Summer's Bride
Page 19
Rage filled Marcel, spreading through him in a hot tide as he saw the way the little lad fought against the burly man’s strength. His eyes narrowed and he raised his sword. “Release him and I may spare your life.” He was surprised at the depth of cold fury that was revealed by his tone.
So angry was he that Marcel was almost disappointed when the man let go of Cameron without hesitation. Marcel felt a need to release the fury in his belly. He resisted the impulse, sending a reassuring glance to his cousin, who stood staring up at him, his gaze uncertain.
Still keeping most of his attention on the other man, who now backed toward the others, Marcel spoke in a voice that was deliberately gentle. “Are you well, Cameron?”
The boy nodded. “I am. Have you come to take me home to Glen Rowan?”
Marcel would answer, but wanted to make sure they were secure first. He called out to his aunt’s men, “Bind them all.”
Seeing the men hurry to do his bidding, Marcel smiled down at Cameron. “I have come to take you home.”
The blue eyes rounded with pleasure and relief. “Who are you then?”
“I am your cousin Marcel.”
“Ah, I thought you might be.” A gamin smile curved his mouth. “The lady who came before spoke of you. She did not say that you would be coming for me.”
In spite of the fact that they must still get out of here and away before he would begin to feel at ease, Marcel could not withhold an answering smile. “She did not know that I was going to do so at the time. For I did not know myself.”
Cameron nodded with charming wisdom. “I see. ’Tis always best to think on your feet.” He grinned at Marcel again. “Or so my father told me.” He looked around the place where he had been held prisoner over the past weeks. “I was trying to do just that when I came here to settle the troubles between Duggan and McGuire. It did not work. I suppose it is a good enough creed if one has the swords to back up one’s good ideas.”
Marcel nodded. He could not deny that the lad had a winning nature, as Genevieve had said.
Connor called out. “All’s done, my lord.”
Cameron looked over to the boy who still sat silent and frightened in the bed. “What of Ewan?”
Marcel looked at him then, having forgotten the lad’s existence. The obviously frightened boy’s eyes widened even more. Marcel said, “You are McGuire’s grandson.”
The child nodded.
Would it not lesson McGuire if he were to repay the man in kind with the taking of someone he loved? Aye, he would have a great point of bargaining in taking the lad.
Marcel sighed, knowing he could not do such a thing. The troubles that he must solve were between men and would remain between men, if he had any say in it.
Marcel bent over and spoke very softly to the boy in the bed so the others would not hear. “You are Cameron’s friend, are you not?”
The boy nodded.
Marcel reached out to ruffle his cousin’s auburn hair, pulling him close. “Cameron and I, we would ask boon of you.”
The boy nodded.
Marcel raised his brows as he continued, “Think you that if we do not bind you, you might delay long enough for us to be well gone from this place before untying the others?”
The red-haired lad looked at him with uncertainty. “You are not going to take me?”
Marcel shook his head. “Nay, I have no wish to make you a part of things you do not understand and have no say in.”
The boy turned to Cameron and said very softly, “I am not strong and it might take a great time to undo the knots.”
Cameron smiled. “Soon we will go fishing at Glen Rowan.”
His friend smiled in return. “Aye.”
“My lord.” Connor called.
Marcel knew he was waiting for the order to leave. It would serve none of them to forget that they were in the camp of their enemy in spite of the fact that they had faced no real opposition as yet.
Marcel gave the order to leave and saw the men move toward the door. He turned to Cameron and said, “Come then, cousin. Let us away.”
“Fare you well, Cameron,” the boy in the bed called out softly.
Cameron nodded.
Then as if with one mind he and Marcel swung around, and raced through the hall behind the others and out the door.
Genevieve was startled by the sounds of excitedly raised voices in the courtyard beneath her open window. She had not slept since watching Marcel and five of his aunt’s men depart from this very window what seemed an eternity ago. Rising hurriedly, she went and leaned out to see what was amiss.
In the light of many torches, she saw Marcel and, mounted before him on his horse, a much smaller figure. Her heart soared, for who could it be but Cameron?
Hurriedly she shrugged into the robe Aunt Finella had provided for her use. She then raced through the darkened keep, seeing the many people who were beginning to stir as she went. Obviously word of their return was already spreading, for there was no mistaking the excited tone of the people’s voices as she passed through the hall.
Somehow, unbelievably, for Genevieve had fair flown from her chamber, Aunt Finella had arrived in the courtyard before her. Genevieve watched Cameron jump down from his place before Marcel and run into his grandmother’s waiting arms.
Feeling her heart swell with emotion as the two grasped each other tightly, Genevieve looked up into Marcel’s blue eyes. Their gazes locked and held, his damp with the same intensity of feeling that had swept through her. It was the first time he had actually looked at her without looking through her since…
When Marcel smiled at her, her heart thumped in response. She told herself that this change in his attitude was brought on by his joy in having succeeded in the rescue of his cousin. Yet in spite of knowing this, she was overcome by her own response to the simple gesture. Genevieve glanced away, unable to hold that gaze for another moment for fear of giving away the fact that her own reaction was not solely due to her happiness at seeing Cameron home where he belonged.
When she raised her gaze once more she expected him to have turned away. But he had not. He had dismounted from his highland pony but was still watching her with an expression that she did not even dare try to name.
Her breath caught and her heart throbbed in her chest.
At that moment, Aunt Finella moved to block her view of Marcel, her eyes bright with unashamed tears. As he turned to his aunt, the moment was broken. The older woman said, “Thank you, thank you, Marcel. You will never know how grateful I am that I had my nephews to call upon.”
She hugged the boy again tightly and then reached to put an arm around Marcel.
It was a touching family scene, one that did not really include her. Genevieve took a step backward, feeling suddenly shy.
Marcel seemed to sense her unease for he motioned to her and said, “Genevieve, come and make your greeting to Cameron. You have certainly aided in bringing him home. It was because of your recall of the waterfall that we were able to fetch him.”
Still she hesitated, feeling shy as she glanced about and realized how many of the castle folk had now gathered. The faces around her were sheathed in happy smiles and those smiles did seem to include her.
When Aunt Finella turned and held out her arms, Genevieve went into them. She hugged the older woman, then stepped back and turned to Cameron. “It is so good to see you here.”
He nodded. “Aye. I am most happy to be back. And I have you to thank as well as my cousin.”
Genevieve bowed her head, acknowledging his thanks. When she looked at him again, she suddenly became aware of the weariness on his young face. It seemed that his grandmother had also taken note of this for she said, “Come in then, my lad. It’s a bit of rest that you’ll be needing before anything else.”
In spite of his obvious fatigue, he looked to Marcel and said, “But…”
His grandmother interrupted in a tone that while kind brooked no further discussion. “You will to bed, and now.
”
Genevieve hurried before them as they went into the keep. “I will remove my things from your chamber.”
Cameron looked up at her. “What?”
She said, “I have been sleeping in your chamber. I am most happy to return it to you.”
His grandmother spoke hurriedly. “Nay, you will not. I know I said as much when you first arrived. I would never allow my grandson to behave with such a lack of chivalry. We shall find him a place to sleep.”
“But…” Genevieve began.
She was interrupted by Aunt Finella, in much the same way the boy had been when he attempted to argue with his grandmother. “There shall be no talk on the subject. We will trouble you only long enough to remove some of Cameron’s garments. Then the room shall be yours, and most happily so until such time as you are ready to leave Glen Rowan.”
Until such time as they were ready to leave Glen Rowan. The unexpected words struck her like darts.
The older woman moved away, her back held stiffly with determination to have her way done. Genevieve took a deep breath. With Cameron home, it was unlikely that she and Marcel would remain much longer.
That meant it would not be long before she was back at Brackenmoore. Her devastated gaze went to Marcel’s face. Thankfully he did not appear to be aware of her disquiet, for he was occupied in telling the men to post extra guards on the chance that McGuire might retaliate.
She did not think the man would do such a thing. With his hostage gone, Genevieve suspected he would be much more malleable. Marcel would be glad. He would wish to have the matter of the dispute between McGuire and Duggan settled quickly so that he might be on his way.
In spite of her wishes to the contrary, her gaze was full of yearning as it moved over his masculinely beautiful features. Though she knew that he did not want her, that he did indeed love another, he would always hold a special place inside her.
He was the man who had shown her what it was to be a woman. And he had done so with such a shattering thoroughness that no other man would ever be able to take his place.
Chapter Twelve
Genevieve slept very little that night, rising early with an urge to quit the confines of the keep for the open air of the moor. She met Aunt Finella in the hall.
That fair lady ran an assessing gaze over the warm cloak she had donned, then her face. Genevieve was hard-pressed to meet that searching look for she feared the signs of her sleepless night would be visible in her face.
It seemed they were, for Aunt Finella said, “Why do the two of you play this unhappy game?”
“Pray what do you mean, my lady?” As she said the words she knew far too well what they implied.
Aunt Finella shook her head. “Do not pretend you know naught of what I speak. Clearly there is love between you and Marcel and yet you wish to deny it.”
The older woman’s directness forced Genevieve to speak more frankly than she wished. “You do not understand. Marcel does not love me, has no regard for what I would bring to the man who loved me. He loves another.”
Folding her arms across her bosom, Aunt Finella shook her head. “I do not believe it.”
“He has told me so with his own lips.”
Aunt Finella sighed with exasperation. “You are fools, the both of you. Love is all that matters. The love we give and the love we receive. The rest of it doesn’t amount to a handful of sand. I’d give it all away, each and every stone of this keep, my name, all in my possession for one more hour with my Cameron. None of those things have ever given me a glimpse of what it felt like to be held in his arms, to know that I was loved and that I loved in return.” With that she turned and stalked off across the chamber, her head held high.
Genevieve was left staring after her, her insides a whirl of confusion. The well-meaning woman had completely misunderstood the whole matter.
Marcel did not love her. And she certainly did not love him.
What they felt was powerful, compelling, even ungovernable at times, undeniably so. Yet it was not love.
Nay, never that!
Marcel tried to concentrate on the food on his plate, but he found he had no appetite for the roast, fowl and game. Casting a surreptitious glance about the high table he saw that neither his aunt nor Genevieve seemed to have any more interest in the meal. Only Cameron was eating with any enthusiasm, professing that he was quite hungry after spending the whole day explaining to all what had occurred while he was gone.
Marcel only wished he could be as relieved as his young cousin seemed to be. Even though Cameron was home at Glen Rowan, Marcel’s duty here was not done. McGuire would be angry—enraged.
For his own part he cared naught for the man’s good grace or lack of such, would gladly call him out in man-to-man combat. Yet he was aware of his aunt’s precarious position in this. She would be the one to bear the brunt of the family’s rage. For much as he had to admit that he had gained great satisfaction from helping his aunt, he could not remain indefinitely.
He had to get Genevieve back to Brackenmoore. For the good of both of them.
The night they had shared together seemed only to have whetted his appetite for her. It was a craving he could not indulge. Not if he was to retain any self-respect.
She believed him the worst kind of knave. He had taken her innocence and all the while allowed her to believe that he loved another. That Genevieve had given up her innocence with such eager and wild abandon did not make him easy on the matter. It only served to make Marcel the more ashamed of his deceit.
Marcel was distracted from these troubling thoughts by the sound of a voice at his elbow. “My lord, McGuire is come to speak with ye.”
As Marcel swung around to face the soldier who had obviously run from his post, if his labored breathing was any indication, he felt Genevieve’s steady gaze upon him.
He was glad to be able to face his young cousin, who said, “Has he then?” The boy sat up in his seat, his face set, his head high. Marcel was not oblivious to the signs of fearfulness in the lines around his mouth and the tightness with which he clenched his small hands into fists.
Marcel looked at his aunt. Her expression was clearly troubled. He did not look at Genevieve but felt her anxiety as well. He nodded to the servant. “You may bring him in.” As the man left, Marcel turned to Cameron. “You will go to your room, please.”
Cameron frowned. “I am not afraid of him.”
Marcel smiled gently. “I thought no such thing. I simply prefer to let the blackguard know that he will deal only with me now.”
Aunt Finella said, “Do as your cousin asks, Cameron.”
Marcel was grateful for her support, for the lad’s frown did not disappear, but he did get up and stalk from the hall. And none too hurriedly, for he clearly wished them to know that he was not afraid to face his kidnapper.
Marcel felt somewhat guilty for sending him away. He well recalled what it was like to feel that your fate had been placed in the hands of others. Yet he wanted McGuire to be clear in the fact that it was he, Marcel, who would decide this matter. He was not a young boy who could be held at the mercy of a grown man.
“He will be fine,” Genevieve said quietly.
With surprise Marcel faced her and saw the understanding in those green eyes. Somehow, at times such as this, she managed to find it inside her to be decent, to set aside the anger she felt toward him, in spite of his ill treatment of her.
He was glad to be distracted from his own unexplainable sadness at this by the arrival of McGuire himself.
As he watched the older man enter the hall, Marcel felt a pensive frown crease his brow. Contrary to the expression of fury he had expected McGuire to be wearing, he seemed almost…chagrinned.
Aunt Finella addressed him politely, adhering to the Scot custom of hospitality. “Will you sup with us, McGuire?”
“Nay, Lady Finella, I willna. That is no’ why I have come.” The big Scot turned to Marcel, losing no time in getting to the point. “Ye took the l
ad.”
Marcel shrugged. “I did, indeed. Did you imagine that I would simply loll about here waiting for you and Duggan to come to terms while my cousin was kept from his home and family? Methinks not.”
Again there was a hint of chagrin in the older man’s gaze as it flitted away from Marcel’s. Suddenly those eyes widened and Marcel looked around to see what had caused this strange reaction. It was Genevieve who seemed to hold McGuire’s rapt attention.
He pointed to her. “Ye are the lad.”
She raised her chin high, flushing. “I am no lad as you can see. And ’twas not I who said I was a boy. You simply assumed as much and we did not disabuse you of the notion.”
“Ye were dressed as a lad. Ye tricked me well enough.”
Genevieve flushed again. “My garb had naught to do with you whatsoever. If you will recall ’twas you yourself who insisted that I accompany you. Marcel did his utmost to dissuade you.” Marcel was proud of not only her candor but the accuracy of her assessment. “You but seek a distraction from your own crimes by speaking of it.”
McGuire scowled blackly but Marcel could see that he had no answer for this. It seemed that even the ill-humored Scotsman could not argue with the truth.
He swung around to glare at Marcel and then, to his utter amazement, said, “Ye did not take my grandson.”
Marcel blinked at this abrupt change of topic. “Nay, I did not. I do not harry children with the troubles of men.”
McGuire blanched but spoke with arrogance. “I suppose ye expect my gratitude for that.”
Marcel shook his head. “I expect nothing. I simply could not bring myself to put your lad through the ordeal that Cameron had been subjected to. For in spite of the fact that he is full of bravado and refuses to admit his anxiety over being held against his will, he is still just a small boy. Thus he is susceptible to the fears of a small boy.” Marcel’s gaze was unrelenting. “What you did was inexcusable.”
McGuire blanched again and his demeanor changed before their very eyes as his shoulders slumped. “God forgive me for the taking of that boy. May he also forgive me for not coming right out and thanking ye for not putting our Ewan through the same ordeal. For beggin’ yer pardon was what I came here to do. God, when I found out ye had been there…that ye could have…I felt sick with the dread of it.”