Summer's Bride

by Catherine Archer

  She knew he had no wish to converse with her on more than the most necessary of subjects.

  Again, Genevieve went over their conversation earlier in the day. She was more than a little grateful for Marcel’s telling her that this voyage would soon be ended. She was wearied at being cooped up here, wearied at not having a way to escape him, Constanza, or the crew in order to nurse her many wounds.

  Genevieve rubbed a hand across her forehead as she tossed restlessly upon the bed he had shared with the other woman. Saints above, but she would not have such vivid notions of what had passed between him and Constanza if he had not kissed her, caressed her as she now imagined him doing to the Spanish woman.

  She gasped at the pain of the images that clouded her mind. Rising up in the bed, she could only pray that Marcel had not overheard her.

  Desperately she looked about the chamber. It seemed as though he was deeply asleep on the bench, if the continued silence was any indication.

  The cabin was not large, and from where she sat, Genevieve could see that the blanket had slipped down to reveal his naked chest. And though the light was poor, her greedy eyes seemed to have a mind of their own as they moved over his flesh, causing her to remember how good it had felt beneath her fingers.

  Genevieve knew that she had to get out into the fresh air, to escape from his nearness and the desire she continued to feel for him despite all she did to convince herself that it did not exist.

  With a care born of desperation, Genevieve climbed out of the bed and made her way to the door. She was doubly careful to keep from looking at the man who slept on the narrow bench.

  Once outside the cabin, Genevieve hesitated. The sounds coming from the galley told her that at least a portion of the men were still about.

  Frowning, she turned toward the bow, where she earlier had met Marcel. She was reluctant to return, but it was doubtful that anyone would be there. The watch who sat atop the crow’s nest would not be able to see her as the cabin would obstruct his view.

  Moving around the outside of the cabin, Genevieve hastened her step. The very thought of the breeze that awaited her was heartening. For the air she breathed in seemed stale and too warm.

  It was not until she had actually rounded the end of the structure that she saw them. She, in fact, nearly walked right into the two who stood there in the moonlight, locked in a passionate embrace.

  Constanza…Harlan?

  For the longest moment, Genevieve did not know what to do, what to think. Shock held her completely immobile.

  Then realizing that she did not wish them to know she had discovered them, Genevieve cringed back against the outside wall of the cabin. As she did so, she fought to keep her breathing even.

  Yet the devastation at what she had just seen continued to make her heart pound.

  Constanza and Harlan!

  She had no wish to know this terrible secret. She had less wish to listen to the words they whispered to each other as she stood there.

  Yet she could not help hearing the yearning in Constanza’s voice as she said, “Harlan, how I longed for you.”

  He replied, “Must we keep our feelings secret?”

  She answered softly, her heartache obvious, “I have told you of his feelings, what he has asked of me. I cannot betray him now when he most needs my loyalty. You know all that he has done for me.”

  The next sounds she heard were muffled, but she knew them for what they were. She and Marcel had likely made the same sorts of sound in the heat of passion. A flush stained her cheeks as she realized that she must leave. She could not bear any more.

  Being careful to keep from making any noise that might attract their attention, Genevieve went back the way she had come. She did not hesitate until she came to the door of the cabin.

  Pressing her lips together, she fought back tears of disillusion and hurt, realizing as she did so that they were on Marcel’s behalf. She knew that he trusted both Harlan and Constanza. Each night that the Spanish woman had gone to dine with the crew, he had known she would be with his mate and had shown nothing but complete trust in them. Never would he believe they would betray him, as was evidenced by the fact that he slept so soundly while knowing they spent the evening together.

  Genevieve ran a hand across her burning eyes, her heart aching for Marcel. She did not know what to do, go inside where slept the unsuspecting Marcel, or stand here where Constanza would come upon her when she left the company of her lover. Constanza, whom he believed loved him as he wished to be loved.

  Genevieve knew that she could not tell Marcel what she had just seen. Never could she find it within her to hurt Marcel that way. He loved Constanza and did he ever find out the truth of her perfidy, Genevieve would not be the one who broke his heart.

  No matter how hard it might be, Genevieve would take this secret to her grave.

  Chapter Seven

  Marcel ordered the men to drop anchor just off the coast of northern Scotland. The ship could not stand too close to land as the sea constantly battered the rugged coast. They then began to make preparations to take him and Genevieve to shore.

  According to his maps, Glen Rowan lay near enough to this spot to travel the remaining distance overland in a few hours. He was certain he and Genevieve would be able to find transportation in a nearby village.

  The closer he got to Glen Rowan, the more concerned Marcel grew about what he would actually do when he arrived; yet occupied as he was, he was constantly plagued by a steadily increasing sense of unease concerning Genevieve.

  He could feel her watching him from where she stood beside the rail of the ship. Her gaze was dark with a mixture of emotions, the only one of which he could define being sorrow. He knew that if he was to turn and face her she would quickly look away, pretending interest in anything besides him, as she was now.

  She had been behaving in this all too bothersome manner since the previous morning. It seemed as if he could not look at her without seeing an expression of sadness and regret in her face. He could only imagine that she truly regretted the embraces they had shared. No matter what her innermost longings might be, she was engaged to Beecham.

  So be it, he told himself. Still he continued to be fascinated with her every motion, her every word. His gaze felt trapped as she tilted her head to listen as Charley spoke to her. He couldn’t help noting the way she tugged nervously at the edges of that ridiculous cap as she always did when near a member of the crew.

  He couldn’t help remembering the way her eyes got dark when he kissed her, the way she…

  He groaned, frustrated that he could not get the taste and feel of Genevieve’s lips and body from his mind no matter how hard he tried. Though he had avoided any hint of intimacy with her since that disastrous evening when he had set out to do no more than bandage her sore hands, he had not avoided the desire for intimacy. He could not release the craving to make her his own, as his body had bade him do on that night.

  Deliberately Marcel turned from her to watch the crew loading the few things he and Genevieve would be taking with them into the rowboat. As soon as he did, he felt her eyes upon him. Quickly he swung around, attempting to meet her gaze.

  Instantly she turned away and he frowned in consternation.

  Why her action perturbed him so very greatly as it did, Marcel could not say. He should be rejoicing in the fact that she wanted nothing to do with him. It could only make his own wishes easier to attain.

  Unfortunately, he was not happy.

  With a deep breath he strode away, going about the preparations for leaving the ship with far more zeal than might have been necessary. He found himself carefully instructing Harlan on what he should do if a storm was to come up. “Don’t let the ship come in too close to land and…” He halted, seeing his mate’s affronted expression.

  Harlan looked at him closely. “I am aware of what should be done, Marcel. I am not fresh off the land.”

  Marcel grimaced, realizing just how much of his agitation he
must be giving away. Deliberately he laughed, “Aye, you do know what to do. You will have a care for the old girl as if she were your own.”

  Harlan nodded. “I will from the moment you leave and throughout the voyage to Wick to repair the mast.” Marcel did know that the Briarwind was indeed in good hands and that Harlan would return to fetch him and Genevieve in good order.

  Suddenly he realized that the mate was watching him closely, his expression troubled. When Marcel looked at him in question he said, “Marcel, there is something that—”

  At that moment a voice hailed them from the aft portion of the deck. “Captain, the boat is ready.”

  Marcel called, “Aye.” He turned back to Harlan, not unaware of his mate’s agitation though he was anxious to be off and see to his aunt. He was less than eager to be alone with Genevieve, and even more distracted by the fact, thus he spoke absently. “You were saying?”

  Harlan shook his head, smiling tightly. “’Tis of no great concern and will await your return. You must away now while the tide is favorable.”

  Marcel nodded, immediately setting aside his first mate’s oddness in his preoccupation over traveling to Glen Rowan with Genevieve. Because of his desire to keep the two parts of his life separate, no one else from the ship would accompany them. Unfortunately, it was just the way things had to be.

  Genevieve had no intention of being any problem to Marcel. She had determined to keep Constanza and the mate’s secret to herself. The fact that Marcel seemed to sense that something was amiss could not be ignored. He seemed to be watching her, studying her with far too much intensity in the past day. That he did so made her all the more agitated about keeping her silence.

  While they were being rowed from the Briarwind to shore, she told herself hopefully that perhaps leaving Constanza behind would help to ease her difficulty. It had not been easy to keep from displaying her shock and disappointment to the other woman.

  Constanza was what he wanted. Constanza and the sea.

  As the boat scraped against the rocky shore, Genevieve tried to focus her attention on the sharp and wild beauty of the Scottish coastline. Her boy’s garments made it less difficult than it might have been to alight quickly, with the sea thrashing the small craft against the rocks. Training her gaze on the high, rugged cliffs above them, she avoided looking at Marcel as he took their belongings from the boat and waved them away.

  She was resolved to remember that Marcel loved Constanza, no matter her character. And also to remember the fact that Marcel had made it very clear he did not want her. That fact would not change if Constanza did not exist. His cold indifference since that disastrous evening in his cabin—his bed, was proof enough of that.

  ’Twas not Constanza who stood between her and Marcel, but Marcel himself. She would not forget this.

  She told herself to be very glad indeed to be on dry land once more and free of the confines of the Briarwind Nowhere on board had she been able to forget, for even a moment, that all was under the complete command of its able captain.

  Marcel was somewhat surprised that they managed to get through the next part of their journey with so little said between them. He and Genevieve walked to a local village, where he succeeded in securing two horses.

  It was as they halted in a quiet glen to eat the meal Charley, the cook, had sent that he found himself becoming irritated again. It was not until she took the food he handed from the bag to a stump as far from him as she could possibly go, that he could no longer contain his impatience with her. “Whatever is the matter with you, Genevieve?”

  Her enormous green eyes met his. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head in utter frustration. “You have been acting strangely since yesterday morn.”

  “I…” she began, obviously flustered, then drew herself up, speaking with bravado, “I have been acting strangely since yesterday morn you say? ’Tis you who have been behaving strangely these many days since the night we…” She flushed and he could not be mistaken about that of which she spoke.

  Her directness left him with little option but to answer in kind. “How did you expect me to behave? I had nearly done something that both of us would be sorry about for the rest of our lives.”

  Marcel saw the expression of hurt that passed over her face before it was quickly replaced by anger. She stood. “Aye, it is something that we would both be sorry for indeed. But you, I believe, even more than myself. For I fear you imagine that I might think your making love to me meant that you had some care for me.”

  He shook his head. “Can you deny that you would be pleased if I did, you who would do anything to be an Ainsworth? Even if that meant being with me?”

  She stalked over to stand before him, her hands on her narrow hips. “I will not deny that my greatest wish has always been to be a true member of your family, but I would not do anything to become an Ainsworth.” Her cheeks became flushed with more than anger and she added, “I wouldst not give myself to such as you, my lord, even in aid of that end.”

  Marcel flinched, stung by her disdain. Had he not known all along that she would eventually come to see him as beneath her? So painful were the words that he could not remark on them, choosing instead to focus his attention on her other admission. “Why, Genevieve, do you persist in believing you will only be whole when you are an Ainsworth? ’Tis not so great a thing that you should want to disregard who you are by your own birth because of it.”

  She ran an outraged gaze over him. “And who are you, Marcel, to say this to me, when you wish to forget what you are?”

  He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. “I do not wish to deny my family. I simply know that being an Ainsworth in and of itself is not the highest state a man can aspire to. It is what you are inside that matters.”

  She turned her back to him. “Can you not understand that I feel the same need to choose what I would be and not be bound to the past?”

  He shrugged. “You need not be an Ainsworth to accomplish that.”

  “I am aware of this.” She swung around to face him, her gaze direct as she tried to make him see. “But you do not know how very compelling that thought became to the young girl who came to live in your midst. I never had what you take for granted—a loving family, security of heart.”

  He said softly, “Our parents died when I was still quite young. Do you think I have not felt the lack of this?”

  She shook her head. “But you had them until that time, had your brothers in the days afterward.”

  He knew what she said was true, but she did not understand the empty void that had been left when his father, who had ever seemed so large, so vital, and his mother, who had also been strong but in a soft and gentle way, had disappeared from his life. Yet he tried to listen without interrupting as she went on, for it was true that he did not know what it would have been like had he not had his brothers.

  “Even before my parents’ deaths my life was…less idyllic. I really had no one to depend on for aught other than physical comforts.”

  Marcel frowned, his own concerns forgotten, for she had never spoken of any of this in more than vague terms to him, or to his knowledge, his brothers.

  “There was something…strange about my mother. She was not well in the mind. She often cried for days upon end, not eating, not sleeping, with no explanation. My father would sit with her, trying desperately to comfort her, for in spite of it all I believe he loved her greatly, for from things the servants said I understood that she had been different before my birth.”

  She faltered then continued. “At her best times she would notice me enough to tell me that she was sorry she was not a better mother. But she made no effort to change things, did not seem able to do so. When they died…that night was such a horror, the servants heard her screams as my father tried to rescue her…the entire keep was aroused as torches were brought to light that deep and impenetrable darkness…I stood there in my nightdress and as the light shone upon the water I saw that they were gone�
��both of them lost to me for always.” The emptiness in her voice was shattering.

  “My life did not change other than that I went to Maxim and he…he thought that any young female in his keep must be willing to succumb to his advances. When he grew tired of attempting to seduce me, he had me brought to his chamber and undressed to await him like a…bride. I escaped through the window by making a rope from the bedclothes.”

  He knew a sudden and fierce rage that would have sent him immediately to kill the man had he not already been dead. His gaze moved over her face, which he found even more lovely in her distress, over her fragile yet feminine form, and he felt a tug of tender longing that near staggered him.

  Desperately he fought the feelings, knowing how wrong they were as she went on. “I knew from having traveled there as a child that Brackenmoore was not a great distance away. Somehow I knew that I would find succor there. All I could think of was getting to Brackenmoore and the boys who had shown me the only real joy I had known by allowing me to trail about after them.”

  Marcel shook his head, wanting to touch her, to hold her, but knowing he dared not. “Dear God, I am sorry for the misery you have known.” His gaze met her anguished one. “Do not make heroes of us, Genevieve. We knew nothing of your situation and made no effort to rescue you. We were only being who we were, would have treated any other child the same way.” Though he said this, he knew it was not true. As a boy he had felt that there had been something hauntingly lonely in the tiny girl with the enormous green eyes and would not be surprised to learn that his brothers had felt the same. He did not want her to know that. It was his wish to help her to see that she did not need them. Her own strengths had sustained her.

  He did not want to succumb to his own undeniable yearning, the deep core of him that wanted her to look to him for comfort, the part of him that would glory in being her strength. For both their good, he could not give in to the longing to protect and care for her that he had known from the beginning.