Читать книгу Summer's Bride - Catherine Archer - Страница 9

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.

“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.