Summer's Bride

She looked down, breathing deliberately, still infinitely aware of the strength and deftness of his hands, the heat of his body so very near hers. “Nothing could be further from the truth…” she began, then stopped for fear of what this statement might reveal. “My hands are simply tender and you startled me.”

He frowned, looking down at the raw skin. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I will have more care.”

Guilt assaulted her, but she made no effort to reassure him. For it was the tenderness of his touch that brought about her dilemma.

Even now as he stroked the cool cloth gently over her palm did she have to close her eyes to hide the thrill that coursed through her at the contrast between that cool cloth and the warmth of his own flesh…!

Dear Reader,

With the passing of the true millennium, Harlequin Historicals is putting on a fresh face! We hope you enjoyed our special inside front cover art from recent months. We plan to bring this wonderful “extra” to you every month! You may also have noticed our new branding—a maroon stripe that runs along the right side of the front cover. Hopefully, this will help you find our books more easily in the crowded marketplace. And thanks to those of you who participated in our reader survey. We truly appreciate the feedback you provided, which enables us to bring you more of the stories and authors that you like!

We have four terrific books for you this month. The talented Carolyn Davidson returns with a new Western, Maggie’s Beau, a tender tale of love between experienced rancher Beau Jackson—whom you might recognize from The Wedding Promise—and the young woman he finds hiding in his barn. Catherine Archer brings us her third medieval SEASONS’ BRIDES story, Summer’s Bride, an engaging romance about two willful nobles who finally succumb to a love they’ve long denied.

The Sea Nymph by bestselling author Ruth Langan marks the second book in the SIRENS OF THE SEA series. Here, a proper English lady, who is secretly a privateer, falls in love with a highwayman—only to learn he is really an earl and the richest man in Cornwall! And don’t miss Bride on the Run, an awesome new Western by Elizabeth Lane. True to the title, a woman fleeing from crooked lawmen becomes the mail-order bride of a sexy widower with two kids.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Summer’s Bride

Catherine Archer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and CATHERINE ARCHER

Rose Among Thorns #136

*Velvet Bond #282

*Velvet Touch #322

Lady Thorn #353

Lord Sin #379

Fire Song #426

†Winter’s Bride #477

†The Bride of Spring #514

†Summer’s Bride #544

*Velvet series

†Seasons’ Brides

This book is dedicated to God, with joy

and heartfelt gratitude for all things.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

As his mount crested the last rise in the road, Marcel Ainsworth looked up. His gaze was unconsciously yearning as he watched the tip of the highest tower at Brackenmoore come into sight. Marcel viewed this first glimpse of home with both dread and longing.

Two years.

It seemed such a very long time to be away from home and his three brothers, yet he’d had no immediate plans to return. Or at least not until Benedict had sent for him. Though he did not know the reason for his eldest brother’s summons, Marcel could not ignore it. Not from Benedict.

Leaving the family estate of Brackenmoore had not been easy. Yet when Marcel had done so, he’d felt there was nothing else he could do. What Genevieve had said to him that last day at Brackenmoore had forced him to act.

His chest ached even now at the thought of the longing and despair he had known. The temptation to act upon her words, to give in to the yearning he felt was far stronger than he could have imagined.

He could not give in to it. When he was but fifteen an incident had occurred that made him realize he could never succumb to the enticement Genevieve offered. It had been shortly after Benedict had dismissed Thomas, a young man who had worked as an assistant to Benedict’s steward. Thomas had been Marcel’s friend, but he had also been stealing from Benedict. When Marcel had gone to him and asked him why he would do such a thing, the older boy had looked at him with a contempt that rocked him. Thomas had 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 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.

And there he was, with his dark hair grown slightly longer, his blue eyes, which seemed so familiar but also older, more cynical. Those eyes, which she had thought of so very oft in these two long years, had offered comfort and compassion. She nearly cringed now as his blue eyes raked her with a remote and unreadable expression.

There was another difference in him, something so subtle that it could not be measured in the length of his hair, nor the bronze cast of his skin, nor the slightly rolling gait he had adopted. It was a difference undeniably deeper and could more likely be ascertained in the way he held his head and shoulders.

She felt that somehow Marcel had come to a bigger place within himself. It was as if this castle, these lands, would never be vast enough to hold him again.

This understanding was at once frightening and fascinating, for it seemed as if he was the Marcel she had known, yet not that Marcel. He had become somehow mysterious and new and completely unpredictable.

Dear heaven, she did not know what to do with her hands, with her completely scattered emotions. Genevieve risked another quick glance at him and saw that he was once more moving toward them, his expression self-confident, his strides assured.

He no longer looked her way and gave no sign that he had been moved by the sight of her.

And why should he? she asked herself. Why would a man such as Marcel Ainsworth show even the least interest in her?

Simple country maid that she was, in spite of her great fortune.

An overwhelming and at the same time shocking despair swept over her. As if from a very long distance she heard Benedict say, “Good God above, look who has arrived days before we expected him.” Peripherally she was aware of her guardian standing and holding out his arms in welcome.

It was clear that he had realized his brother’s arrival with joy, but Genevieve could not share in his pleasure. She sat in dejected silence as the next few moments passed in a clatter of introductions and cries of welcome.

No one seemed to note that Genevieve failed to join in the chaos, for there was much to occupy them. Not only had Benedict married and had a child, an auburn-haired daughter named Edlynne, there was an announcement to make of his wife Raine’s new pregnancy. Marcel had also acquired another brother in that marriage. Benedict proudly introduced Raine’s brother, the now thirteen-year-old William.

Then it was Lily and Tristan’s turn to display their second child—a tiny boy named Aidan. Marcel hugged them all, including his youngest brother Kendran, who was near grown to be a man. He ruffled Aidan’s dark curls and kissed him on the forehead. Marcel then lifted an excitedly dancing Sabina up into his arms to place a resounding kiss upon her soft cheek before setting her back down, while congratulating Raine and Benedict on their upcoming birth.

By the time anyone got around to looking at Genevieve she had nearly managed to master her emotions. She smiled, albeit stiffly, and moved forward as Benedict turned to her.

Not sure what she would do, Genevieve extended her hand. “Marcel. It is so good to see you home at last.” She was quite proud of the fact that her voice remained even despite her inner turmoil.

He took her numb hand in one large warm one for such a brief moment that their flesh barely touched. “It is good to see you, as well, Genevieve.”

But though that touch had been brief, it left a tingling of awareness along the length of her fingers and she felt her face heat. She found herself glad that Marcel immediately turned back to Benedict, his voice deep with concern as he said, “I came as soon as your letter arrived.”

Benedict replied quickly, “There was no cause for alarm. I had simply decided that it was time you came home.”

Marcel appeared both relieved and rueful at this admission. “Well, I am home and gladly so, though you might have told me in your letter.”

Had it been so very simple to have him back at Brackenmoore? Genevieve wondered silently. If only she had known, she would have come up with some pretext to have him sent for long before now.

Immediately she told herself her thoughts were sheer madness considering his obvious disregard for her. All the secret dreams she had held close to her heart in these two interminable years had been for naught. There was nothing for them. He was a stranger, a stranger with a life that had nothing to do with her.

Benedict waved toward his own place at the table. “Sit. I am sure you have hunger after your journey. You have arrived just in time.”

Genevieve said hurriedly, “I will see that another plate and cup are brought. I will fetch some of the wine that Maeve has set aside for special occasions, as well.”

Benedict halted her. “Nay, sit, Genevieve. I will send one of the servants.”

Genevieve was quite aware that the servants would come at Benedict’s call, but she would have been grateful for any excuse to be away. Any excuse to keep from having to sit at the table with Marcel. Yet that was exactly what she must do, for she could think of no way to avoid it. Quickly she took her place beside Sabina, fussing over the child’s meal though there was no need to do so.

She could do no more than listen distantly as the others continued to converse while they took their places with Marcel, now in the position of honor—directly across from her.

Only briefly could she glance in Marcel’s direction for fear of his seeing the yearning she knew was in her own eyes. Yet even in a glance she saw that his shoulders filled the same space Benedict’s had. Encased in the black velvet of his houppeland, his shoulders looked so broad and powerful. She had not recalled them being so very wide.

Benedict spoke, his query drawing her undivided attention. “May I ask how long we shall have the pleasure of your company, my brother?”

She looked to Marcel, who was watching Benedict now so she was free to let her gaze focus hungrily on the blue of those heavily lashed eyes. He shrugged. “I fear not long.” Was she wrong or did his gaze flick briefly to her? Or was it the pain that sliced her at hearing his words that made her wish he had some care for leaving her? She forced herself to pay heed as he went on. “My crew is unloading cargo, but I must arrange for another.”

Benedict threw up his hands. “Can that not wait for some time? You have made a fortune for both of us.”

Marcel 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?”