Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer

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