Catherine Archer - Summer's Bride

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.