his leaving. Marcel could not help seeing the way Tristan watched him the whole while that he was making ready to go. He was fairly certain that after they had sought their beds only short hours ago, Lily had revealed what she had seen in Genevieve’s chamber.

Thankfully, Marcel was spared from having to explain what had happened between him and Genevieve. Tristan, in spite of his steady regard, kept his opinion of the matter to himself.

As he left the keep alone, the Scot having refused to return by sea, Marcel told himself he was glad that he had not seen Genevieve. Another meeting would serve neither of them, for he had nothing to say that could possibly improve the situation.

He had gone a short way down the road when he found himself pausing to look back at the castle in the distance. He could not deny his sadness—not entirely due to his leaving his family.

That kiss. His body burned at the memory of it. It had been more powerful, more shattering than anything his wayward imagination had been able to conjure in his waking hours or in his restless dreams.

Squaring his shoulders, he went on, determined this time to leave his feelings for Genevieve behind for good. She would be much better off with Lord Roderick Beecham. A more honorable and suitable man could not be found.