Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer

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