Looking into Benedict’s earnest face, Marcel realized he would be wrong to refuse this gesture. Benedict spoke true of his efforts and he also spoke true of the fact that Marcel would not wish to gain one of his brother’s efforts while giving nothing in return. And Benedict spoke true on another matter. Marcel had proven himself. But in the end he had only done so by realizing that there was nothing to prove. His worth had never come from outside himself, for he could have accomplished nothing if it had.
He nodded. “I thank you, Benedict.” He paused for a long moment, then looked at his brother with an ironic grimace. “I find that I have been a fool, Benedict. That which I set the most store in, I had all along. That which would bring me the most joy in gaining, I ran from.” He was not surprised by the depth of sadness in his own voice.
Benedict’s black brows drew together in concern. “What has brought you such pain, my brother? Is there aught I can do to ease it?”
Marcel shook his head and said, “There is only one thing I would ask of you. I would ask your permission to wed your ward, Lady Genevieve.”
Though there was still some degree of confusion on his face as Marcel said this, Benedict’s happiness could not be mistaken. “You have it and gladly. I have long hoped that you would come to your senses on that matter.”
Yet when Benedict began to congratulate him, Marcel was quick to halt him. He shook his head. “Do not spend your good wishes yet, my brother. I do not know if the lady will have me.”
Benedict smiled. “Of a certainty she will. Genevieve has loved you these past two years.”
Marcel sighed. Had he been the only one who was blind to the truth? “She may have loved me at one time, but I am not certain that love still exists.” He met his brother’s blue gaze without wavering. “You know that she preferred to return to Brackenmoore overland rather than be with me.” When he had arrived the previous evening, Marcel had said as little as possible concerning this, and thankfully his family had accepted his brief explanation.
“Aye, you said that she was angry with you.” Benedict shrugged. “Women do these things.”
He did not hide his guilt as he admitted, “Genevieve is completely justified in her anger. I have hurt her terribly. If she never forgives me I will not fault her.”
Benedict shrugged. “But you have asked me for her hand?”
“Because I must try to win her. I love her and am ready to set aside my pride. I care not how mad I might appear should she refuse me. I must show her that nothing else matters to me. All will be in readiness for her arrival. The priest, a gown, a feast, everything.”
Benedict’s brow creased with concern. “Must you go to such lengths before she can even answer you?”
He knew that the depth of pain in his eyes was bared but could no longer summon any ability to hide it. “I must. If she refuses me, my life is worth nothing.”
Genevieve was tired—so tired that she was numbed in mind and body. The journey from Scotland had not been an easy one, for she was determined to reach Brackenmoore as quickly as possible. Yet the difficulty of the journey could not entirely account for her condition.
She knew that the reason for her dazed lethargy was the fact that she had experienced more pain in her last hours at Glen Rowan than she was able to absorb. Even after the way he had hurt her, leaving Marcel had been the hardest thing she had ever done in her life, though she knew it was the only thing she could do.
She had told herself that these feelings would pass, that in time she would come to feel alive again.
Yet they had not. Aunt Finella’s retainers had attempted to make the many long hours easier by way of conversation, but she had found she had little to say. She felt as though she was locked in some dense fog from which she could not escape. Eventually they desisted, watching her closely as they did all they could to make the arduous trip as comfortable for her as possible.
Even here on the last leg of her journey, with Brackenmoore castle within sight, she experienced no lessening of the dense fog of nothingness that encircled her. Genevieve attempted to enliven herself, to concentrate on the future, on the fact that she intended to tell Benedict that she was ready to go home to Harwick now.
But the thought of taking up her proper position as heir to her lands had no effect upon her. Though she would do so, and with her best effort, it meant nothing.
That her nights and days would be spent in the absence of the man she had loved was all that mattered.
And love him she did, despite what she had said to him about her love being gone, with all her being. For she did not seem to be able to do anything else. It was as if somehow, somewhere, a force bigger and far more powerful than herself had decreed that she would love Marcel and Marcel alone until the day she died.
Thus it was with no sign of relief that she, along with Aunt Finella’s long-suffering retainers, approached the castle gates. Her mare, seeming to sense that they had reached the end of their travels, did quicken her pace and Genevieve neither encouraged nor discouraged her.
Marcel was ready for the call when it came. A party had been seen approaching Brackenmoore and they were riding the Scots’ ponies. His heart thudded to a halt in his chest as he realized that it could only be Genevieve and her escort.
He rose from where he was sitting and started across the great hall, then hesitated for a long moment, his legs feeling as if they were made from lead. In the days that he had been anticipating Genevieve’s arrival, Marcel had thought he would go mad with the waiting. Now that she was here he was beset by a nearly debilitating anxiety.
What if she refused him? How would he live without her?
He took a deep breath and raised his head. He simply would do so, because he must. He was not so mad that he actually believed she would do anything but refuse him.
Again he reminded himself that he was willing to accept her feelings whatever they might be.
Yet as he reached the courtyard and saw her riding through the open gate, sunlight glinting off her gold-streaked blond curls, his heart soared. The last days had seemed an eternity apart from her. Come what may, he would see her this one last time.
With a sigh, Genevieve glanced up. Immediately her gaze lit upon a head full of black hair that shone like the wings of a raven in the bright afternoon sunlight.
Her breath caught, for there was no mistaking that man. It was none other than Marcel.
Even though his brothers and he were so alike in coloring, the shock of awareness that raced through her would not be denied.
Marcel, here? Why?
Then as he came toward her, she told herself that the why of it mattered not in the least. Marcel had lied to her, hurt her, would always do so in order to protect himself from caring too much for any woman.
Yet as these thoughts passed through her mind, she could not help seeing the uncertainty in his face as he moved to stand at her mount’s head. His gaze seemed to near drink her in as he looked up at her.
“Genevieve.” His voice was husky and filled with a note she was afraid to even attempt to identify. For it sounded almost like—longing.
She faced him squarely, telling herself not to fall into the trap of imagining more than he was capable of giving. That was what she had always done where he was concerned.
To her own detriment.
Yet when he went on she felt herself stirring inside, awakening as she had not been awake since the day she left him in Scotland. “Genevieve, I am so…glad to see you. So very glad.” Again she felt as if that dark blue gaze might indeed devour her.
Then in spite of herself and all her good intentions, in spite of all she knew to be true, Genevieve felt a stirring of hope. She was not prepared to reveal that hope to him—to do so would only be to open herself up to the agony she had known at his every rejection of her.
She said evenly, “I am sorry if you worried for my safety, Marcel. There was no need for you to come all this way. Your aunt’s men have been quite diligent in their care of
me.”
He frowned. “I was not…well, I am most glad to see you safely here.”
He paused then, as if not knowing how to go on and she looked at him closely, moved in spite of herself by his seeming self-consciousness. She glanced away from the troubling uncertainty in those eyes and realized that the courtyard was filling quickly. The men who had accompanied her from Scotland had been joined by many of the castle folk already, and more seemed to be arriving by the moment. There was a decided expectancy in their faces that left her feeling even more confused.
Marcel met her gaze, his own still appearing somewhat unsure. Then he took a deep breath and said with unmistakable emotion, “Genevieve, I am not here because I was worried about your safety, though I was indeed concerned for you.”
She answered slowly, softly, aware of all those watching eyes, afraid to imagine what his changed demeanor might mean. “Then why are you here, Marcel? Have we not said all that could possibly be said to each other?”
Consternation creased his brow before he drew himself up. He too seemed somewhat overwhelmed by their audience for he also spoke quietly. “No, Genevieve, we have not said all that we could. At least, I have not. I have not said the one thing that is most important for you to know.”
He stopped then, his gaze growing soft with undisguised longing. Suddenly she could not hide the breathlessness in her voice as she replied, “What then is it that you would have me know?”
He reached out a hand in supplication. “That I love you. That I have loved you for longer than I know, for I cannot for the life of me recall a time when I did not love you.”
“You love me.” The barely audible words escaped from stiff lips. The sea of faces faded to a blur and she felt as if she were trying to see him though a sea of sludge.
She forced herself to concentrate on his words. “Aye, I love you, Genevieve, with my whole heart and soul.”
She was aware of his warm fingers closing around hers, but could not seem to drag herself from the depths of her own shock. The words came again, as if of their own accord. “You love me.”
Marcel realized that something was dreadfully awry. Genevieve seemed dazed and completely confused, almost as if she were far removed from what was happening. The fact that she repeated what he had said did not encourage him, as it was as if she did not fully understand what the words meant, but simply chanted them back at him.
He clenched her hand tightly in his. “Genevieve, dear heart, pray tell me what is wrong? If I have hurt you so badly that you cannot forgive me only say so and I will leave you in peace. But please, answer me.”
When she said nothing, only sat there staring down at him as if not seeing him, he could bear it no more. He reached up to pull her into his arms. “Genevieve, Genevieve, God help me, what have I done to you?” He cared not what anyone might make of this, he cared for nothing but this dear, beloved woman in his arms.
He raised her face to look at her and she whispered, “You love me?” The words were the same, but this time there was difference in her. This time there was a trace of life in her voice.
With some relief, he replied, “Yes, I love you for now and for always. I only hope that you will forgive me for all I have done to hurt you.”
She shook her head, her gaze holding his. “I forgive you. How can I not forgive you? Yet what am I to make of this? What I am, what I hold, has not changed. Surely you will eventually come to fear your care for me as you have in the past.”
The accusation, however gently spoken, stabbed at his heart. He looked at her, knowing he was baring his soul for all the folk who had gathered in the courtyard and not caring one jot. “I will never again treat you with anything but the love and care you so deeply deserve.”
She whispered, “What are you saying?”
He took her hand in his. “Marry me, Genevieve?”
“Marry you?”
“Aye, this day. This very hour.”
She looked at him closely. “There is something I must tell you before I answer. My saying yes to your proposal would greatly change your life even further than you have imagined.” She took a deep breath. “I do not mean to go on living at Brackenmoore, nor could I make my life aboard the Briarwind. Through your help I have come to realize that I must go home to Harwick. It is my duty. The man who weds me must accept a place beside me there.”
His eyes did not waver as he replied, “I no longer feel the need to deny myself what I want most, not you, my love, nor the satisfaction I would gain at looking after your folk.”
“What of the Briarwind?”
“’Tis in Harlan’s very capable hand and will remain so.”
She took a deep breath, unable to look away from those blue eyes so filled with a love she had never thought to see. “I…know not what to say.”
He faced her without wavering. “Only say what you will. If you do not want me, cannot forget how I have wronged you I will leave you in peace.”
She was silent for a very long time. Marcel felt his own nerves stretch to the breaking point.
Finally she replied, “I would not have you go away, Marcel. I will wed you.”
His heart soared and he cried out in exaltation.
As he did so, Marcel heard a shout of happiness. He looked up to see Tristan, Lily, Benedict, Raine and Kendran all standing on the steps of the keep. Their faces were wreathed in joyful smiles.
Benedict called out, “I shall alert the priest.”
And now the others gathered in the courtyard joined in, adding their calls of happiness.
He turned back to Genevieve, seeing the way she blushed at his reaction. She carefully avoided his gaze and he realized that despite her agreeing to marry him, she had made no declaration of love. But that, he knew, he must earn. Perhaps, eventually, if he loved her enough, showed her in each and every moment how precious she was to him, she would in time come to have some care for him in return.
For now it would be enough that she had not turned him away.
The bathing and preparation, not to mention the ceremony itself passed in a daze for Genevieve. She could not believe that only several short hours ago she had thought never to see Marcel again and now he sat at her side at the high table, both of them garbed in their wedding finery. With awe she touched the sleeve of the white gown with its heavy silver threads. The fit had been perfect, the silver veil that had accompanied it more flattering than she could have imagined.
Marcel’s own houppeland of deep blue velvet was also adorned with the same fine silver threading about the sleeves and neck. He was so handsome with his dark hair and strongly molded features, so utterly masculine and yet retaining that trace of boyish uncertainty she had noted in the courtyard. He had made no move to touch her in any way, and his blue eyes were almost shy as he addressed her with a reticent care that startled her. His manner only added to her sense of unreality.
She looked about the hall, seeing their family and folk, who gathered about them smiling, laughing, telling ribald jests. The tables fair groaned beneath the weight of the feast that had been laid, but she could eat very little.
It all seemed so inconceivable. And yet, lest she be dreaming, it was indeed true. She and Marcel were wed before God and man.
When the cry for the bride to be carried to the bridal chamber went up only a moment later, she made no demure or reply of any kind. Only when she was at last sitting back against the pillows, with only her hair and the bedcover to hide her nakedness, did anyone remark on her silence.
Lily bent close to her. “Are you well? Is this marriage what you truly desire?”
Feeling Raine’s steady attention, as well, Genevieve nodded. “Aye, it is.”
Both women smiled, and Raine said, “We will leave you alone then to await your husband.”
She had not long to wait once they had gone. She heard Marcel enter and the soft sounds of his disrobing. Yet she did not look at him until he said, “Genevieve.”
She turned to him, her gaze wide
ning as it fell upon him. Marcel’s body was all gold and strong in the light of the candles and she felt a blush staining her cheeks. Dear heaven, she reminded herself anew, this beautiful man, the one who had awakened her body to desire, was hers to do with as she wished.
No one would come through that door and interrupt them. She had no need to rise and leave before the sun could light their windows.
Marcel moved toward the bed and their eyes met. It was with some surprise that she saw the anxiety that colored his handsome face as he sat down on the coverlet. He spoke hesitantly. “Genevieve, if you prefer that I wait…that we do not…”
She felt a puzzled frown mar her brow. “What do you mean? Are you saying that you do not wish to…” Another flush heated her face and shoulders.
His gaze grazed her shoulders, the edge of the coverlet where it dipped low over her breasts. With seeming haste, his eyes found hers once more. “Nay, not I. I but thought that if you would prefer to wait and see if your love for me might return…”
She stared at him in amazement. “Wait for my love to return? Marcel, if I loved you more I wouldst surely expire of it.”
His expression lit with a joy so powerful that it made her own heart sing, and his strong hand trembled as he reached out to smooth the curls back from her brow. Marcel’s voice was filled with a wonder that sent a thrill of unutterable longing through her as he said, “You love me.”
She brought his hand to her cheek, turning her face to kiss it. “I do not seem to be capable of not loving you.”
“But when you found out about Constanza, you said…”
She felt sorrow stab her anew at the memory, and she whispered, “I was so very angry and hurt. I did not mean the words when I said them. I had only to set eyes upon you again and I was lost.”
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