“Why do you shiver so? Am I so very distasteful to you, Genevieve?”

She looked down, breathing deliberately, still infinitely aware of the strength and deftness of his hands, the heat of his body so very near hers. “Nothing could be further from the truth…” she began, then stopped for fear of what this statement might reveal. “My hands are simply tender and you startled me.”

He frowned, looking down at the raw skin. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I will have more care.”

Guilt assaulted her, but she made no effort to reassure him. For it was the tenderness of his touch that brought about her dilemma.

Even now as he stroked the cool cloth gently over her palm did she have to close her eyes to hide the thrill that coursed through her at the contrast between that cool cloth and the warmth of his own flesh…!

Dear Reader,

With the passing of the true millennium, Harlequin Historicals is putting on a fresh face! We hope you enjoyed our special inside front cover art from recent months. We plan to bring this wonderful “extra” to you every month! You may also have noticed our new branding—a maroon stripe that runs along the right side of the front cover. Hopefully, this will help you find our books more easily in the crowded marketplace. And thanks to those of you who participated in our reader survey. We truly appreciate the feedback you provided, which enables us to bring you more of the stories and authors that you like!

We have four terrific books for you this month. The talented Carolyn Davidson returns with a new Western, Maggie’s Beau, a tender tale of love between experienced rancher Beau Jackson—whom you might recognize from The Wedding Promise—and the young woman he finds hiding in his barn. Catherine Archer brings us her third medieval SEASONS’ BRIDES story, Summer’s Bride, an engaging romance about two willful nobles who finally succumb to a love they’ve long denied.

The Sea Nymph by bestselling author Ruth Langan marks the second book in the SIRENS OF THE SEA series. Here, a proper English lady, who is secretly a privateer, falls in love with a highwayman—only to learn he is really an earl and the richest man in Cornwall! And don’t miss Bride on the Run, an awesome new Western by Elizabeth Lane. True to the title, a woman fleeing from crooked lawmen becomes the mail-order bride of a sexy widower with two kids.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Summer’s Bride
Catherine Archer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and CATHERINE ARCHER

Rose Among Thorns #136

*Velvet Bond #282

*Velvet Touch #322

Lady Thorn #353

Lord Sin #379

Fire Song #426

†Winter’s Bride #477

†The Bride of Spring #514

†Summer’s Bride #544

*Velvet series

†Seasons’ Brides

This book is dedicated to God, with joy

and heartfelt gratitude for all things.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

As his mount crested the last rise in the road, Marcel Ainsworth looked up. His gaze was unconsciously yearning as he watched the tip of the highest tower at Brackenmoore come into sight. Marcel viewed this first glimpse of home with both dread and longing.

Two years.

It seemed such a very long time to be away from home and his three brothers, yet he’d had no immediate plans to return. Or at least not until Benedict had sent for him. Though he did not know the reason for his eldest brother’s summons, Marcel could not ignore it. Not from Benedict.

Leaving the family estate of Brackenmoore had not been easy. Yet when Marcel had done so, he’d felt there was nothing else he could do. What Genevieve had said to him that last day at Brackenmoore had forced him to act.

His chest ached even now at the thought of the longing and despair he had known. The temptation to act upon her words, to give in to the yearning he felt was far stronger than he could have imagined.

He could not give in to it. When he was but fifteen an incident had occurred that made him realize he could never succumb to the enticement Genevieve offered. It had been shortly after Benedict had dismissed Thomas, a young man who had worked as an assistant to Benedict’s steward. Thomas had been Marcel’s friend, but he had also been stealing from Benedict. When Marcel had gone to him and asked him why he would do such a thing, the older boy had looked at him with a contempt that rocked him. Thomas had told Marcel that he had done it in order to buy things for a particular young woman. He loved this damsel, would do anything to win her. And now, on learning of his dismissal, she had turned him away.

In spite of his own pain at the way his friend was treating him, Marcel had said that Thomas’s love should have been enough, that he would now never know if she would have had him for himself alone. Bitterly Thomas had turned away, telling Marcel that he was in no position to make such a statement because he was an Ainsworth. As an Ainsworth Marcel would always get any woman he desired and he need do nothing of worth to achieve this, or anything else for that matter. Marcel had a name but would never know if he was wanted for himself alone. What Thomas said about women was true. Even at fifteen, Marcel noted they were more than eager for his attention, professed him to be witty and handsome when he felt awkward and shy.

Marcel had watched his friend go in silence, but the words had cut deep. They only reinforced what he had felt for most of his life, that he, Marcel, had accomplished nothing, earned nothing.

Benedict was the one who actually earned his position at Brackenmoore by selflessly caring for the lands and folk as their father had. Marcel would have been proud and fulfilled to serve that purpose, yet there could only be one heir.

He wished to hold such a position of responsibility. But he would gain it through his own efforts, not by marrying a woman who would have him for his name.

Surely Genevieve’s feelings toward him had changed. Two years was more than sufficient time for her to see how unsuitable they were for each other, that her wish to be an Ainsworth was not reason enough for them to come together.

Marcel spurred his mount on. Early summer had urged the greenery along the roadside to shades so deep they near hurt the eyes and he could hear the call of crickets in the thick grass. Overhead in the clear blue sky the screech of a seagull reminded him of how, as a boy, he had wandered along the cliffs above the nearby sea and wondered what it would be like to fly.

Well, he had not learned to fly. But he had learned to sail and the sea had given him the freedom to go where and when he would. Still there was a place of longing inside him that had not been filled, a place where the images of a family, his own lands and contented folk dwelled. It was a place he had learned to ignore.

For the most part.

The dark and substantial shape of the castle ahead of him made him realize whence came a portion of that longing. Brackenmoore.

He knew the sense of love and comfort that pervaded the atmosphere inside, despite the stronghold’s great presence of strength and power. Because of his choice for freedom he would never be a part of a family in that way again. There was ever a price to pay for the decisions one made in life. This was one he would accept no matter how difficult.

It had been his misfortune to find himself drawn to the wrong woman. But no more. Constantinople, Rome, Madrid—they were his loves and would remain so.

When he reached Brackenmoore, the guard at the castle gate hailed him. Marcel called out his own name with an unexpected feeling of reticence. It had been a very long time and he knew not how he would be accepted. He was humbled and gratified when the gate was immediately opened for his passage. Its opening was accompanied by shouts of welcome.

He shouted back a greeting, then quickly passed through and made his way to the stables. It was dark and Marcel had purposely timed his arrival for the hour of the evening meal, which meant there were few folk about the courtyard.

He told himself he wanted to see his family all together as he remembered them. His arriving when all would be gathered in the hall had nothing to do with wanting to avoid the possibility of coming upon Genevieve alone.

The wide, high-ceilinged hall was crowded as usual and no one seemed to pay him any heed as he made his way through the tables crowded with hungry castle folk. That might have been because he deliberately kept his face averted from anyone who glanced in his direction.

Marcel wanted to surprise his brothers. He continued on to the far end of the chamber, where the family table sat near the enormous cavern of the hearth.

As he drew closer he could not mistake his three brothers’ dark heads. They were all there. The sudden wave of longing that swept through him at the mere sight of them made his chest tighten. He had known he missed them but had not realized how very much. Marcel had kept his mind and body busy in his quest to forget the compelling but unwanted infatuation he had felt for Genevieve.

Aboard the Briarwind it mattered not that he was the third brother of the powerful Baron of Brackenmoore. There he was captain, living by his own wits and talents.

But all the sense of accomplishment and satisfaction seemed as nothing, when his unknowingly questing gaze came to rest on a down-bent head. The breath seemed to rush from his lungs and his head felt light, even as an overwhelming heat filled his veins.

Genevieve.

God, but she was beautiful, even more beautiful than his fevered dreams had conjured. Her gold curls were covered by a cap of lush green velvet, the color of which made him think of soft moss and cool streams. Her dark lashes rested delicately against the curve of her high cheekbones, making him recall all the times he had looked down at her and discovered that she could not meet his gaze, that those creamy cheeks were flushed with—God help him—what he could only interpret as desire.

But that he had not realized until the last day. Before that time he had wondered, even secretly hoped that she might return his interest. Yet as soon as he’d realized she did, he’d known it could not be, especially as he knew the true reason behind it.

Genevieve was Benedict’s ward, and heir to a great fortune. She possessed all that Marcel had secretly longed for as a boy when he began to realize the challenges and the rewards of Benedict’s position as overlord. Not that he was in any way resentful toward his brother. Benedict had no more part in the placing of his birth than he. Marcel simply had not understood why he had been given a desire to see to his own lands and folk, yet not the right by birth.

Genevieve could bring Marcel all that he had ever desired, but he knew her genuine reason for wanting him. She desperately wished to be a true member of his family. She had admitted as much when she proposed marriage to his brother Tristan. That marriage had not taken place, as Tristan loved another, but Genevieve’s desire had not changed.

His gaze focused on Genevieve once more. She was looking down at someone beside her, a gentle smile curving her pink lips. It was a raven-haired little girl.

As he watched, she said something to the child, and he noted the fact that it was his brother Tristan’s child, Sabina. He was shocked and regretful to see that his niece had grown so very much in the two years he had been gone.

His attention went back to Genevieve at the moment she looked up. Her sea-green eyes narrowed as they swept over the crowded chamber and she brushed a stray curl from her creamy cheek. It was almost as if she were searching for something—someone.

As her gaze came to rest on himself, her eyes widened and her lovely mouth formed an O.

In that instant it was as if two years melted away. He felt the same overwhelming sense of longing and sorrow he had known the last time he had been with her. He had come upon her walking along the battlements, her fair brow marred by a frown of concentration, as she looked out across the snow-covered ground, which the army of her cousin, the dead Maxim Harcourt had only just vacated.

His heart pounded anew as he recalled the way she had looked up at him, her troubled frown turning to a smile. It was a smile of such soft and eager welcome that his heart had quickened. And the words she had uttered in that hopeful, breathless voice were burned into his mind for all time. “Maxim will no longer threaten Tristan and Lily, or anyone else here. He was an evil man, Marcel, and his death has also freed me from the fear that he will ever find a way to force me to return to Treanly. I shall be here with you all at Brackenmoore forever.”

He had been surprised to find that she still feared that happening. She had been at Brackenmoore for years. But then she had gone on, making him look into those hypnotic green eyes. “There is something else you must know. I have released Tristan from his promise to marry me. It is Lily he loves. He only agreed to marry me because he thought her dead. He feels only as a brother to me as I feel as a sister to him…. You know that my engagement to Tristan was in aid of my finally and actually becoming an Ainsworth in truth.” Her gaze darkened on his, displaying a depth of emotion that rocked him. “That might still be possible if…”

In that moment he knew Genevieve would take him did he declare himself. Yet he could not do so, because she wanted him for the wrong reasons. The unmistakable signs of desire he saw in her eyes were brought on by her admitted need to be an Ainsworth.

Marcel would be wanted for himself alone, not for his family, however much he loved them.

The past faded away and he realized that, though painful, his thoughts had taken no more than an instant. He also realized that after two years and so many miles between himself and Genevieve, Marcel could not deny that he still felt something for her. And it was equally clear that though he had tried to convince himself otherwise, his feelings were far from brotherly.

He felt a tightening not only in his chest, but in his loins as he saw the way she flushed, the scarlet hue trailing the elegant and well-remembered column of her throat. It then swept down over the full curves of her breasts above the tight bodice of her green velvet gown. Feeling the tug in his body, Marcel knew he was on dangerous ground. He forced his gaze away and when he glanced back, she was looking down at her hands.

Try though she might, Genevieve could not still the sudden erratic beating of her heart.

It was he—Marcel.

And looking far more masculine and confident than she had remembered. She had not known what it was that caused her to look up only a moment ago, yet she had felt something, a sense that all was as it should be—but not.

And there he was, with his dark hair grown slightly longer, his blue eyes, which seemed so familiar but also older, more cynical. Those eyes, which she had thought of so very oft in these two long years, had offered comfort and compassion. She nearly cringed now as his blue eyes raked her with a remote and unreadable expression.

There was another difference in him, something so subtle that it could not be measured in the length of his hair, nor the bronze cast of his skin, nor the slightly rolling gait he had adopted. It was a difference undeniably deeper and could more likely be ascertained in the way he held his head and shoulders.

She felt that somehow Marcel had come to a bigger place within himself. It was as if this castle, these lands, would never be vast enough to hold him again.

This understanding was at once frightening and fascinating, for it seemed as if he was the Marcel she had known, yet not that Marcel. He had become somehow mysterious and new and completely unpredictable.

Dear heaven, she did not know what to do with her hands, with her completely scattered emotions. Genevieve risked another quick glance at him and saw that he was once more moving toward them, his expression self-confident, his strides assured.

He no longer looked her way and gave no sign that he had been moved by the sight of her.

And why should he? she asked herself. Why would a man such as Marcel Ainsworth show even the least interest in her?

Simple country maid that she was, in spite of her great fortune.

An overwhelming and at the same time shocking despair swept over her. As if from a very long distance she heard Benedict say, “Good God above, look who has arrived days before we expected him.” Peripherally she was aware of her guardian standing and holding out his arms in welcome.

It was clear that he had realized his brother’s arrival with joy, but Genevieve could not share in his pleasure. She sat in dejected silence as the next few moments passed in a clatter of introductions and cries of welcome.

No one seemed to note that Genevieve failed to join in the chaos, for there was much to occupy them. Not only had Benedict married and had a child, an auburn-haired daughter named Edlynne, there was an announcement to make of his wife Raine’s new pregnancy. Marcel had also acquired another brother in that marriage. Benedict proudly introduced Raine’s brother, the now thirteen-year-old William.

Then it was Lily and Tristan’s turn to display their second child—a tiny boy named Aidan. Marcel hugged them all, including his youngest brother Kendran, who was near grown to be a man. He ruffled Aidan’s dark curls and kissed him on the forehead. Marcel then lifted an excitedly dancing Sabina up into his arms to place a resounding kiss upon her soft cheek before setting her back down, while congratulating Raine and Benedict on their upcoming birth.

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 nodded 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.

He had a sudden and unwanted vision of the uncertainty in her eyes as she had looked at him before running from the hall. As always her distress moved him. He did not want her to think that they could not be friends. Perhaps it would be of benefit to both of them if he were to speak to her before he left Brackenmoore, make his position clear. He did not allow himself to think, for even a moment, that he simply wanted to see her once more before he went.

Chapter Two

Genevieve sat in her chamber staring out the high arched window. It was a very warm night, and the breeze that passed though the open window did little to cool her heated cheeks.

She cast a listless glance about the large stone chamber. It slid over the new moss-green samite bed hangings and draperies, the massive dark furnishings, the chests that contained her many garments, shoes and fine jewels. There was gold in the velvet purse she kept in her jewel chest. Though Benedict oversaw her inheritance, she had complete and unfettered access to all.

These signs of wealth offered little comfort this night. All she could think on was the fact that Marcel was home, that he seemed to have made no more than casual note of her existence. While she was as—

She started as a knock sounded upon the door. She called out, “Who is there?”

She recognized Lily’s voice as the other woman spoke. “It is me, Lily.”

Genevieve answered the door, her wary eyes meeting Lily’s gray ones. She said hesitantly, “Enter, Lily. You know there is no need for you to knock.” Though she had come to love the gentle black-haired woman in the past two years, she was not anxious to discuss what had occurred in the hall, which was exactly what she feared the other’s presence foretold.

Genevieve attempted to hide her agitation as Lily came in and stood quietly, her hands folded before her. Her demeanor only further convinced her that the other woman had something difficult she wished to say. At long last she asked, “Are you well, Genevieve? In the hall you seemed…”

Realizing that she simply could not speak of her confused feelings about Marcel, Genevieve quickly forestalled her. “Please, Lily, you came to Brackenmoore with your own secrets. I respected that. I ask that you respect my need to keep some things to myself, as well.”

The other woman bowed her elegant dark head, her gray eyes soft. “As you wish. Should you ever wish to talk I will listen.”

Genevieve nodded, her gaze grateful but resolute. “There is naught to tell. I am well and will be so.”

Lily met her gaze once more. “You are loved by all of us, Genevieve, will always be the sister of our hearts.”

With that Lily left the room.

Genevieve was glad, for she would not wish Lily to see her sadness. How easily those last words had fallen from her lips. How Genevieve wished that she was indeed a sister to this family.

She had first visited Brackenmoore with her parents when they stopped here on a journey north from their own holdings. Benedict’s family had been friend to hers. That brief stay had been one of the happiest times of her life. She did not well recall Marcel’s parents. Her memories were of the boys and the joy and freedom she had known with them, wandering the forest, wading in the sea, exploring the cliffs. She had never forgotten those experiences though she had been no more than seven.

At that time, she had not taken any particular note of Marcel. He had been one of the four magical and carefree creatures who had played with her and shown her their world for two whole days. Two days in which she had not heard her mother cry even once.

It had not been until just over two years ago, long after Benedict had taken her in and made her his ward that she had begun to see Marcel as anything but one of the Ainsworth brothers. He had been kind to her, shown concern for her when others were lost in their own troubles. And her feelings for him had changed. She had found herself looking at him in a new way, feeling a strange stirring when he was near.

She had never felt anything like that toward Tristan, no matter how certain she had been that their marrying was a good idea. To be an Ainsworth was all she had really wished for in her life. Until she had come to care for Marcel.

Though Genevieve knew the Ainsworths loved her, none of them could ever understand how it felt to be on the outside, to want above all else to truly be one of them.

But she was not.

Before she had run away to Brackenmoore, her life had been very different from what it was now. And more unhappy than she had ever admitted to anyone. Somewhere in her mind was the belief that if she could only become an Ainsworth, she would be able to finally and completely erase the years before she had come to live here.

It had been for this reason that she had felt distress at learning Tristan was still in love with Lily, whom he had believed dead. Genevieve had never begrudged them their happiness, not for one moment, only mourned the death of her own dream.

Yet when she had realized her feelings for Marcel, her hope to be an Ainsworth in truth had once more come to life. Not that this was the reason for her feelings for him. That she knew. It had simply meant that her hope was reborn.

Now Marcel had returned, a Marcel she no longer felt she knew. Yet he was so very handsome and even more compelling than before. She had made a complete fool of herself by spilling wine all over his lap. Her cheeks burned at the very thought.

Hearing the door open again, Genevieve did not turn from the window. “I am fine, Lily. As I told you, you need have no concern for me.”

A deep voice replied, “It is not Lily.”

Swinging around with a gasp, Genevieve saw none other than Marcel standing just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here?” Her eager gaze ran over him, so tall, so strange and familiar at the same time, so very handsome with his black hair, the color of which seemed to intensify the blue of his eyes.

He took a deep breath, closing the door behind him before he said, “Genevieve…” He took a step toward her then stopped. “I had to come to see you.”

She caught her own breath, the sound of her name on his lips making her realize anew just how much she had missed him, the sound of his voice, his gentle strength. She tried to answer evenly, but her own hopes, her irrepressible reactions to him brought a huskiness to her voice. “Why, Marcel?”

Marcel came toward her. “There are things I wish to say to you. Things that, I believe, must be said.”

What was he talking about? Could it be what she most desired in the secret recesses of her heart? Did he feel what she did?

As he began to speak, she understood that all these thoughts had simply been wishful thinking on her part. “Firstly, let me say that I want you to know that my presence here at Brackenmoore need not make you uncomfortable. There is no need to avoid me or to be nervous of my presence.”

She drew herself up, her heart thumping as she blushed. “What makes you think I am nervous of your presence?”

He shrugged. “Your spilling the wine.” Inwardly she cringed. As he continued, she felt torn between pleasure and embarrassment. “In all the time I have known you, you have never been aught but graceful in your every movement. Even when you first visited Brackenmoore at seven.”

Genevieve settled on incredulity. She was not usually awkward, but she had to have been so at times as a normal seven-year-old. She took his statement as an overzealous effort to put her at ease with her clumsiness in the hall.

Yet as Marcel went on, she forgot all but the utter embarrassment caused by what he was saying. “I know that before I left we had a particular…that we had certain feelings for one another. I realized soon after my departure from Brackenmoore that we had simply been drawn together through your troubles over your engagement to Tristan. I want you to know that all is forgotten. I do not harbor any feelings that would make our having a friendship difficult and my hope is that you feel the same. Any fear that you might have about my having feelings for you that are more than brotherly may be laid to rest.”

Genevieve could say nothing as his meaning found purchase in her mind, feeling as though a dagger had been stuck into her heart. He was letting her know in clear terms that he had no romantic feelings for her and that she should not harbor any such feelings.

How could he talk to her this way? Did Marcel think to put her in her place, to make certain that she did not pursue him and cause him embarrassment?

Well, he need not worry there. She had no intention of pressing herself upon him.

It was, in fact, the last thing she would do.

She drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately was not great. “Have no worry on that score, Marcel. I thought no such thing. I was simply embarrassed at having ruined your homecoming and I felt I might cry. Yow know that I have never cared to display my emotions before others.”

He frowned, and she wondered at his expression before he said, “I should have realized. Benedict has told me of your coming marriage to Roderick Beecham.” He smiled stiffly, even as she felt a ripple of shock run though her at his words. She was hard-pressed to concentrate as he said, “You have my congratulations. He is a fine man.”

Genevieve simply stood there, staring at him. It was true that Roderick Beecham had sent an offer of marriage. And that Benedict has said he would make a very fine husband. It was also true that she had, although flattered and moved by the proposal of such a gentle and handsome man, declined. He had written back and indicated that he would still be willing should she change her mind.

She did want a husband, children.

Yet in her heart Genevieve had known that she would never change her mind. She could think of no one save the very man who now stood before her and told her that he had no such feelings for her.

Genevieve offered what she hoped was a bright smile. “Thank you so very much for your kind wishes.”

She saw a strange and unfathomable expression pass over his handsome features as he said, “I am sorry that I will not be in attendance and you must be assured that I will be thinking of you on my journey to Scotland and after—”

She spoke too quickly, her shock evident. “You are the one who is leaving for Scotland then.”

He nodded. “Aye.”

She felt a jolt of renewed sadness, in spite of her resentment about his attitude. Genevieve asked, “When?”

He grimaced. “Immediately. A rival clan has kidnapped Aunt Finella’s grandson. They refuse to negotiate with her and she has turned to us, as we are her only family. We cannot ignore such a request.”

Genevieve looked at her hands as the seriousness of the summons sank home. “I see. Then surely you must go even though it will mean that you must be away from your family again so soon.” Her gaze met his. “It is very good of you to do this.”

Marcel shrugged, as if uncomfortable with her praise. And as in the hall, she could not help noting how wide his shoulders seemed to have grown.

“You have never met Aunt Finella, have you?” he asked.

She shook her head, distantly thinking that this was just one more thing that set her apart from being a true Ainsworth. Genevieve had never had an aunt of any kind. Knowing he was expecting a reply, she said, “Nay. I have not met her.”

He nodded speaking casually, “I recall her being quite the eccentric though it has been many years since I have seen her. Since before Mother and Father died. It will be good to see her again after all this time, but the fact that her grandson has been kidnapped will not make for a happy reunion.”

Genevieve murmured, “I will pray that he is returned to her well.” In spite of his declaration that he did not wish her to harbor any feelings of attachment to him, she could not deny the mad thrumming of her pulse as she looked into those dark blue eyes.

Obviously completely unaware of this, he continued. “I have never met my cousin. When Aunt Finella was last here it was with her husband, who was also Cameron. He was a great bear of a man with a craggy red beard and hearty laugh. Some time before our parents died, actually. It was as they were returning from a visit to her that their ship floundered and they were lost.” She heard the regret that entered his voice as he spoke of his parents, though the accident had occurred so many years ago. She knew that Marcel had been young when they died, as she had been when her own parents passed just before she was fourteen. They had been killed in an accident that would not have occurred had her mother not been having one of her “spells” and gone bathing in the lake on a dark, stormy night. Her father had gone in after her and both of them had drowned.

Her parents’ deaths had resulted in her being sent to her cousin Maxim Harcourt. That despicable knave had attempted to force himself upon her. Genevieve had escaped him and his keep with one thought in her mind, that of getting to Brackenmoore.

Looking at Marcel, feeling her stomach tug at the sheer masculinity of him, seeing the lean line of his jaw, which seemed to beckon her lips even now, Genevieve knew that she must take hold of her feelings for him. She was not willing to jeopardize her place in this family because of an unrequited infatuation.

Surely that was what she would be doing by holding on to any romantic notions about this man after he had made his feelings clear. If Marcel wished to put what they had once felt aside, she would do so as well. After all, she reminded herself, he was leaving again. The tightness that came to her chest made her wonder if she was as indifferent to him as she told herself she was.

Deliberately she smiled at him, aiming to be as bright in her manner as possible. “I do appreciate your coming here to see if all was well with me, Marcel, especially as you are leaving so soon and your time at Brackenmoore has become doubly precious…to us all. I am most well and contented as things are between us. Your presence here in the future will cause me no unrest.” It was suddenly very important that he believe this, that he did not again stay away for two long years.

Marcel viewed that smile, heard the cool civility in Genevieve’s voice and felt a completely unexpected twinge of irritation. He was glad that she accepted what must be, was very glad indeed to hear that she was not harboring any untoward notions about the two of them.

She seemed, in fact, to be happy about the offer of marriage from Roderick Beecham. It was a fact that made Marcel less pleased than it should have.

If only they could go back to the way they had been before their being thrown together had changed the way they…He sighed.

His gaze ran over her as she looked down at her clasped hands. He took in the sweet arch of her cheek, the dark fringe of her lashes, the lovely curve of her mouth, the slender length of her neck and the delicate golden curls that escaped her head covering at her nape. The idea of twining his fingers in those curls was somehow more intimate than he would ever have imagined. His gaze dipped lower to where her breasts pressed above the square neckline of her gown.

Genevieve made him think of a warm fire on a frosty evening, of candlelight and downy pillows and soft white sheets, of…

The sound of his own muted groan startled him and Marcel drew himself up, feeling a strangling tightness in his chest. He wanted the sea, the roll and pitch of his ship, the sounds and smells of exotic ports.

Perhaps, it was best that he was leaving immediately, given his own unexplainable reactions to the woman before him. He spoke far more gruffly than he had intended. “Well, this will be good-bye then.”

The shock on her face could not be mistaken, for she blanched and swayed. “Now?”

He was not happy with the way his voice softened in reaction to her shock. “Nay, not this very eve but on the morrow. Far before you rise.”

He looked away from her, his stomach tightening at the sadness in her gaze.

“I am sorry for being so foolish.” She turned her back to him. “You have no idea how I…we have missed you.”

Though he could not see her face, Marcel was aware of the catch in her voice, the pain. Before he knew what he was going to do, he had moved to put a hand on her slight shoulder.

The moment he touched her, he felt a piercing heat enter his body and, as she swung around to face him, he saw that she too had felt it. Her green eyes were wide with shock, and another emotion that he could not fail to recognize. It was the same emotion that had sent him from the keep two years ago.

As if through a dream he saw her reach toward him, felt the light pressure of her slender fingers on his chest. His body tightened and all he knew, could think of, was Genevieve and his own undeniably powerful reaction to her.

It had been too long. There had been too many nights when he had lain awake thinking of her, wondering what would have happened that last day at Brackenmoore if he had just turned to her, just…

His arms closed about Genevieve’s pliant form. His lips found hers as her sweet womanly shape seemed to mold itself to his.

Genevieve felt as if she had waited for this moment her whole life. No matter what she had tried to tell herself over the past two years, she had never, for one moment, stopped wanting this man. Marcel—his mouth was firm and hot on hers, the taste of him so heady, and more wonderful than she had even dreamed. His hands on her back were strong and sure, molding her to him, and she wanted to cry out with joy that he was finally touching her, kissing her as she had longed for him to.

She gave a husky gasp and whispered, “Marcel.”

When his tongue flicked over her lips, she opened to him, welcomed him into her, felt a spark of something hot and fluid move in her lower belly. This was Marcel, the man she had longed for with each aching part of her as she lay in her lonely bed. She raised her hands to hold the back of his head, threading her eager fingers through his thick black hair. She strained into him, increasing the pressure of their kisses with a growing urgency, knowing a sense of pleasure as his hips pressed in to her.

Marcel drew her closer to the length of his ardent and increasingly eager body, running his tongue over hers, reveling in her responses to him. Never, even in his most heated dreams, had Genevieve been this pliant, this responsive, this enticing.

He was infinitely aware of his own readiness, the aching need of him. As his manhood pulsed against her belly, she gasped, wriggling closer to him. Awed and humbled and undeniably aroused by her response, Marcel felt an indefinable something expanding inside him. It radiated out through his body, rippling in wave upon wave of not only pleasure but also a tenderness so overwhelming that he was dizzied and shaken by it.

When her hands clasped his hips, Marcel closed his eyes on the resulting flash of heat that throbbed in his belly. He reached up to slide his hand between their bodies, closing around the firm weight of her breast, hearing her cry of yearning and reveling in it.

Genevieve was on fire, her blood turned to a molten river of desire—a desire for something she could not name. But as her breast seemed to swell beneath his questing hand, she realized that her body knew what she wanted, knew and was more than prepared to seek the answer to this indescribably delicious longing—this all-encompassing need.

Marcel was at first only distantly aware of a strangled gasp that came from neither himself nor the woman in his arms. Breathing heavily, he pushed back and looked in the direction of the sound.

Lily stood in the entrance to the chamber, her fingers covering her mouth in obvious surprise, but he could see no hint of condemnation in those gray eyes.

As her gaze met his, she spoke hastily. “I…forgive me.”

Marcel felt Genevieve start and he reacted instinctively, pressing her face protectively against his chest as Lily went on, her expression seeming to display approval. “I did not know that you were…I thought Genevieve was alone. I will speak with her on the morrow.”

With that, Lily was gone.

That approval made Marcel realize just how wrong he was in what he was doing. He had no right to hold this woman, kiss her, and lead others to believe that he had feelings for her. Not only did his life at sea lie as a barrier between them but there was also her future marriage to Beecham to consider. He took a deep breath, concentrating on easing the erratic beating of his blood, calming the fierce need in his belly.

Finally Marcel let his arms fall away from Genevieve’s and stepped back. Dear God, what had he done?

He could not meet the probing weight of her gaze, as he spoke. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I…” There was nothing he could say that would not make things worse. His assurances that he felt nothing for her that was not brotherly seemed very foolish now.

He squared his shoulders and went to the door. He paused only briefly when he heard her plaintive cry of “Marcel!”

“There is nothing to say, Genevieve. I am very sorry.”

He was more sorry than he could ever say. Sorry that no matter what his resolutions now and the last time he had been with Genevieve, he still had no power to resist his attraction to her.

It was best that he was leaving in the morning. Not only for himself, but for both of them.

He could only pray that time and her marriage would eradicate the wildly confused feelings that existed between them, for he had no wish to hurt her. The sorrow in her voice as she had spoken his name could not be missed.

Though he felt a tug to return to her, he would not allow himself to do that. He would go back to the sea, to the life he had made for himself, where he was sure of what he wanted and why.

Genevieve could only stand there staring at the closed door in stunned silence, her heart beating so fiercely and painfully that it felt as if it might surely break through the wall of her chest.

Why had Lily come?

The thought was immediately followed by a horrified thanks to God she had done so, for if she had not…Genevieve was afraid to even contemplate what might have occurred. She had been past reason and sanity, aware of nothing save the way it felt to be kissed and held in Marcel’s strong arms—save her own desire for him.

Surely he felt something, too.

Yet his distress at Lily’s having seen them together was more than evident.

Genevieve put her hands to her head, her headdress falling unheeded to the floor as she ran her fingers through her too heavy hair. She gained no relief from her anguish, only a horrifying certainty that her feelings for Marcel were stronger than they had ever been.

Stronger, the word was such an understatement. Heaven help her, she loved him. All these long months when she had tried to convince herself she did not care for him in that way had been nothing more than a lie. A lie to hide the truth of her own feelings from herself, for surely she had loved him all along.

Marcel’s reaction to her told her that he was not immune to her, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Even she, as innocent as she was of such matters, knew that his kisses had been far from indifferent or even brotherly.

Why should this displease him so? Whatever could make him wish to deny the depth of passion and sense of deep connection that had overtaken them?

They were surely the same unknown reasons that had made him leave Brackenmoore two long years ago.

If he would only talk with her she was sure his reservations could be overcome. Surely her love for him would be enough to turn his passion to true caring. The problem lay in the fact that he would have to be convinced to tell her what was troubling him, why he was holding back from her. His departure in the morning would severely limit any opportunities for them to speak.

Who knew how long Marcel would remain gone this time?

If they were apart, she could have no opportunity to overcome his unexplained reticence, make him see that with her love as a basis their feelings could grow. There was no conceivable way for a man to kiss a woman the way he had Genevieve lest he have some feeling for her.

Suddenly Genevieve knew what she had to do. She could not allow Marcel to walk out of her life again.

She would simply have to go to West Port, board the Briarwind and go to Scotland with him. Then she would have an opportunity to convince him that they belonged together. How she would manage this feat would take some contemplation, but Genevieve was not afraid of either planning or executing the deed.

She had escaped from the unwanted advances of her cousin Maxim Harcourt by running from Treanly in the dead of night, when she was barely more than a child. She would find a way to get to West Port and board that ship.

Her love for him would be her guide.

A few hours later, Genevieve wrapped her hair tightly in a wide strip of fine cloth and tucked it into a floppy velvet cap of William’s. As she stepped into the other garments she had taken from William’s chamber, Genevieve knew a moment of regret. She did not care for the idea that she had taken his clothing without permission, but she dared not bring him into her confidence. She was very sure that he would only tell his sister Raine, and Raine would certainly stop her.

It seemed like a sign of some sort that neither William nor Kendran had been in their rooms. Maeve had informed her that both of them were in the hall with the others, visiting with Marcel.

Maeve’s expression had plainly shown her surprise that Genevieve was not there with them. It was to her credit that the head woman had held her tongue concerning the subject. A most unusual restraint.

Surely these occurrences were a portent of the fact that she was doing the right thing. All would be absolved when she and Marcel returned together.

Her feelings for Marcel were the only thing that mattered. The members of this family knew well that in the name of love one must ofttimes overcome difficulty and sometimes even behave in ways that one never would in other circumstances.

Of all those involved, she was most concerned about the reaction of Marcel himself. She was well aware that he would be angry when he saw her. Of that she had no doubt, but she meant to hide her presence until they were well at sea and hopefully give them an opportunity to talk before he could return her home. Surely he would forgive her once he had seen the truth, that they must be together. He would realize that the two of them must be together, marry and have children, who would grow to adulthood in this wonderful loving family.

Her heart swelled at the very thought. Anything, any hardship she had to face was worth her eventual union with Marcel. For she could not doubt that it would come.

It was this thought that bolstered her courage as she wrote a note and left it with one of the serving boys. She had addressed it to Benedict saying very little more than that she had gone after Marcel. More than that she did not disclose, though she suspected that Benedict knew far more of her feelings for Marcel than he had ever said. She could only pray that the boy would do as she had instructed and show it to no one until it was too late to stop her.

Her courage stayed with her as she went to the stable and took one of the horses. The one she took was Kendran’s horse, which she had apologized for in her letter. She hoped that in the dark and in her boy’s garb, she would be mistaken for Kendran. All knew that he had an occasional nocturnal tryst and he was far less likely to be challenged at the gate than she was.

Yet she could not deny a lagging of her determination as she rode out from the castle gate, having gotten no more than a wave from the guard. It was very dark outside the castle walls, the moon being only a curved sliver in the early summer sky. The horse knew where the trail lay this close to the castle, but Genevieve was suddenly less certain about farther out from there. Though she had been to West Port on more than one occasion, it was not by any means a common destination.

The night she had escaped from Treanly it had been in absolute desperation, feeling that nothing could be worse than remaining in the clutches of her predatory cousin, Maxim. Her memories of being at Brackenmoore had burned like a beacon in her mind, lighting her way during the night.

Now the heavy darkness and the looming shapes of the trees as she moved farther away from the protective mass of the castle were somewhat disturbing. Only the belief that she and Marcel would soon be together kept her going.

Marcel stayed in the hall as late as he could, smiling, talking and drinking. He told stories of his adventures at sea to the wide-eyed amazement of Raine’s brother, William, and Sabina, not to mention the genuine interest of the others.

He could not miss the fact that Genevieve stayed away. Nor could he help seeing the way Lily watched him, her gray eyes assessing.

While one part of him was glad of Genevieve’s absence and that he need make no pretence at treating her with polite civility, he felt sick, with himself and the Fates. He should not have touched Genevieve, should never have kissed her. He had simply not been able to stop himself.

Why could he not get over whatever mad attraction he had for her? Perhaps it was just being back at Brackenmoore, where the memories of his youthful infatuation with her lingered. Perhaps he was simply lonely from being so long from home.

He was not in love with Genevieve. Genevieve, who was to wed another man. No one had mentioned the forthcoming marriage again and for that he was grateful, for he was not sure how well he could hide his unwanted discontent over this from his brothers.

His stomach tightened each time he thought of her with Beecham—his hands touching her…he groaned. The sooner he got back to the Briarwind, the better.

Feeling a gentle touch on his shoulder, Marcel looked down. Sabina stood watching him with steady regard in her gray eyes, which were so like her mother’s. “You are sad, Uncle.”

He hugged her quickly. “I am not sad, dear heart. I am happy, happy to be here with you all.”

She smiled up at him. “I have missed you, Uncle.”

Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he ruffled her soft dark hair. “I am so glad that you remember me, sweeting.”

She grinned, her small face lighting up. “Mother and Father and the uncles, they speak of you always.”

Marcel felt a wave of love sweep over him. He might be gone from here, but he was not forgotten. He held out his arms. “Are you too big a girl to sit upon my lap?” She came into his arms without hesitation.

Glancing up to see the affection in his family’s eyes as they viewed this, Marcel again felt an overwhelming sense of love for them. His sadness at saying good-bye to them only made controlling his emotions all the more difficult. He did regret leaving them again, in spite of his certainty that he was only doing what was right—in returning to his life aboard the Briarwind.

His choice had been made two years ago. The sea had been good to him, taught him things about himself that he had not known. The responsibilities of command rested well upon his shoulders. Marcel had found the place where he alone was in control of the decisions that were made, and accountable for them.

The men who sailed beneath him treated him with a respect born not of his name but his abilities. They did not know he was an Ainsworth.

He’d resisted the urge to take a woman who wanted him for that name alone, and gained all through his own efforts. He would not now regret his decision. No matter how alone it made him feel.

Chapter Three

The arrival of the first creeping light of dawn just happened to coincide with her entering the town of West Port, and Genevieve did so with her head down. She knew that her horse would mark her a young nobleman, but she did not wish to press fortune by hoping that her face would not give her away.

The narrow streets were not busy at this early hour of the morning, but she knew they presently would be. This was a fishing, shipping port. Men who worked the sea did not linger long abed.

After stabling Kendran’s stallion at a reputable hostelry she made her way to the docks. The heels of William’s oversized boots clumped noisily upon the wooden walk, and she tried to go more quietly while keeping in mind her need for haste. She had no trouble locating the Briarwind It was a large three-masted merchant ship with a wide belly that she had seen on more than one occasion since coming to live at Brackenmoore. Along with the usual clutter of sailing paraphernalia, the deck bore a large structure at one end and what she knew was the captain’s cabin at the other. Genevieve was sure that once she got on board she could find a place to hide.

The sounds of male voices told her that at least a portion of the crew was up and about. A stack of barrels and wooden crates rested along the dock near the stern of the ship. She ducked in amongst them.

As she looked up over the side of the ship, she began to grow more nervous and uncertain, for there were more people up and about than she had at first thought. Several men were milling about the deck, exchanging jests and conversation as they worked, braiding ropes and stitching sails.

There was no way she could simply step across the gangway without notice. What would she say if someone attempted to stop her from going aboard?

As the question ran through her mind, a man came toward the gangway. With a silent groan of frustration she ducked behind a barrel.

She had delayed too long in making sure Kendran’s horse was taken care of. Now what was she to do?

Marcel left Brackenmoore with a heavy heart. He rose long before dawn, saying good-bye only to his brothers, who were clearly saddened by his leaving. Marcel could not help seeing the way Tristan watched him the whole while that he was making ready to go. He was fairly certain that after they had sought their beds only short hours ago, Lily had revealed what she had seen in Genevieve’s chamber.

Thankfully, Marcel was spared from having to explain what had happened between him and Genevieve. Tristan, in spite of his steady regard, kept his opinion of the matter to himself.

As he left the keep alone, the Scot having refused to return by sea, Marcel told himself he was glad that he had not seen Genevieve. Another meeting would serve neither of them, for he had nothing to say that could possibly improve the situation.

He had gone a short way down the road when he found himself pausing to look back at the castle in the distance. He could not deny his sadness—not entirely due to his leaving his family.

That kiss. His body burned at the memory of it. It had been more powerful, more shattering than anything his wayward imagination had been able to conjure in his waking hours or in his restless dreams.

Squaring his shoulders, he went on, determined this time to leave his feelings for Genevieve behind for good. She would be much better off with Lord Roderick Beecham. A more honorable and suitable man could not be found.

Unfortunately, this thought did not bring the peace he sought. He felt only an aching emptiness.

With a growl of frustration, Marcel prodded his mount to a gallop. All he needed was an invigorating ride to clear his mind.

Marcel was still riding at a gallop when he entered West Port some hours later, having made the journey in far less time than he’d expected. He moved through the port without paying much attention to the bustling activity around him. He had to see to the outfitting of his ship, and in short order.

He was not sorry for the pressing haste of his mission. He only hoped it would help keep his mind from thoughts of Genevieve and the way she had felt in his arms as the hard ride from Brackenmoore had not.

Resolutely he went about the business of ordering supplies. Although the journey to Scotland was not a long one, he never set out without enough rations to see them through untoward circumstances. It cost him extra to have his goods delivered with such speed, but he was assured that all would arrive at the Briarwind within the hour.

Leaving the horse at the establishment where he had hired it, Marcel then made his way to his ship. As he approached, he experienced the same rush of pride that he felt each time he saw her.

She was a fine vessel, which his father had purchased from a Venetian shipbuilder. In her he’d sailed throughout Europe and the Holy Land. They’d carried English wool and Arabian spices, and Chinese silks in the hold. The captain’s cabin was visible from where he stood and forward of that on the starboard side was the galley, and the pen for the livestock that provided fresh meat for the crew. In the forepeak was a small chamber for the bow watch. In between was an ordered jumble of spare sailing parts, benches, spars, casks, chests and so on.

He was not at all surprised to see the amazement on the face of his first mate, Harlan, as he stepped up onto the gangplank. Harlan dropped the rope he was repairing and came toward him, that tall, deceptively slender frame seeming poised for action as always. He spoke with no small measure of surprise. “Captain, why are you returned so soon?”

Marcel shrugged, explaining the situation hastily. When he was finished, Harlan asked, “So we will set sail immediately?”

“As soon as the supplies I ordered arrive.”

The first mate frowned. “Some of the men are not aboard. They have gone into town as you said they could.”

Marcel rubbed his forehead. “See that they are found and told to come back now.”

Harlan nodded his sun-streaked blond head. “Very well. Jack and Harry are aboard and none too worse for wear. I’ll send them out to look for the others.”

Marcel nodded with approval. He knew the men would not be pleased, many of them very likely nursing sore heads this day. It could not be helped. He would make an effort to see they were compensated next time they put into port.

Without wasting another minute, he turned and addressed all within earshot. “We leave as soon as the ship is seaworthy. I’ll be in my cabin mapping our course.”

Genevieve watched Marcel arrive, approaching the ship with a confident stride, and felt the uncontrollable pounding of her heart. After he was aboard ship, she heard the deep and achingly familiar timbre of his voice as he spoke to another man.

It felt so good just to be near him. She told herself that she was glad she had come, even if she had spent the past hours huddled behind a barrel. The fact that she still had no idea about how to proceed did not completely quell her anticipation at being with Marcel soon.

She was weak limbed at the possibility that he might soon hold her—kiss her again.

Abruptly she tore her mind from that distracting and all too stirring prospect. There was much that must fall into order before such an event could ever take place.

Her desperate gaze scanned the dock for some answer to her difficulty, and she saw a man approaching, pulling a cart laden with crates much like the ones that were piled near her. He stopped and ran an assessing eye over the Briarwind He lifted his cap, scratching his head as his gaze then went to the heavily loaded cart.

Before he had moved from this position an even larger cart loaded with barrels moved up behind him. The driver bellowed, “Delivery for the Briarwind Move out of my way.”

The first man spun around scowling. “And what do you think I’d be doing here?”

The second man frowned in return and said, “Get yourself unloaded and out of my way then. I’ve other work this afternoon.”

The first man looked back toward the ship. “I’d be happy to, if someone would only come to help me.”

Genevieve watched a tall and undeniably handsome blond man come to the side of the Briarwind and look out at them, and an idea came into her mind. The blond man left the ship and, along with the carters, began to discuss the unloading of the goods. When he turned and called out, “Come, the wagons must be unloaded,” two other men left the ship and moved toward the carts.

Hastily, before she could lose her courage, Genevieve slipped out into the open, moving quickly to take one of the crates from the cart. It was so heavy that she gasped in surprise. Yet she forced herself to hold it, breathing carefully.

She had to appear to be a laborer. Hopefully, the carters would think her part of the ship’s crew. The crew would imagine her to have come with one of the carts. Thus would she get onto the Briarwind After that, it would simply be a matter of finding a hiding place.

The two roughly dressed sailors went to the first cart and took a crate each. Genevieve fell in line behind them. To her utter amazement neither the carters nor the blond seaman paid her any attention at all. She was able to follow the seamen, right to a hatch in the middle of the deck.

Genevieve knew that she would not be able to carry the heavy crate down the ladder that rose up from inside, though the men seemed to have no trouble as they went down ahead of her. Holding her breath with terror, she dropped the crate on the deck and ducked behind the mast, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

One of the men came up, saw the crate and scowled, looking about as if perplexed. Then with a shrug, he shouldered it and disappeared down the ladder once more.

Soon both of the sailors emerged from the hole and went back across the deck. When they reached the gangway, Genevieve cast a careful look about. The carters and the other man were still talking, but they were turned the other way, obviously discussing the goods that had been brought.

It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, Genevieve raced toward the hatch. Holding that breath and knowing she dared not pause to look behind her, she took a tight hold of the sides of the ladder and scrambled down it.

Spinning around, Genevieve could see that she was in the hold. The inside walls of the ship were lined with all manner of goods that would be needed to make long voyages—extra ropes, canvas, even extra lanterns hung from the posts. There were also all sizes of containers besides the three wooden crates that had been brought from the carts.

Hearing the sound of voices approaching above, Genevieve raced down the center aisle and lodged herself behind a pile of goods at the front of the ship. This was accomplished none too quickly for the men brought more supplies down into the hold.

Several others had now joined the two, who had begun the unloading. They formed a sort of line as they transferred the cargo into the hold.

The next hours passed in an agony of frustration and anxiety. Her frustration stemmed from being inactive for so very long, and anxiety from her fear that one of the sailors would come too close and discover her hiding place. In spite of her agitation, she was somewhat awed at their efficiency as they packed the space so tightly there was no more than a narrow walkway down the center when they were through.

When finally they had finished and closed the hatch above her, Genevieve heaved a great sigh of relief. Yet when the boat began to move some time later, she knew a renewed sense of trepidation as well as relief, her stomach clenching at the realization that she had succeeded.

She was aboard the Briarwind, and it was moving. Just what might happen now she was afraid to even contemplate.

Genevieve grew cold as the day wore on. It was very damp down in the hold. She was afraid, though, to leave her hiding place for fear of being discovered should someone open the hatch unexpectedly. She did not believe they had gone far enough to make Marcel believe that he must go on to Scotland rather than take her home.

Surely all they needed were a few days together to work out whatever was making him hold back. Surely when he learned that she loved him…

The pure happiness she felt at the possibility of his returning her affection in even a small measure, at the notion of his letting go his reservations and completing the lovemaking they had begun at Brackenmoore was incentive enough to stay where she was. She could not reveal herself yet.

But after another interminable stretch of time, the cramping in her legs and lower back grew unbearable. She bit her lip with indecision. The hold was empty of all save her. Surely it would hurt nothing to walk about a bit.

Slowly, listening for any sound from above, Genevieve stood. The tingling in her lower limbs told her just how badly she had needed to move. Gingerly she exercised each muscle until the sensations eased.

Cautiously she stumbled about in the darkness until she found a lantern, and the implements to light it, hanging at the bottom of the stair. With a sigh of relief, she looked about. As she had seen earlier, a narrow pathway ran down the center to the stair, which led to the upper deck.

Genevieve began to pace this trail. Then as time passed and her body felt more itself, she began to be aware of another form of discomfort. That of hunger.

It had been many hours since she had thought of eating anything. Her stomach growled, as if now demanding its due. Putting a hand over her belly, Genevieve looked about the hold.

She knew that many of these containers would hold food. Why should she go hungry when surrounded by such plenty?

Sometime later, she leaned back against where she had sat down to eat and sighed. She had pried open a barrel with a bar she found hanging nearby. It had offered only salted fish, but her hunger had improved the taste.

Though she had no idea how much time had passed since she had come aboard the Briarwind, Genevieve was fairly certain that it must be well into the night. The tiredness she felt told her that she had been down there for many hours.

Again she sighed. What a day it had been, and after no sleep the previous night. Surely there would be no harm in closing her eyes for just a few moments. If none of the crew had come down to the hold in the evening hours, it was quite unlikely that they would do so at night.

She extinguished the light. Then using her arm to cushion her head, Genevieve lay down at the far end of the path…

The next thing she knew she was looking up at a heavily lined masculine face that contained a bulbous nose and a pair of watery gray eyes. He spoke roughly as he scratched his wiry gray head. “Now, what have we here?”

With a gasp of shock, Genevieve sat straight up, her own voice husky with sleep and horror as she cried, “Who are you?”

The man laughed gruffly. “It’s me who’ll be asking the questions, lad. What are you doing here?”

“I…” She hesitated, realizing that she was still wearing her masculine garments and this fellow thought her a boy. For reasons she could not name, she did not disabuse him of his mistaken notion.

“Well?” he prodded.

Now that she was found out, Genevieve could only think of getting to Marcel. “Take me to your captain.”

The man took her by the arm and hauled her roughly to her feet. “That I will, young man, but I’m not thinking he’ll be glad to see a stowaway. Especially one who refuses to answer the questions put to him.”

Genevieve did not care for this mauling in the least but decided to let it pass, for the man did not know who she was. When he nudged her ahead of him up the stairs, she pushed his hand away and went up with her head held high.

It was not yet full light on deck and a dark bank of cloud on the distant horizon seemed to make the light even dimmer. As she peered about she did not see any other signs of movement on deck. Her captor jerked his head toward the cabin at the stern of the boat and said, “Go on, no dawdling. You wanted to see the captain. Get to it then.”

Genevieve did not acknowledge him but moved in the direction he had indicated. As soon as she had spoken with Marcel, this lout would mind his manners.

When the sailor pounded loudly upon the closed door, Genevieve felt a momentary anxiety. There was no question in her mind that Marcel would be surprised to see her. The possibility of his being angry was very great, as well.

Hopefully he would not remain so for long.

The heavy oak door opened abruptly. Her heart turned over with a sudden and unexpectedly deep yearning as her gaze came to rest on the man she had come so far to be with. Marcel’s midnight-dark hair was tousled from sleep and the long white shirt, which was all he wore, lay open to expose his muscular bronze chest. Her heart thumped and her fingers itched to touch the smooth flesh.

Having never seen so much of him before, it was a moment before Genevieve was able to raise her gaze to his shocked and disbelieving blue eyes.

Before he could say a word, the sailor spoke. “Sorry for disturbin’ you, Captain, but I found this lad stowed away in the hold when I went down to get some supplies for breakfast.”

For a long moment Marcel did nothing, then without warning, he grabbed her arm and jerked her inside the cabin, telling the other man, “I will see to this, Charley. Go on and get the meal ready for the crew.”

Although she had not expected his reaction to be welcoming, Genevieve did not care for this manhandling, especially as she had taken far too much of the same from the sailor. As Marcel slammed the door, Genevieve said, “Although I understand your surprise, please refrain from grabbing me that way, Marcel. And you will have to tell that man he must mind his manners in the future. He was somewhat rough with me, though I must allow him some measure of leeway as he does not know who I—”

Marcel interrupted as he swung around to face her, putting his hand on his lean hips. “What are you doing here?” His shirt parted even further, exposing the smooth bronze flesh of his chest.

She could not deny that it was very difficult to phrase a reply when her eyes seemed to be riveted to that golden flesh. With a great force of will she raised her gaze to his angry one. “I…I can explain. But give me a moment.” She found she had great need to collect herself. She had not expected him to be quite so enraged. After the kisses they had shared, she had thought…He seemed a stranger again.

His voice was raised to an angry pitch. “I am waiting!”

Marcel had never spoken to her in such a tone and her surprise began to give way to irritation. She frowned. “I will thank you to have a civil tongue in your head, my lord.”

Marcel moved toward her, his brow creasing in a fierce scowl. “A civil tongue in my head? You are not in the position of giving orders here, Genevieve. You will answer me now. Why are you aboard this ship?”

Genevieve stared up at him, knowing that though Marcel was certainly overreacting, he had some justification for wanting to know what she was about. Deliberately she took a deep breath. “Please, let us calm ourselves. You have every reason to expect a reply. Only let me think of how best to explain.”

She was glad when he seemed to ease back somewhat, though the determination was not gone from his countenance. She took another breath, for it was not easy to speak of what had passed between them, especially in the face of his anger. “I…after the way you ki—”

A feminine voice interrupted her from the fore end of the cabin. “I think it best if I do not overhear this conversation, Marcel.”

Genevieve swung around to see a dark-haired woman peeking out from the edge of a wide folding screen. The bed, which lay directly behind her, was not completely hidden.

Spinning about again, Genevieve faced Marcel with what she knew were shocked and disillusioned eyes. In spite of her wish that he would not know how very hurt she was over finding him with another woman, she could make no effort to hide it.

His brow creased as his gaze met hers and he reached toward her. “Genevieve, I…”

She forestalled him with a raised hand. “Nay, do not touch me.” Hastily she turned to the other woman. “Please, come out. I am very sorry for disturbing you. I did not know you were here.”

The other woman moved cautiously out from behind the screen, and Genevieve could not be blind to the fact that she was exotically beautiful. And that she was dressed in no more than a white nightgown, which though admittedly not revealing, was nonetheless a nightgown. Her long dark hair fell in a tangled mass to her hips and her liquid dark brown eyes were filled with unhappiness, her gaze going from Genevieve to Marcel and back again.

Genevieve was unable to meet the other’s eyes. The white nightrail did not completely disguise the pleasing shape beneath it.

A piercingly painful emotion made her chest tighten and she could not look at Marcel. Had she actually convinced herself that she loved him? Obviously that was nothing more than an excuse to come here, an excuse to ease the ache of longing he had awakened in her body. For even now, knowing that she was disgusted by him, she could not help realizing that he was so very tall, so very undeniably and compellingly masculine. The cabin seemed far too small to contain his powerful presence as he stood with his shoulders back, his feet planted wide to accommodate the rolling of the ship. She was also aware of her body’s reaction to his all too fascinating masculinity.

And she hated herself for it. All this time she had waited for him—longed for him.

He had found another. Even when he had kissed her, this woman was here waiting for him. Genevieve felt a wave of sympathy for the other woman. It was not her fault Marcel was a blackguard of the worst order, for she was most likely completely unaware of his perfidy.

Marcel could not quite believe his eyes. Genevieve. It only made matters worse that, for a brief moment, as his gaze had first alighted on her that his heart had raced with joy. Immediately it was replaced by irritation.

He forced himself to concentrate on the fact that she had, as yet, not explained what in the world she was doing here aboard the Briarwind.

He was just getting ready to reiterate this fact when there came another pounding at the door. With a grunt of irritation, Marcel strode across the chamber and jerked the door open a crack. “Yes.”

Harlan stood in the opening, his hazel eyes filled with apprehension. “A storm is brewing, Marcel. It’s coming up behind us quickly. You can see it on the horizon.”

Vexation and concern filled him. The summer storms along the coast could be horrendous and were not to be underestimated. Now that he paid attention, Marcel was aware of the rising sound of the wind.

This was the last thing he needed now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I trust preparations are under way.”

“Aye.”

Regretfully Marcel changed the subject abruptly. “I am in the midst of a little problem. I will attend you shortly.”

Harlan’s gaze searched the chamber behind him, though Marcel knew he would see little through the narrow opening. The first mate said, “Charley said there was a stowaway.”

There was, indeed.

Marcel answered as evenly as he could. “Aye, a lad. I have decided to make him my cabin boy. Now as I said, make the ship secure.”

If the man who had become his friend in the past two years thought there were anything unusual in Marcel’s tone or actions he gave no indication of it as he nodded, then turned and made his way across the deck.

Grateful for this small favor from the heavens, Marcel closed the door firmly. He did not wish to try to explain anything in detail at the moment. The first mate was far too perceptive and Marcel first had to think of precisely what he was going to say.

This whole nightmare would be far clearer when he knew the reasoning behind Genevieve’s mad act. One thing was unfortunately and undeniably obvious. With a storm rising, there was no way they could turn around and take Genevieve back to Brackenmoore at the moment.

It was ever in his mind that his parents had died in such a storm. Angry as he was with Genevieve he would not risk her safety.

Marcel looked at Constanza where she stood. Her brown eyes fixed rigidly on Genevieve’s back, and he saw the unhappiness in her brown eyes, her unmistakable pallor. It was obvious that Genevieve believed they were lovers. Marcel knew how embarrassing this must be for Constanza, who was a still-grieving widow.

He was ashamed to admit that he had, until the moment she stepped from behind the screen, completely forgotten her presence in his shock at seeing Genevieve. The lovely and infuriating Genevieve, who had occupied his every waking thought since seeing her again at Brackenmoore.

He knew a great sense of sympathy for Constanza at having been placed in this position. Yet he suddenly realized that he could possibly use Genevieve’s misinterpretation of their being here together to his advantage. Her mistaken belief that he and Constanza were lovers had clearly angered her. This brought him a sudden revelation as to what Genevieve was doing here. What woman would not be angry at finding a man with another woman when he had kissed her, touched her the way he had at Brackenmoore?

For that must be why she was here. He would be daft to pretend that their embraces had been anything but compelling. But it was obvious to him that even a physical reaction such as they had shared could not be acted upon. Their lives had gone in opposing directions.

Did Genevieve understand this?

Clearly she did not, but she could not jeopardize her coming marriage for such madness. Nor he his peace of mind.

Aye, he would use her anger to protect her. It created a boundary between them he would not easily cross. And her coming marriage would act as a deterrent to him, for he had a distinct feeling that he would have need of one. But how his gaze lingered on the slender line of her back, her hips, and he recalled how good it had felt to run his hands over them…to have her…

Roughly he pulled his thoughts back to the present. He must get hold of himself.

Marcel regretted that Constanza would be involved in his deceit. He determined to explain all of this to her when they had a moment alone. Though who knew when that moment would come as he would need to keep Genevieve close by, for fear of her giving away her disguise. He genuinely did not wish the men to know he had two women aboard.

Though the crew were a good enough lot, it was highly unlikely that the roughest of them would think it fair for him to have two of what they had none of. Especially when he had abruptly cut short what they had believed would be several days of shore leave.

He spoke with resignation. “Unfortunately, the storm has postponed our discussion. But make no mistake, we will continue, however unpleasant it may prove.”

Genevieve looked at him with chagrin. “I can tell you in this moment that I am sorry I have come here and I wish to go home.”

He shook his head. “It is impossible. You heard what Harlan said. A storm is coming. We will have to go on. You, Genevieve, will stay in this cabin with Constanza until I have time to sort this out.”

She sputtered, “But—”

He cut her off with a motion of his hand. “Nay, I will not discuss it now. You have gotten yourself into this. You will not even consider doing aught but obey me. You will continue to wear your disguise, for I will not explain my having two women to my men. They do get lonely aboard ship.”

He saw color stain her cheeks as she realized just what he was saying. “They would not dare.”

“No,” he informed her immediately. “They would not dare. But I prefer not to be forced to confront the matter. I have enough to occupy my mind.”

He was moved by the relief she tried to hide. He was aware of the fact that Maxim Harcourt had tried to force himself upon her when she was in his care, though she had refused to reveal any details of that ordeal. He had no wish for her to fear being in such a position again and was, in fact, sickened by the very idea that she would feel such anxiety.

But he did not wish her to know the degree of his reaction. Quickly he turned to Constanza. “Genevieve will stay with you in the cabin this day and share the bed with you each night. I cannot have her sleeping out on deck.”

Genevieve spoke up hurriedly. “I could not—”

His brows arched. “You certainly could and you will. It was your decision to come aboard, Genevieve. You will simply have to accept the consequences of that.” He looked at her for a long moment and saw the displeasure on her face. “Unless, of course, you do prefer to sleep on deck.”

She scowled at him fiercely. “Nay, how could I possibly prefer that? But—”

“Then it is done.” He moved to the table where he had been going over his charts when Charley first pounded on the door—before his life had exploded in chaos with the arrival of the very woman he so desperately wished to put from his mind.

He could feel the seething anger of Genevieve at this very moment, but he did not acknowledge it. He must show an appearance of indifference no matter how difficult it might be. She must return home and marry Roderick Beecham, leaving him to the life he had worked so hard to make his own.

He was glad that he had already folded his own blanket and tucked it in the chest beneath his padded bench. There was no sign that he had not spent the night in the bed with Constanza.

His regretful gaze went to Constanza’s unhappy face. Again he resolved to explain his reasons for putting her in such an awkward position as soon as possible.

Now he had to go out and secure his ship against the storm that had begun to rage as loudly as the one in his heart.

Chapter Four

As she watched the other woman disappear behind the screen, Genevieve felt her stomach churn with rage toward Marcel. What madness had ever possessed her to believe he wanted her, that he was anything other than a black-hearted knave?

She recalled her first sight of him in the great hall at Brackenmoore the previous day—thinking that he had changed. He had indeed changed, and more than she had imagined. The Marcel she had known would never kiss her as he had when he was in love with another woman. For surely he was in love with Constanza.

He had her near him. Poor Constanza, Genevieve could not even look at her as she came from behind the screen, now garbed in a heavy velvet gown. Marcel had betrayed her as surely as he had betrayed Genevieve.

For was that not what he had done by kissing her, touching her the way he had? And she, fool that she was, had cared for nothing but the feelings that were racing through her own body. She had been able to think of nothing beyond the mad thought that her physical reactions meant she was in love with him.

Her miserable gaze flicked back to Constanza. She had not known that he was bound to another.

The other woman was watching her closely and Genevieve could not hold that gaze, for fear of the woman’s reading all that had passed between her and Marcel. She suspected that Constanza knew more of the truth of the situation than she had been told.

Loving Marcel as she must, Constanza would surely feel that something was wrong between Marcel and Genevieve. Loving him as she did, and feeling that he loved her in return.

Genevieve’s heart twisted in her chest at the thought of their feelings for each other. Again she told herself that she was a fool, a poor mad fool. It did her no good to pine for a man who loved another, who had not had the decency to make his position clear before kissing her.

Hopelessly she moved to stare out the portal.

The other woman’s gentle voice interrupted her tortured thoughts. “You must be tired and hungry. Sit and I will get us some food, por favor.”

Genevieve spun around to look at her, knowing that her surprise must be obvious. “You are concerned for my comfort?”

The other woman’s brown eyes measured her with a surprising depth of kindness. “Of course. You have been through much.”

Genevieve looked away. She did not know what to say, could not even understand her own tumultuous emotions. She went to the long bench beside the table and sat down, drawing her knees up to hold them tightly against her.

Misery gripped her, making her throat tight and her chest ache. She was determined not to cry. Not in front of Marcel’s woman.

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