Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer

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