Summer's Bride Read online

  By the time anyone got around to looking at Genevieve she had nearly managed to master her emotions. She smiled, albeit stiffly, and moved forward as Benedict turned to her.

  Not sure what she would do, Genevieve extended her hand. “Marcel. It is so good to see you home at last.” She was quite proud of the fact that her voice remained even despite her inner turmoil.

  He took her numb hand in one large warm one for such a brief moment that their flesh barely touched. “It is good to see you, as well, Genevieve.”

  But though that touch had been brief, it left a tingling of awareness along the length of her fingers and she felt her face heat. She found herself glad that Marcel immediately turned back to Benedict, his voice deep with concern as he said, “I came as soon as your letter arrived.”

  Benedict replied quickly, “There was no cause for alarm. I had simply decided that it was time you came home.”

  Marcel appeared both relieved and rueful at this admission. “Well, I am home and gladly so, though you might have told me in your letter.”

  Had it been so very simple to have him back at Brackenmoore? Genevieve wondered silently. If only she had known, she would have come up with some pretext to have him sent for long before now.

  Immediately she told herself her thoughts were sheer madness considering his obvious disregard for her. All the secret dreams she had held close to her heart in these two interminable years had been for naught. There was nothing for them. He was a stranger, a stranger with a life that had nothing to do with her.

  Benedict waved toward his own place at the table. “Sit. I am sure you have hunger after your journey. You have arrived just in time.”

  Genevieve said hurriedly, “I will see that another plate and cup are brought. I will fetch some of the wine that Maeve has set aside for special occasions, as well.”

  Benedict halted her. “Nay, sit, Genevieve. I will send one of the servants.”

  Genevieve was quite aware that the servants would come at Benedict’s call, but she would have been grateful for any excuse to be away. Any excuse to keep from having to sit at the table with Marcel. Yet that was exactly what she must do, for she could think of no way to avoid it. Quickly she took her place beside Sabina, fussing over the child’s meal though there was no need to do so.

  She could do no more than listen distantly as the others continued to converse while they took their places with Marcel, now in the position of honor—directly across from her.

  Only briefly could she glance in Marcel’s direction for fear of his seeing the yearning she knew was in her own eyes. Yet even in a glance she saw that his shoulders filled the same space Benedict’s had. Encased in the black velvet of his houppeland, his shoulders looked so broad and powerful. She had not recalled them being so very wide.

  Benedict spoke, his query drawing her undivided attention. “May I ask how long we shall have the pleasure of your company, my brother?”

  She looked to Marcel, who was watching Benedict now so she was free to let her gaze focus hungrily on the blue of those heavily lashed eyes. He shrugged. “I fear not long.” Was she wrong or did his gaze flick briefly to her? Or was it the pain that sliced her at hearing his words that made her wish he had some care for leaving her? She forced herself to pay heed as he went on. “My crew is unloading cargo, but I must arrange for another.”

  Benedict threw up his hands. “Can that not wait for some time? You have made a fortune for both of us.”

  Marcel shook his head, his gaze earnest on Benedict’s now. “My concern is not for myself. I must also think about the livelihood of my men. As Baron of Brackenmoore you understand that.”

  Benedict subsided. “I do. And your conscientiousness does you credit though I cannot be glad for it. At any rate you must promise to return ere two years have passed in future.”

  Again Genevieve felt as if his gaze flicked toward her as he replied, “Aye. That promise I will make and keep.” There was no doubting the sincerity of his tone as he went on. “I have missed you…all, and Brackenmoore.”

  In spite of the strange catch in his voice, the words sent a spiral of warmth through Genevieve, even though she told herself they were not meant for her.

  Tristan looked up from the other side of the table, with a frown. “Look you, Benedict, is that man not wearing a plaid?”

  Genevieve followed the direction of his gaze and saw that there was, indeed, a man garbed in a plaid making his way through the tables. He also wore a white shirt and a pair of sturdy leather shoes.

  Benedict stood as the dark-haired young man reached his side. “I am Lord of Brackenmoore. What business have you here?”

  The man faced him with a respectful nod. “The guard at the gate bid me enter this hall when I told him whence I came.”

  Benedict shrugged. “Speak freely then. From whence have you come?”

  The man nodded his dark head respectfully. “I am come from Scotland, my lord. I have a message from the Lady Finella.”

  “Aunt Finella,” Kendran said. “We have not seen her in years. Not since before Mother and Father went to Scotland and were lost at sea.”

  Even after all these years, Genevieve could see the pain that came to the four brothers’ faces at the mention of their parents’ deaths. Though she had mourned the loss of her own mother and father, the deep sorrow had passed long ago.

  Benedict took a deep breath and held out his hand for the message. “I thank you, sir, and hope you will take your rest here with us.”

  The young fellow smiled wearily, running dusty hands over his shirtfront. “I will, my lord, but I must take your answer back to the lady with all haste, as she has bid me.”

  Marcel saw the lines of fatigue about his eyes and mouth. “Certainly, but as Benedict suggested, you must rest before we ask you anything more. You are exhausted,” Marcel said.

  Benedict nodded in agreement, and Genevieve found herself moved by Marcel’s thoughtfulness toward the messenger. “I will first read and discuss the letter with my brothers before questioning you.”

  “My thanks, m’lord. ’Tis true. I am that tired.”

  Benedict raised his hand to the head woman, who stood overseeing all from beside the huge hearth, a wide smile upon her well-known countenance. “Maeve.”

  She came forward quickly. “Aye, my lord.”

  “Please see that this young man gets a hot meal and some rest in a quiet place.”

  Maeve nodded. “I will that, my lord.” She turned her assessing but kind gaze upon the Scotsman. “Come with me, my man. I’ll see you fed and put to bed as if you were a swaddling lad.” With that she led him away.

  Marcel addressed Benedict. “What has Aunt Finella to say?”

  Benedict broke the seal on the roll of parchment, scanning quickly. “Good God.”

  Kendran said, “What is it, Benedict?”

  Benedict turned to them, his expression grave. “Aunt Finella’s grandson is being held against his will.”

  Tristan rose to stand beside him, his own eyes scanning the page quickly. “What?” He, too, grew grim faced.

  Genevieve watched as a clearly worried Benedict raked a hand through his thick hair, his gaze going to Raine and away. “She requests our aid.”

  Raine replied evenly, “Then certainly we must give it, my love.”

  Marcel spoke up. “Someone will have need to go to Scotland.”

  Genevieve felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. And though she knew she had no right, nor reason, to make such a request of heaven, she prayed. Please God, not Marcel. Not now In spite of the fact that he clearly was not interested in her, she was greatly reluctant for him to go.

  Raine looked at her husband with resolve. “You must do what you must, Benedict.”

  He cast her a loving and grateful glance.

  Lily spoke up, as well. “And so must you, Tristan. She is your aunt, our family.”

  Kendran cried, “I will go.”

  Benedict squared his shoulders
. “Methinks we had best take this discussion to the library.”

  But Genevieve knew as she looked at Marcel, saw the resolution on his handsomely chiseled face, exactly how the discussion would end. He confirmed her suspicion by saying, “You know I am the man to go, Benedict.”

  An unexpected ache blocked her throat. She reached out to take up her cup, her hand made uncharacteristically clumsy by her agitation. Instead of grasping the cup firmly by the stem as she intended, she barely got hold of the bowl of the cup. She watched with horror as it tipped and the wine flowed across the table, directly into Marcel’s lap.

  Marcel gasped as the cool wine met his lap.

  Genevieve cried out, as well, jumping to her feet. Without thinking, she raced around the table, her eyes widening with horror when she saw the spreading stain on his dark green hose. She reached a helpless hand toward him, and Marcel sucked in his sharp breath. “Nay.”

  She paused in midmotion, her eyes meeting the blue ones so close to her own. As when she had first seen him in the hall, there was no reading his expression, which was as mysterious and unfamiliar as the sea he had made his home.

  She felt as awkward and inexperienced as a baby calf in the face of his coolness, his utter foreignness. His fascinating maleness.

  No longer did Genevieve care what the others thought. She could not remain here in the hall with his unreadable and oh so tormenting eyes upon her. After turning on her heel, she exited the hall, not caring in the least what they might make of her flight.

  Marcel sat in the library at Brackenmoore with Benedict, Tristan and Kendran. Looking across the table at his brothers, each in turn, he gave an unvoiced sigh. He knew he was the one who must go to Scotland. He also knew that there would be resistance to the idea, because he had only just returned home.

  Yet his attention was not fully on that, nor on Benedict, who sat rereading the letter on the other side of the table, which was littered with books and parchments. As it had always been. The book-strewn chamber was, like the rest of Brackenmoore, exactly as he recalled it.

  Except for one thing—Genevieve. She seemed somehow more vulnerable and uncertain than she had even through the painful time when Tristan was re-discovering his love for Lily. Marcel had been so angry with Tristan then. It had taken Marcel some time to realize that love knows its own rules and Tristan was driven by the force of his love for Lily. Genevieve had understood that the familial relationship she had with Tristan was no match for such love. She had shown a strength and maturity that had drawn Marcel to her like the tide to the shore.

  Today she was a very different woman from the one in his memory. She seemed far more uncertain. Marcel had seen deep vulnerability in her eyes just before she ran from the hall.

  In some part of himself he had wanted to get up, go after her and tell her he was fine, that a little spilled wine would not hurt him. And in another part of himself he had known that he could not go after her, that his intense reaction to the mere thought of her touching him had been far too disturbing.

  Marcel had convinced himself that his coming back here would not cause difficulty, especially after so much time had elapsed. But the heat that had rushed through him at the moment of seeing her and then again, even more powerfully, as he barely touched her soft, cool fingers, told him otherwise.

  His gaze went to Benedict, whose blue eyes, which were so like his own, seemed to weigh him too carefully. Perhaps this letter from Aunt Finella had arrived just in time.

  With that in mind, Marcel said, “I take it you wish to debate the matter of my going to Scotland.” He had known there would be a discussion when Benedict had said they must come to the library. During his life here at Brackenmoore, all meetings of any significance had been held in the library.

  Benedict nodded. “Yes. First let me say that I appreciate your offering to go to Aunt Finella. But you must see that I cannot accept your offer. You have only just arrived home this very day.”

  Marcel gave an offhanded grin. “How could I not go, Benedict? You and Tristan both have families. Kendran—” he looked at his youngest brother with an apologetic shrug “—is still a boy.”

  Kendran groaned in frustration. “I am no boy.”

  Benedict grimaced, but spoke diplomatically. “Nay, not a boy. Yet not old enough, nor experienced enough, to carry the authority the situation is sure to demand.”

  Kendran folded his arms over a chest that was broadening with each passing year. “You were looking after Brackenmoore at my age.”

  Marcel spoke for his eldest brother. “That is true, but ’twas only because he had no choice. Be grateful that you have the freedom to experience your youth.”

  Kendran glared at him. “Someday I shall show you all that I am capable of more than you can imagine.”

  Tristan arched raven brows. “You would be surprised at how much we can imagine.”

  Benedict shook his head, though there was no mistaking the smile in his eyes as he listened to his brothers’ exchange. He then sobered quickly. “Enough. We must discuss this, and there is no time to squander on prideful debate. Aunt Finella’s letter is quite clear in her concern over young Cameron.”

  Marcel watched as Tristan and Kendran nodded, each of them having read the missive when they first arrived in the library. “I am the logical choice.”

  Benedict frowned. “I wanted you to know my Raine, our Edlynne, and Raine’s brother. Spend time with them.” The pride and love in his voice could not be mistaken and Marcel realized that there was indeed a change in his brother. He seemed less tense, more content, as if the responsibilities of his position did not rest quite so heavily on his wide shoulders as they had in the past.

  Could the love of his wife have affected him so very greatly? Marcel could be nothing but glad for him, even though he felt an unwanted stab of envy—knew an unwanted vision of Genevieve, her green eyes alight.

  Benedict said, “Things have not been quite the same since you left.”

  Marcel forced himself to concentrate on the gratitude he felt at being so greatly missed. “I am not offering to go lightly, my brother. It was indeed time that I become acquainted with your Raine, not to mention the other additions to the family. When next I come home, which I vow here and now will be soon, I will outstay my welcome.” He laughed deliberately in spite of his sadness over leaving them.

  Benedict leaned back in the chair, assessing him closely. “You are determined.”

  “I am.” Marcel did not meet his questing eyes. “I have no ties to bind me to one place as you have. It would be utter selfishness on my part to do aught but accept this responsibility. My home is on the sea now and she will not lie wakeful, awaiting my return as your families would.” Not caring for the slight wistfulness in his tone, he quickly added, “I have done well there, made a good life for myself.”

  Gravely Tristan said, “Is there nothing here to bring you back home permanently then?”

  Marcel did not look at him, for he feared that Tristan would somehow see that the words gave him an instantaneous image of Genevieve. It was not a subject he was willing to discuss. He knew that Benedict had had suspicions about what was happening between them before he left, but he had not interfered, a fact for which he had been grateful.

  Marcel did not want any interference now, from any of his brothers, no matter how much he loved them. He knew that his decision to put aside his feelings for Genevieve was the right one. For both of them.

  He spoke hurriedly to forestall any more talk. “In view of the situation I believe I must leave as soon as possible. I will go by sea and take that exhausted Scotsman back with me.”

  Kendran stood. “Surely not ere morning.”

  “Nay,” Marcel shook his head. “I would not leave before then.” He pointed at the one small window. “’Tis soon that full dark will be upon us.”

  Tristan motioned toward the door. “We’d best get back to the others. They will not want us keeping you to ourselves.”

  He nodd
ed and told himself that he was doing the right thing.

  Yet as he followed Kendran and Tristan to the door, Benedict halted him. “Marcel.”

  He paused and swung around to see the expression of deliberate resolve on his brother’s face. He asked, “What is it, Benedict?”

  Benedict frowned, took a deep breath and said, “Roderick Beecham has made Genevieve an offer of marriage.”

  The words hit Marcel with the power of a gale-force wind. He could not hide his shock. “But how? When?”

  Benedict spoke softly. “A few weeks gone. They met at a tourney last year. Obviously he was quite taken with her.”

  Marcel turned his back and forced himself to reply with deliberate calm. “Beecham is a good man, honorable and strong. There are none better. And there is no doubt that he is her equal in status and property, as he will become a baron on his father’s death.”

  Benedict replied, “Aye, he is a very good man. Thus I…Marcel, you cannot play the role of merchant captain forever. You are a nobleman and in that guise would be of great use to us here at Brackenmoore. With my own and Raine’s brother’s, not to mention Genevieve’s lands to administer—”

  “Nay, Benedict, I am not needed here.” He swung around. “But I am needed aboard the Briarwind There I am a simple sea captain, but I am respected for my own efforts, my own wits, not my name. And you will soon be rid of the responsibilities of Genevieve’s lands.”

  Benedict frowned. “I did not—”

  Marcel forestalled him with a raised hand, unable to hear another word with the knowledge of Genevieve’s marriage to another man making his heart beat so painfully in his chest. “Your pardon, Benedict, but I will thank you to say no more on this.”

  Without another word, Marcel left the room. He needed some time to get hold of himself, to think on what was really disturbing him. To accept that Genevieve would be with another man.

  Yet as he strode down the hall, he brought himself up short. Of course she would marry. Had he thought she would spend the rest of her life alone simply because he had gone away? She was a beautiful woman, one who deserved to be loved. He could never wish aught but the best for her.