Читать книгу Summer's Bride - Catherine Archer - Страница 8

As his mount crested the last rise in the road, Marcel Ainsworth looked up. His gaze was unconsciously yearning as he watched the tip of the highest tower at Brackenmoore come into sight. Marcel viewed this first glimpse of home with both dread and longing.

Two years.

It seemed such a very long time to be away from home and his three brothers, yet he’d had no immediate plans to return. Or at least not until Benedict had sent for him. Though he did not know the reason for his eldest brother’s summons, Marcel could not ignore it. Not from Benedict.

Leaving the family estate of Brackenmoore had not been easy. Yet when Marcel had done so, he’d felt there was nothing else he could do. What Genevieve had said to him that last day at Brackenmoore had forced him to act.

His chest ached even now at the thought of the longing and despair he had known. The temptation to act upon her words, to give in to the yearning he felt was far stronger than he could have imagined.

He could not give in to it. When he was but fifteen an incident had occurred that made him realize he could never succumb to the enticement Genevieve offered. It had been shortly after Benedict had dismissed Thomas, a young man who had worked as an assistant to Benedict’s steward. Thomas had been Marcel’s friend, but he had also been stealing from Benedict. When Marcel had gone to him and asked him why he would do such a thing, the older boy had looked at him with a contempt that rocked him. Thomas had told Marcel that he had done it in order to buy things for a particular young woman. He loved this damsel, would do anything to win her. And now, on learning of his dismissal, she had turned him away.

In spite of his own pain at the way his friend was treating him, Marcel had said that Thomas’s love should have been enough, that he would now never know if she would have had him for himself alone. Bitterly Thomas had turned away, telling Marcel that he was in no position to make such a statement because he was an Ainsworth. As an Ainsworth Marcel would always get any woman he desired and he need do nothing of worth to achieve this, or anything else for that matter. Marcel had a name but would never know if he was wanted for himself alone. What Thomas said about women was true. Even at fifteen, Marcel noted they were more than eager for his attention, professed him to be witty and handsome when he felt awkward and shy.

Marcel had watched his friend go in silence, but the words had cut deep. They only reinforced what he had felt for most of his life, that he, Marcel, had accomplished nothing, earned nothing.

Benedict was the one who actually earned his position at Brackenmoore by selflessly caring for the lands and folk as their father had. Marcel would have been proud and fulfilled to serve that purpose, yet there could only be one heir.

He wished to hold such a position of responsibility. But he would gain it through his own efforts, not by marrying a woman who would have him for his name.

Surely Genevieve’s feelings toward him had changed. Two years was more than sufficient time for her to see how unsuitable they were for each other, that her wish to be an Ainsworth was not reason enough for them to come together.

Marcel spurred his mount on. Early summer had urged the greenery along the roadside to shades so deep they near hurt the eyes and he could hear the call of crickets in the thick grass. Overhead in the clear blue sky the screech of a seagull reminded him of how, as a boy, he had wandered along the cliffs above the nearby sea and wondered what it would be like to fly.

Well, he had not learned to fly. But he had learned to sail and the sea had given him the freedom to go where and when he would. Still there was a place of longing inside him that had not been filled, a place where the images of a family, his own lands and contented folk dwelled. It was a place he had learned to ignore.

For the most part.

The dark and substantial shape of the castle ahead of him made him realize whence came a portion of that longing. Brackenmoore.

He knew the sense of love and comfort that pervaded the atmosphere inside, despite the stronghold’s great presence of strength and power. Because of his choice for freedom he would never be a part of a family in that way again. There was ever a price to pay for the decisions one made in life. This was one he would accept no matter how difficult.

It had been his misfortune to find himself drawn to the wrong woman. But no more. Constantinople, Rome, Madrid—they were his loves and would remain so.

When he reached Brackenmoore, the guard at the castle gate hailed him. Marcel called out his own name with an unexpected feeling of reticence. It had been a very long time and he knew not how he would be accepted. He was humbled and gratified when the gate was immediately opened for his passage. Its opening was accompanied by shouts of welcome.

He shouted back a greeting, then quickly passed through and made his way to the stables. It was dark and Marcel had purposely timed his arrival for the hour of the evening meal, which meant there were few folk about the courtyard.

He told himself he wanted to see his family all together as he remembered them. His arriving when all would be gathered in the hall had nothing to do with wanting to avoid the possibility of coming upon Genevieve alone.

The wide, high-ceilinged hall was crowded as usual and no one seemed to pay him any heed as he made his way through the tables crowded with hungry castle folk. That might have been because he deliberately kept his face averted from anyone who glanced in his direction.

Marcel wanted to surprise his brothers. He continued on to the far end of the chamber, where the family table sat near the enormous cavern of the hearth.

As he drew closer he could not mistake his three brothers’ dark heads. They were all there. The sudden wave of longing that swept through him at the mere sight of them made his chest tighten. He had known he missed them but had not realized how very much. Marcel had kept his mind and body busy in his quest to forget the compelling but unwanted infatuation he had felt for Genevieve.

Aboard the Briarwind it mattered not that he was the third brother of the powerful Baron of Brackenmoore. There he was captain, living by his own wits and talents.

But all the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction seemed as nothing, when his unknowingly questing gaze came to rest on a down-bent head. The breath seemed to rush from his lungs and his head felt light, even as an overwhelming heat filled his veins.

Genevieve.

God, but she was beautiful, even more beautiful than his fevered dreams had conjured. Her gold curls were covered by a cap of lush green velvet, the color of which made him think of soft moss and cool streams. Her dark lashes rested delicately against the curve of her high cheekbones, making him recall all the times he had looked down at her and discovered that she could not meet his gaze, that those creamy cheeks were flushed with—God help him—what he could only interpret as desire.

But that he had not realized until the last day. Before that time he had wondered, even secretly hoped that she might return his interest. Yet as soon as he’d realized she did, he’d known it could not be, especially as he knew the true reason behind it.

Genevieve was Benedict’s ward, and heir to a great fortune. She possessed all that Marcel had secretly longed for as a boy when he began to realize the challenges and the rewards of Benedict’s position as overlord. Not that he was in any way resentful toward his brother. Benedict had no more part in the placing of his birth than he. Marcel simply had not understood why he had been given a desire to see to his own lands and folk, yet not the right by birth.

Genevieve could bring Marcel all that he had ever desired, but he knew her genuine reason for wanting him. She desperately wished to be a true member of his family. She had admitted as much when she proposed marriage to his brother Tristan. That marriage had not taken place, as Tristan loved another, but Genevieve’s desire had not changed.

His gaze focused on Genevieve once more. She was looking down at someone beside her, a gentle smile curving her pink lips. It was a raven-haired little girl.

As he watched, she said something to the child, and he noted the fact that it was his brother Tristan’s child, Sabina. He was shocked and regretful to see that his niece had grown so very much in the two years he had been gone.

His attention went back to Genevieve at the moment she looked up. Her sea-green eyes narrowed as they swept over the crowded chamber and she brushed a stray curl from her creamy cheek. It was almost as if she were searching for something—someone.

As her gaze came to rest on himself, her eyes widened and her lovely mouth formed an O.

In that instant it was as if two years melted away. He felt the same overwhelming sense of longing and sorrow he had known the last time he had been with her. He had come upon her walking along the battlements, her fair brow marred by a frown of concentration, as she looked out across the snow-covered ground, which the army of her cousin, the dead Maxim Harcourt had only just vacated.

His heart pounded anew as he recalled the way she had looked up at him, her troubled frown turning to a smile. It was a smile of such soft and eager welcome that his heart had quickened. And the words she had uttered in that hopeful, breathless voice were burned into his mind for all time. “Maxim will no longer threaten Tristan and Lily, or anyone else here. He was an evil man, Marcel, and his death has also freed me from the fear that he will ever find a way to force me to return to Treanly. I shall be here with you all at Brackenmoore forever.”

He had been surprised to find that she still feared that happening. She had been at Brackenmoore for years. But then she had gone on, making him look into those hypnotic green eyes. “There is something else you must know. I have released Tristan from his promise to marry me. It is Lily he loves. He only agreed to marry me because he thought her dead. He feels only as a brother to me as I feel as a sister to him…. You know that my engagement to Tristan was in aid of my finally and actually becoming an Ainsworth in truth.” Her gaze darkened on his, displaying a depth of emotion that rocked him. “That might still be possible if…”

In that moment he knew Genevieve would take him did he declare himself. Yet he could not do so, because she wanted him for the wrong reasons. The unmistakable signs of desire he saw in her eyes were brought on by her admitted need to be an Ainsworth.

Marcel would be wanted for himself alone, not for his family, however much he loved them.

The past faded away and he realized that, though painful, his thoughts had taken no more than an instant. He also realized that after two years and so many miles between himself and Genevieve, Marcel could not deny that he still felt something for her. And it was equally clear that though he had tried to convince himself otherwise, his feelings were far from brotherly.

He felt a tightening not only in his chest, but in his loins as he saw the way she flushed, the scarlet hue trailing the elegant and well-remembered column of her throat. It then swept down over the full curves of her breasts above the tight bodice of her green velvet gown. Feeling the tug in his body, Marcel knew he was on dangerous ground. He forced his gaze away and when he glanced back, she was looking down at her hands.

Try though she might, Genevieve could not still the sudden erratic beating of her heart.

It was he—Marcel.

And looking far more masculine and confident than she had remembered. She had not known what it was that caused her to look up only a moment ago, yet she had felt something, a sense that all was as it should be—but not.

And there he was, with his dark hair grown slightly longer, his blue eyes, which seemed so familiar but also older, more cynical. Those eyes, which she had thought of so very oft in these two long years, had offered comfort and compassion. She nearly cringed now as his blue eyes raked her with a remote and unreadable expression.

There was another difference in him, something so subtle that it could not be measured in the length of his hair, nor the bronze cast of his skin, nor the slightly rolling gait he had adopted. It was a difference undeniably deeper and could more likely be ascertained in the way he held his head and shoulders.

She felt that somehow Marcel had come to a bigger place within himself. It was as if this castle, these lands, would never be vast enough to hold him again.

This understanding was at once frightening and fascinating, for it seemed as if he was the Marcel she had known, yet not that Marcel. He had become somehow mysterious and new and completely unpredictable.

Dear heaven, she did not know what to do with her hands, with her completely scattered emotions. Genevieve risked another quick glance at him and saw that he was once more moving toward them, his expression self-confident, his strides assured.

He no longer looked her way and gave no sign that he had been moved by the sight of her.

And why should he? she asked herself. Why would a man such as Marcel Ainsworth show even the least interest in her?

Simple country maid that she was, in spite of her great fortune.

An overwhelming and at the same time shocking despair swept over her. As if from a very long distance she heard Benedict say, “Good God above, look who has arrived days before we expected him.” Peripherally she was aware of her guardian standing and holding out his arms in welcome.

It was clear that he had realized his brother’s arrival with joy, but Genevieve could not share in his pleasure. She sat in dejected silence as the next few moments passed in a clatter of introductions and cries of welcome.

No one seemed to note that Genevieve failed to join in the chaos, for there was much to occupy them. Not only had Benedict married and had a child, an auburn-haired daughter named Edlynne, there was an announcement to make of his wife Raine’s new pregnancy. Marcel had also acquired another brother in that marriage. Benedict proudly introduced Raine’s brother, the now thirteen-year-old William.

Then it was Lily and Tristan’s turn to display their second child—a tiny boy named Aidan. Marcel hugged them all, including his youngest brother Kendran, who was near grown to be a man. He ruffled Aidan’s dark curls and kissed him on the forehead. Marcel then lifted an excitedly dancing Sabina up into his arms to place a resounding kiss upon her soft cheek before setting her back down, while congratulating Raine and Benedict on their upcoming birth.

By the time anyone got around to looking at Genevieve she had nearly managed to master her emotions. She smiled, albeit stiffly, and moved forward as Benedict turned to her.

Not sure what she would do, Genevieve extended her hand. “Marcel. It is so good to see you home at last.” She was quite proud of the fact that her voice remained even despite her inner turmoil.

He took her numb hand in one large warm one for such a brief moment that their flesh barely touched. “It is good to see you, as well, Genevieve.”

But though that touch had been brief, it left a tingling of awareness along the length of her fingers and she felt her face heat. She found herself glad that Marcel immediately turned back to Benedict, his voice deep with concern as he said, “I came as soon as your letter arrived.”

Benedict replied quickly, “There was no cause for alarm. I had simply decided that it was time you came home.”

Marcel appeared both relieved and rueful at this admission. “Well, I am home and gladly so, though you might have told me in your letter.”

Had it been so very simple to have him back at Brackenmoore? Genevieve wondered silently. If only she had known, she would have come up with some pretext to have him sent for long before now.

Immediately she told herself her thoughts were sheer madness considering his obvious disregard for her. All the secret dreams she had held close to her heart in these two interminable years had been for naught. There was nothing for them. He was a stranger, a stranger with a life that had nothing to do with her.

Benedict waved toward his own place at the table. “Sit. I am sure you have hunger after your journey. You have arrived just in time.”

Genevieve said hurriedly, “I will see that another plate and cup are brought. I will fetch some of the wine that Maeve has set aside for special occasions, as well.”

Benedict halted her. “Nay, sit, Genevieve. I will send one of the servants.”

Genevieve was quite aware that the servants would come at Benedict’s call, but she would have been grateful for any excuse to be away. Any excuse to keep from having to sit at the table with Marcel. Yet that was exactly what she must do, for she could think of no way to avoid it. Quickly she took her place beside Sabina, fussing over the child’s meal though there was no need to do so.

She could do no more than listen distantly as the others continued to converse while they took their places with Marcel, now in the position of honor—directly across from her.

Only briefly could she glance in Marcel’s direction for fear of his seeing the yearning she knew was in her own eyes. Yet even in a glance she saw that his shoulders filled the same space Benedict’s had. Encased in the black velvet of his houppeland, his shoulders looked so broad and powerful. She had not recalled them being so very wide.

Benedict spoke, his query drawing her undivided attention. “May I ask how long we shall have the pleasure of your company, my brother?”

She looked to Marcel, who was watching Benedict now so she was free to let her gaze focus hungrily on the blue of those heavily lashed eyes. He shrugged. “I fear not long.” Was she wrong or did his gaze flick briefly to her? Or was it the pain that sliced her at hearing his words that made her wish he had some care for leaving her? She forced herself to pay heed as he went on. “My crew is unloading cargo, but I must arrange for another.”

Benedict threw up his hands. “Can that not wait for some time? You have made a fortune for both of us.”

Marcel shook his head, his gaze earnest on Benedict’s now. “My concern is not for myself. I must also think about the livelihood of my men. As Baron of Brackenmoore you understand that.”

Benedict subsided. “I do. And your conscientiousness does you credit though I cannot be glad for it. At any rate you must promise to return ere two years have passed in future.”

Again Genevieve felt as if his gaze flicked toward her as he replied, “Aye. That promise I will make and keep.” There was no doubting the sincerity of his tone as he went on. “I have missed you…all, and Brackenmoore.”

In spite of the strange catch in his voice, the words sent a spiral of warmth through Genevieve, even though she told herself they were not meant for her.

Tristan looked up from the other side of the table, with a frown. “Look you, Benedict, is that man not wearing a plaid?”

Genevieve followed the direction of his gaze and saw that there was, indeed, a man garbed in a plaid making his way through the tables. He also wore a white shirt and a pair of sturdy leather shoes.

Benedict stood as the dark-haired young man reached his side. “I am Lord of Brackenmoore. What business have you here?”

The man faced him with a respectful nod. “The guard at the gate bid me enter this hall when I told him whence I came.”

Benedict shrugged. “Speak freely then. From whence have you come?”

The man nodded his dark head respectfully. “I am come from Scotland, my lord. I have a message from the Lady Finella.”

“Aunt Finella,” Kendran said. “We have not seen her in years. Not since before Mother and Father went to Scotland and were lost at sea.”

Even after all these years, Genevieve could see the pain that came to the four brothers’ faces at the mention of their parents’ deaths. Though she had mourned the loss of her own mother and father, the deep sorrow had passed long ago.

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.