And then he stiffened above her, his face beautiful as the power of his passion took him, and she was no longer able to control her own response. She closed her eyes, driven by the shudders that took her as she too dissolved in the glorious culmination of their love-making.
Yet even before the delight had completely eased, she reached out to hold him to her. He pushed back, rolling to the side, putting out his own hand to brush the hair away from her face in a gesture so tender it made her heart ache. She looked into those blue eyes. They were lit with a gentleness as warm as his touch and even more moving. Such dearly beloved eyes. How was she ever to survive without him, to accept the reality of never looking into that gentle gaze again?
Her heart stopped then for one infinite moment as the truth of her own thought was revealed inside her. Marcel was beloved, indeed, more beloved than she had ever imagined any being could be.
Yet he did not love her. What she saw in those eyes was no more than the remnants of the passion they had shared. Only moments ago that passion had been enough…yet now…now that she realized how much she loved him it was a source of unfathomable pain.
Knowing she could not allow him to see the truth, she called upon reserves of strength that she had not even known she possessed. Taking a deep breath, Genevieve pushed back and sat up.
Marcel protested softly, his confusion evident, “Genevieve?”
She did not look at him. “You need have no worry, Marcel. I do not expect anything from you beyond what just took place. I realize there is nothing more than this between us, that it is of no great account.”
“I see.” Had she not known better she would have thought there was disappointment in his tone. But she did know better, knew full well that Marcel loved Constanza.
He said harshly, “You believe that what we have done together would not matter to the man you will wed?”
She took a deep breath. “There is to be no marriage.”
“You must not let what happened here prevent you from marrying Beecham. He is a good man…will make a fine husband.”
Still without looking at him, she said, “I lied to you. I never was going to marry him.”
She could hear the confusion in his voice. “But Benedict said…”
Genevieve shrugged. “I may have told you a falsehood. I am certain Benedict did not do so. You have only to think on what he did tell you, to know that.”
“But why would you lie to me about such a thing?”
She cast him a brief glance, saw the confusion on his handsome face. “That is another question you could answer did you but wish to.” Feeling she had said far too much, but too miserable to care what he might make of it, Genevieve left him.
Chapter Thirteen
Marcel was awoken by the sound of pounding at his chamber door. He raised up in bed and looked to the pillow beside him, instantly remembering all that had passed between himself and Genevieve during the night.
Ignoring the wave of misery that washed though him, he jumped up and shrugged into his robe. He yanked open the door with a scowl. “What is it?”
One of the servants stood there, his brown eyes wide with amazement, which Marcel understood when he began to speak. “The Lady Finella has sent me to fetch you, my lord. They have come. The both of them, Duggan and McGuire are below in the hall, my lord.”
Marcel did not wait for further explanation, but said, “Tell her I will attend her anon.”
He then closed the door and sought his clothing.
When he reached the hall only a short time later, he saw that it was indeed true. His aunt was seated at the head table, her less than worthy subjects on the opposite side and directly across from her. She looked to Marcel with a calm smile as he came toward them. “Ah, my nephew.”
“You sent for me, Aunt?”
She nodded. “McGuire and Duggan have come here to speak with me. I ask that you attend my audience with them.”
Marcel said, “Of a certainty.” He watched the two men, saw their chagrin as they avoided eye contact. Intrigued with this turn of events, Marcel seated himself next to his aunt.
Aunt Finella turned to him, and though her expression was even, he could see a hint of excitement in her gray eyes. “These men tell me they have come to discuss a peaceful solution as to the disposition of the meadow that has brought such trouble of late.”
Marcel nodded, though he too was hard-pressed to hide the glimmer of amazement that rippled through him. What, he wondered, had brought about this change of heart?
His unspoken question was answered by McGuire. “Lady Finella, it is right that your kin be here this morn. For it is due to his actions that we are come to speak with ye about the meadow.”
Marcel felt his brows raising. His aunt spoke evenly. “What might he have done to bring about this change of heart?”
McGuire turned to Marcel, his scowl belying his words. “Firstly as I told ye afore, I am thankful that he dinna take my wee Ewan when he had the chance. Second he hasna taken revenge against me or mine for doing such a grave ill.”
Marcel held his tongue, not bothering to say that he would gladly have done the latter in the form of calling McGuire out. He allowed his aunt to answer. It was she who would be here to deal with these men in the future as Cameron was growing to manhood.
She replied softly but firmly, “What you say is true. You did me a grave ill to keep the boy and I longed for his return every moment that he was gone. Yet I remembered you were one of our own folk and told my nephew that you should be dealt with in as peaceful a manner as possible.” She looked into his eyes. “I remembered that your former laird, my own dear Cameron, had called you friend.”
Marcel watched as McGuire had the grace to blush, dropping his eyes. “He did indeed, my lady. And I have no defense save that I was near driven mad by my anger at this one.” He cast an unhappy glance toward Duggan, who scowled back at him.
Now Marcel felt that he must step in. “You will not begin all afresh, either of you within reach. For make no mistake, now that I have the two of you I would not be averse to locking you in a chamber together till such time as you either killed each other or made peace.” When they turned to frown at him, he simply smiled. “Do not think that I am too soft to do so because I did not take young McGuire. Neither of you is innocent in this, as Ewan was. I would feel no regret whatever.”
The men looked at each other and Duggan replied, “There will be no need of that. We have come to an agreement.”
“Have you then?” Marcel could hear the disdain in his own voice and regretted it. He was angry with the two of them, it was true. Yet he had to admit, if only to himself, that a great portion of his agitation could be credited to his unhappiness over his relationship with Genevieve. He became more guilt ridden with each hour that he allowed her to believe he was in love with Constanza. Now he found himself with an overwhelming urge to tell her that he did not, had never loved, the Spanish woman.
Yet he could not do so. In some deep part of himself he was afraid, afraid that his desire to tell her the truth came from that newly reawakened desire to have all that a joining with her would offer him. This time with his aunt had reminded him anew of just how much he wished to fulfill the duties of an overlord. It was true that he gained great satisfaction from his command of the Briarwind, but the men were not bonded to him in the same way that those at Brackenmoore were bonded to Benedict, or that the people here at Glen Rowan were bonded to his aunt. Being here, being a part of setting things right here had brought him full circle, made him recall the deep longings of his boyhood.
Feeling a prickling along his nape, he looked up, seeing none other than Genevieve standing at the entrance to the hall. She was looking at McGuire and Duggan with no small amount of surprise on her lovely face.
Then, as if sensing his attention on her, she turned. Her gaze collided with his. Seeing the blush that stole up her neck and pale cheeks, he was reminded with startling clarity of seeing a similar flush spread over her as she reac
hed the culmination of her passion. Only then he had been privy to the fact that the becoming color had covered far more of her than was now exposed to his view.
He knew a wave of longing so intense that it took every bit of his will to keep from groaning aloud. But that longing was mixed with horror, for there was nothing to be gained in giving in to such mad desire. The odd way she had left him last night, the absence of emotion in her eyes, had told him she was done with him.
He did not know why, not after the way she had just made love to him with a thoroughness that left him weak with passion.
“Marcel.” He blinked. Hearing his name spoken made him realize that he must wrest control of himself. The matter at hand was of dire importance to his aunt and her folk.
Taking a deep breath, he turned to Aunt Finella. He attempted to be unmoved by the fact that he was aware with each and every fiber of his being that Genevieve was coming across the room, that she would soon reach the table where they were seated.
His aunt was looking at him with a puzzled frown. “What say you, Marcel?”
Having no notion of what had been said, he nodded. “I yield to you in this matter, my lady aunt.”
She nodded in return and swung around to face McGuire and Duggan.
He was more grateful than he could say that the others did not appear to be aware of his inner struggle.
As his aunt spoke, he forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying, in spite of the fact that Genevieve now stood beside the table, her hip so near his elbow that he could brush her did he wish to. Silently he groaned.
With a great act of will he listened as Aunt Finella told the two men, “I will hear what you and Duggan have concocted. We really must see this matter settled for all our good, and the fact that you are here together gives me cause to hope you have actually devised some workable solution. But I must add that, considering your recent behavior, in the future you will first come to me over any dispute.”
The men fidgeted beneath her level gaze, then nodded each in turn.
Just as Marcel felt Genevieve step back a pace, his aunt’s gaze swung to her. “Please, dear, stay, we have no secrets from you.”
Stiffly Genevieve bowed as Marcel turned to watch her reaction to this statement. “I…I wouldst not, Aunt. I simply wished to know if you would like me to arrange for refreshments. I can see that you are too—”
Marcel spoke up quickly. “Aye, that is an excellent suggestion, Genevieve.” He did not believe he could make sense of any of it with her seated next to him, and that was precisely where she would be forced to sit lest she crawl across him to reach his aunt’s other side.
Genevieve nodded. “I will see to it.”
He was relieved and bereft at her absence at one and the same time. Marcel gave himself a mental shake, unsure as to just what had come over him this morning.
He looked to McGuire. “You say you have come to an agreement. What might that agreement be?”
It was Duggan who replied. “We have decided to allow Robert and Fiona to make use of the meadow as a sort of a wedding settlement, if ye will.” He glanced at Aunt Finella, bowing. “That is, we propose this, if it dost meet with your approval, my lady?”
Aunt Finella smiled. “Prithee it does. What a grand notion.”
Marcel told himself he was glad, overjoyed to have this matter settled and the two adversaries so tamed. Yet he felt no elation. He could think of nothing save the fact that he now must return Genevieve to Brackenmoore.
The mere thought was agonizing.
As she traversed the passage that led to the kitchens, Genevieve paid little attention to where she was going. Her mind was awhirl as she had been quite aware of the tension in Marcel’s body as she stood next to him and, heaven help her, she could not help feeling the tautness within herself at just being near him. Could feel the longing to…
She drew herself up. She would not think about that. Marcel had made his opinion of her quite clear last eve when he mentioned her coming marriage.
Why, she thought, would he believe anything else of her? If she was truly promised to Roderick Beecham, her behavior would be worse than reprehensible.
He did not know that it was he, Marcel, whom she was completely and hopelessly in love with.
It had been because of Marcel that she had been so shocked and devastated to see Duggan and McGuire sitting in the great hall. There could only be one reason that would bring them to the keep. They were ready to reconcile their differences.
She and Marcel would be leaving Glen Rowan.
A shattering numbness had gripped her and she had not even thought about whether or not she should approach those gathered at the table. It had only been when Aunt Finella had spoken to her that she realized she must display more care. She had no right to listen to their discussion, in spite of the kind woman’s invitation.
Marcel did not wish her to be present. It was obvious in his too hurried agreement to her quickly considered offer to seek refreshment.
Again she felt a stab of grief so overwhelming it made her stomach clench in a painful knot. They had shared so much, joined together in a way that she knew would never happen with another man.
She looked up as she realized that she had come to a halt in the middle of the passage. Luckily no one was about. She went on, entering the kitchen and seeing the women as they bustled about, unheeding of her sorrow.
What, she wondered silently as she hesitated at the entrance to the long narrow chamber, would happen now?
Why, Marcel would take her home to Brackenmoore. When he took her back to Brackenmoore, he would walk out of her life for good.
The thought was so painful that she was forced to hold on to the end of the counter for support. The feel of that oft-scrubbed surface beneath her fingers reminded her of just why she had come. She moved to the far end of the room, where the women were working near the large stone fire. Eveline swung around at her approach.
Looking up into the curious gaze of the head woman, Genevieve felt as though she were hearing her own voice from a great distance as she said, “Please see that refreshments are taken to them at the high table.”
The woman nodded. “Aye, my lady.”
Genevieve was not blind to the concern and respect on the woman’s face and smiled with studied care as she said thank-you and turned away. The castle folk had been quite kind to her since that morning when she had ridden to see that Cameron was faring well. Yet this day she was unable to summon her usual pleasure in this fact.
A creeping numbness was beginning to descend upon her. And she was not sorry. Anything was preferable to the pain of loving Marcel.
She would not allow herself to think about her love for him.
She must try to focus on the future. For when she returned to Brackenmoore she intended to tell Benedict that she had made the decision to go home, to Harwick. It was past time to take up the duties of her position. One thing she was grateful to Marcel for was his having helped her to see that she had a duty to those who depended upon her. His sense of the rightness of such obligations was one of the things she loved most about him.
She could no longer convince herself that they needed her at Brackenmoore. The keep had a very capable mistress in the form of Benedict’s own wife, Raine. It was wrong for her to avoid doing what she must simply because of her childhood. The past was the gone and she could not allow it to determine her future.
She knew that someday she would even be forced to marry. Her responsibility to her heritage demanded that she do so. That was another thought that she could not bear to face at this moment.
There would be more than enough time for that in the lonely years ahead. Years in which she would nevermore be near the only man she would ever love.
When Aunt Finella came to her chamber the next afternoon to tell her that a man and a woman had arrived from the Briarwind, Genevieve knew who they would be. When she went on to say that Marcel had requested her presence in the hall, Genevieve stiff
ened from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. It was difficult enough to think of facing Marcel without having to do so in front of the two people she knew had betrayed him.
The elderly lady seemed to sense the apprehension Genevieve felt. She gave her an unexpectedly fierce hug, though she said nothing more before leaving.
Genevieve garbed herself as finely as the garments Aunt Finella had given her would allow. She was not prepared to play the boy before Marcel’s crew any longer. She was very conscious of the snug fit of the bodice of the sea-green gown, but there was no help for that. She must concentrate on holding her head high. She refused to bear any shame for having taken what she could of the only man she would ever love. The fact that his heart was given to another meant they would never truly be together as she wished they could be, but the moments they’d shared were hers and hers alone.
Genevieve entered the hall and saw Constanza and Harlan sitting there. Yet it was not the mere fact of seeing them that made a great wave of dizziness take her. It was that they were sitting close together, their arms entwined. Like lovers.
And they were doing so right under the very nose of Marcel.
For a moment she forgot she was so angry with Marcel, that she loved him and he cared not in the least about that. He loved another. Loved this woman who would so brazenly stand before him with his own friend.
Yet the very thought of this made her anger and hurt return with a crushing force that made it difficult to breathe. No matter what occurred, no matter who loved him, or betrayed him, or otherwise, Marcel did not love her. He would never allow himself to love her or anyone like her.
He would never see that he could not run from what he was. He, like his brothers, was an Ainsworth. The very blood that made them responsible and caring men, offering aid to those who needed them, also ran through his veins. It made him wish to care for others, not some sense of greed that he must resist in order to retain his self-respect.
As she stood there, Marcel looked up and their eyes met. His bore an uncomfortable expression that she could not even begin to fathom. It was almost as if he were feeling…guilty about something. But that made no sense whatsoever. He did not have enough care for what she thought to feel guilty about anything. Furthermore, why should he feel guilty about the fact that the woman he loved hung upon the arm of another man?
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