Marcel sighed. “Now you know how my aunt has worried these past weeks.”
McGuire looked at Aunt Finella. “I dinna ken how grave a thing I had done. The lad seemed so defiant and played about with our Ewan as if he had not a care.”
“That is what children do,” Marcel told him. He could well recall how he had played and laughed and behaved as normally as he knew how to after his parents died, though he had felt empty and afraid inside.
But he did not want to think about that now. It was far in the past.
What he needed to concentrate on was the startling transformation in McGuire’s attitude. He would never have believed that this great a change could come about.
Whether this contrite mood could be parlayed into some kind of truce between McGuire and Duggan remained to be seen.
Marcel watched the older man, trying to gauge just what might come now. He was not entirely happy when the next words from his adversary’s lips were not encouraging ones. “What has happened has not changed my thinking about Duggan. Not only has he laid claim to land that is mine, as ye well know his temptress of a daughter has lured my own son off to wed wi’ her.”
Marcel spoke to McGuire in a tone that brooked no argument. “It is my aunt’s intent to take all opinions under consideration and make her own decision concerning the lands under dispute. After doing so, she will render her judgment and will expect that judgment to be adhered to.”
“But…” sputtered the other man.
Marcel halted him. “Enough. You have done grave ill to mine. I would have you know that it is only by my aunt’s good grace that you have done so without serious consequence to yourself. For I am most certain that kidnapping is considered a crime in Scotland. You will not be allowed to transgress further. Nor, as she is the guardian of the new laird, will you be allowed to make any further demands upon my aunt’s dignity and authority. Your concerns over your son’s marriage to Duggan’s daughter will also be settled in a peaceful manner. Make no more trouble with your neighbor and leave the disbursement of the lands to your lady.”
McGuire turned to Aunt Finella with narrowed eyes. “Why should I do that when ye have shown your anger with me? However justified it might be, ’twill color your decision.”
Aunt Finella spoke with quiet certainty. “You have my word that I will not allow my personal feelings about my grandson’s kidnapping to sway me in this. It is my intention to be a fair overseer to my grand-son’s lands until such time as he is able to hold them. I will, despite what you have done, decide on only the merits of the facts. As I may or may not be able to uncover them.”
McGuire looked anything but pleased at this. Yet Marcel thought he also recognized a hint of respect in those eyes. The older man stood, nodding, then left the hall.
Genevieve had felt as if she could barely breathe through most of this unbelievable interview. It was only after McGuire had been gone for several seconds that she was able to take what felt like a normal breath into her lungs.
What an unexpected turn of events. The dour man had been almost contrite as far as Cameron was concerned.
Marcel had seemed cognizant of that fact, even understanding. Yet he had also been very commanding, more so than ever before. It had been quite clear that he would accept no more such acts as the one that had been perpetrated against Cameron. Though he had said that the decisions would be Aunt Finella’s, it was made very obvious that Marcel would be happy to see those decisions enforced.
Not for the first time she found herself thinking that Marcel was a natural leader. The responsibilities seemed to sit quite easily on his wide shoulders.
If only she knew that such a man would be at her own side. How good it would be to know that she would be listened to, respected for her own mind, as Marcel did his aunt, but also aware that his strength was beside her.
Unbidden came Aunt Finella’s assertion that there was love between them.
Unconsciously Genevieve turned to face Marcel, realizing as she did so that he was watching her. She flushed, looking away, glad that he could not read the madness of that thought in her eyes. That their attraction was strong, she could not deny. Yet again she reminded herself that it was not love.
She was surprised when Marcel spoke to her. “You have no need to continue to feel guilty about the wayward newlyweds. McGuire and Duggan need make peace on that subject. Their anger serves no one. And judging from his relief at my not taking his grandson, I would say he has a great love for his family. I suspect that Duggan is very likely the same.”
She nodded. She had been slightly shocked to hear him mention the couple, but she no longer felt culpable on that matter. Marcel had helped her to see the truth of that on the night that…
She felt the color rise in her face. That night was something she did not wish to think on at all. Nodding curtly, Genevieve said, “I no longer feel responsible, Marcel, though I thank you for your concern.” She was surprised at the coldness of her tone, though she knew that it was caused by the tight control she had on herself and her emotions.
His silence made her look up at him and she saw the consternation on his handsome face with some degree of regret. He said shortly, “Forgive my presumption.”
Sadness swept though her, but it could not be helped. She would not explain herself. Were she to do that, Marcel would know how very badly she wished that things were not as they were.
With a quick nod she said, “You will excuse me now. I find that I am weary.”
Aunt Finella said, “Oh, please do retire, my dear. There has been far too much excitement of late.” Looking at her, Genevieve could see that she was clearly distracted by what had just gone on with McGuire.
Genevieve touched her shoulder briefly before she turned to leave the hall.
She had just stepped onto the bottom step of the stair leading to the upper chambers when Marcel’s voice halted her. “Genevieve.” As she turned and their gazes collided, she saw, dear saints above, a completely unexpected and naked longing in those blue eyes. The sheer shock of it halted her in mid-motion, made her own blood run like heated wine in her veins. Her voice seemed too husky as she queried, “Yes?”
He hesitated, his expression troubled. “I…I am sorry for what happened between us in my…I would not have you hate me. Perhaps if things were different…perhaps if Constanza did not need me so desperately.” His face closed up and her heart plummeted. “But you understand that she does need me. I am all that she has.”
Breathing quickly, she tore her gaze away. “Of course, Marcel. You need not concern yourself. I am fine. You have made yourself clear on more than one occasion.”
His brow creased with consternation, but he said nothing more as she turned and left him. Though she felt Marcel’s attention upon her back, she did not look to him again.
Surely, she told herself, still feeling the heat and weight of that gaze long after she was gone, ’twas only for the best.
Yet hours later Genevieve was still pacing the confines of the chamber. Had she ever actually thought this room large? It seemed a cage this night, the walls coming closer and closer with each long hour that passed.
She wanted to scream in frustration, angry with herself and the Fates. Even as she cried aloud, asking herself what was wrong with her, she knew.
Marcel.
She could think of little else either night or day. And he, God help her, though she could not explain it, he seemed to want her, too. He wanted her in spite of his love for Constanza and all the unpleasantness that had passed between them.
That made her own desire all the more difficult to deny. Suddenly Genevieve was not sure why she should deny herself what they both wanted. Surely she could understand Marcel’s feelings, because of the lack of reason in her own. He was in love with another woman yet found himself attracted to her, had admitted just hours ago that if he were not responsible for the other woman that…well, Genevieve knew something that he did not. Constanza was not completely dependent upon
him. Marcel’s denial of his desire was unnecessary.
Against all reason she wanted Marcel with every fiber of her being. Knew with a shattering certainty that she would never again want any man as she did him. Not if she dwelt five hundred years upon this earth.
She recalled what Aunt Finella had said about love being all. Well, that might prove true for them if they were in love. Yet perhaps love was not the only emotion that created its own truth. Did not this overwhelming passion deserve some concession?
In this moment Genevieve was not inclined to put their desire second to his love for Constanza. Genevieve was still resolved that she would never tell him the truth, but she felt no great compunction to bestow great honor upon such a love, either.
Was not she, Genevieve, deserving of some pleasure, some measure of happiness? For she knew that there would be little enough of either once Marcel sailed out of her life.
Before she could stop herself, she rose and took up her candle.
In some ways, what she was about to do reminded her of the first night she had gone to Marcel’s chamber. This night her purpose was very different. Tonight she intended to make love with Marcel. It would not be out of an overwhelming need of the moment. Tonight she would make love with Marcel because, she, Genevieve chose to do so. This night would be hers to remember for all the days of her life.
As she reached his chamber door, she hesitated for a brief moment. Something, some inner sense of confidence rose inside her, stopped her from knocking. Taking a deep breath, she turned the latch.
The portal swung inward on silent hinges.
Her gaze went immediately to Marcel where he sat in the chair beside the low-burning hearth. He looked up, seeing her even as he rose. “Genevieve.”
She faced him directly, her gaze unwavering on his. “Marcel.” Their eyes held and that now familiar awareness passed between them, making her stomach tighten.
He ran obviously unsteady hands over his thighs, drawing her gaze to their muscular length. “Why have you come?” he asked, making her look into his face again.
She did not hesitate. “Methinks you already know the answer to that question.”
He sucked in a quick breath of surprise at her directness. At the same time she noted that his blue eyes darkened, his lids becoming hooded as his gaze slid over her.
Marcel did indeed know the answer to that question. Had he not, the stirring in his own blood as he looked at her, clad only in that diaphanous white gown, her golden hair falling about her in a wild tangle would have told him.
Genevieve moved forward and carefully placed her candle on the table near him. He saw that her hand was steady, as was her gaze. He was very aware that her calm was at direct odds with his own demeanor. He could not deny the trembling in his body as she then came to stand in front of him.
Marcel swallowed hard as his gaze moved over her lovely face, saw the heightened color along her high cheekbones, the flutter of her pulse at her throat as she raised her head to look up at him. Those two subtle signs told him that she was not as unmoved as it might appear.
She interrupted his thought, whispering, “Would you have me stay?”
There was no mistaking the meaning of that breathless query.
She was so beautiful. The perfect contours of her form were not truly concealed by the gown, only tantalizingly veiled in hints of light and shadow. His body tightened and his breathing quickened as he recalled how lovely she was, how soft the flesh that covered the curves and planes of her body.
Again Marcel swallowed, knowing that he wanted what she offered more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. He held out his arms, for there was naught else he could do.
Genevieve went into his arms, only realizing as he held them out to her how very afraid she had been that he might turn her away. Her relief that he did not do so left her limp and weak in his embrace.
But only for the space of a heartbeat.
Genevieve had no intention of wasting even a moment of this time. For she knew that it was stolen from another woman no matter how undeserving. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to his.
Marcel’s mouth found hers, his lips supple and warm, igniting a flame that raced through her and made her breath quicken. She raised her arms to hold his head down to her, standing up on tiptoe as she fitted her body to the hard length of his.
When his hands moved down her back to settle on her hips, she moaned, her body arching into his. She felt the hardness of him against her belly with a thrill.
Unlike the first time, Genevieve knew exactly where they were headed in this dance of desire. She stepped backward, urging him with her body to move toward the bed.
Marcel stopped her, his breath hot on her ear as he turned and whispered, “Nay, my eager beauty, not so fast. First we will play.”
She closed her eyes on the wave of heat that was engendered by those words. Then she opened them again as she felt herself being turned in his arms.
“What…?” she cried, subsiding as she felt the press of his firm body against her back.
He made no verbal reply, only easing away slightly, then slowly drawing her gown up the length of her body. Sighing, she raised her arms, her breathing labored when he passed the garment over her head, then tossed it to the floor. Her breath caught and she ran her tongue over her suddenly parched lips as he drew her back against him, his palms on the flat plane of her belly.
“I want to touch you,” he told her, his mouth close beside her ear, the heat of his breath warming her as it had before. When he slowly began to trace his hands up her sides, she sucked in a breath of pleasure and anticipation. His hands at last closed over her breasts and she moaned aloud, sagging back against the wall of his chest as his thumbs found her already erect nipples.
Gently he plied her breasts with his two large, warm hands, circling, squeezing gently, knowing just the right pressure to apply to those yearning tips. Thick, sweet honey spread from the two sensitive points, seeping through her body to form a delicious pool of delight in her lower belly. When his hand moved lower, tracing over her ribs, the flat plane of her stomach, then paused in the nest of golden curls, she held her breath. As his fingers slipped into the moist warmth of her she gasped aloud, her knees buckling, only managing to stay upright because she could not bear for the pleasure to stop. Her head fell backward on his chest, allowing him better access to her throat as his warm lips sought that tender flesh. Without conscious thought, she rubbed her bottom against his manhood, heard him gasp, and her lips curved with a smile of sheer sensuality.
Marcel was aching, dying for her, and before he had even begun to awaken her as he wished to. The unadulterated joy with which she took her pleasure near drove him mad with need and an undeniable wonder.
Never in his years had he met such a woman, a woman who was neither ashamed nor demure about taking such joy in the sensations of her body. He reveled in her reactions, felt his own pleasure was heightened by them tenfold.
Genevieve’s body ached, throbbed, with the pleasure of his touch. But she was not ready to give in to the pounding of her blood. She turned in his arms, feeling a need to touch him, to bring him to the same level of desire that raced through her own veins.
As she raised her hands to slide them over his belly, it was his turn to suck in a gasping breath. She looked up at him, saw the fire that lit the depths of his blue eyes and leaned forward to place her lips where her hands had touched him.
His fingers tangled in the heavy fall of her hair as she kissed his chest, her lips soft, sensuous and shockingly confident on his flesh. When they closed over one of his hard nipples, he groaned and gently but firmly pulled her away, then bent to kiss those beautiful lips.
He kissed her until his own head was spinning, his body aching with need.
Marcel knew he could wait no more. He picked her up and moved toward the bed, his eyes on hers, seeing the gladness—the eagerness in those lovely green eyes.
Genevieve continued to ho
ld his gaze as he lay her back against the pillows. She wanted, needed, to know that Marcel was thinking of her and her alone as they made love to each other for the very last time.
When he ran a hand down her bare side, she shivered, her lids drooping. His voice was husky with passion as he said, “You are so lovely. You take my breath from me, Genevieve, and leave me with nothing but insignificant words to describe what is indescribable.”
“Oh Marcel, there is no need to talk. I understand, for I feel the same way.” She took his hand and raised it to her left breast. “Can you not feel the way my heart beats from the very sight of you?”
He groaned and dipped his head to suckle at the very same breast. Now it was she who cried out with wanting, “Please Marcel, no more. You must make me yours.”
He went into her arms, his body sliding along the length of her slender one. Her flesh was like silk against his, their two contours seeming to meld into one perfect form as he slipped between her silken thighs.
When she shifted her hips to accept him into her body, he felt himself slide into her. Her body was so wet, yet seemed to grasp the length of him, holding him with gentle pressure. The sensation was indescribably pleasurable, making him sob with the sheer intensity of it as it rippled through his body.
Genevieve was afire, her body awhirl with the sensations aroused by Marcel’s touch. Yet she wanted to watch him, to see him reacting to her, to hear the hoarse sound of his voice and know that he was driven so far beyond himself because he was with her.
No matter what might come in the years ahead, she wished to have this time with him to relive, to ease the loneliness of her days. Thus it was Marcel she concentrated on, his expressions, the shallowness of his breathing as she moved beneath him, deliberately drawing him as deeply into herself as she could before withdrawing again.
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