Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer

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