Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer
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you doing here?” His shirt parted even further, exposing the smooth bronze flesh of his chest.
She could not deny that it was very difficult to phrase a reply when her eyes seemed to be riveted to that golden flesh. With a great force of will she raised her gaze to his angry one. “I…I can explain. But give me a moment.” She found she had great need to collect herself. She had not expected him to be quite so enraged. After the kisses they had shared, she had thought…He seemed a stranger again.
His voice was raised to an angry pitch. “I am waiting!”
Marcel had never spoken to her in such a tone and her surprise began to give way to irritation. She frowned. “I will thank you to have a civil tongue in your head, my lord.”
Marcel moved toward her, his brow creasing in a fierce scowl. “A civil tongue in my head? You are not in the position of giving orders here, Genevieve. You will answer me now. Why are you aboard this ship?”
Genevieve stared up at him, knowing that though Marcel was certainly overreacting, he had some justification for wanting to know what she was about. Deliberately she took a deep breath. “Please, let us calm ourselves. You have every reason to expect a reply. Only let me think of how best to explain.”
She was glad when he seemed to ease back somewhat, though the determination was not gone from his countenance. She took another breath, for it was not easy to speak of what had passed between them, especially in the face of his anger. “I…after the way you ki—”
A feminine voice interrupted her from the fore end of the cabin. “I think it best if I do not overhear this conversation, Marcel.”
Genevieve swung around to see a dark-haired woman peeking out from the edge of a wide folding screen. The bed, which lay directly behind her, was not completely hidden.
Spinning about again, Genevieve faced Marcel with what she knew were shocked and disillusioned eyes. In spite of her wish that he would not know how very hurt she was over finding him with another woman, she could make no effort to hide it.
His brow creased as his gaze met hers and he reached toward her. “Genevieve, I…”
She forestalled him with a raised hand. “Nay, do not touch me.” Hastily she turned to the other woman. “Please, come out. I am very sorry for disturbing you. I did not know you were here.”
The other woman moved cautiously out from behind the screen, and Genevieve could not be blind to the fact that she was exotically beautiful. And that she was dressed in no more than a white nightgown, which though admittedly not revealing, was nonetheless a nightgown. Her long dark hair fell in a tangled mass to her hips and her liquid dark brown eyes were filled with unhappiness, her gaze going from Genevieve to Marcel and back again.
Genevieve was unable to meet the other’s eyes. The white nightrail did not completely disguise the pleasing shape beneath it.
A piercingly painful emotion made her chest tighten and she could not look at Marcel. Had she actually convinced herself that she loved him? Obviously that was nothing more than an excuse to come here, an excuse to ease the ache of longing he had awakened in her body. For even now, knowing that she was disgusted by him, she could not help realizing that he was so very tall, so very undeniably and compellingly masculine. The cabin seemed far too small to contain his powerful presence as he stood with his shoulders back, his feet planted wide to accommodate the rolling of the ship. She was also aware of her body’s reaction to his all too fascinating masculinity.
And she hated herself for it. All this time she had waited for him—longed for him.
He had found another. Even when he had kissed her, this woman was here waiting for him. Genevieve felt a wave of sympathy for the other woman. It was not her fault Marcel was a blackguard of the worst order, for she was most likely completely unaware of his perfidy.
Marcel could not quite believe his eyes. Genevieve. It only made matters worse that, for a brief moment, as his gaze had first alighted on her that his heart had raced with joy. Immediately it was replaced by irritation.
He forced himself to concentrate on the fact that she had, as yet, not explained what in the world she was doing here aboard the Briarwind.
He was just getting ready to reiterate this fact when there came another pounding at the door. With a grunt of irritation, Marcel strode across the chamber and jerked the door open a crack. “Yes.”
Harlan stood in the opening, his hazel eyes filled with apprehension. “A storm is brewing, Marcel. It’s coming up behind us quickly. You can see it on the horizon.”
Vexation and concern filled him. The summer storms along the coast could be horrendous and were not to be underestimated. Now that he paid attention, Marcel was aware of the rising sound of the wind.
This was the last thing he needed now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I trust preparations are under way.”
“Aye.”
Regretfully Marcel changed the subject abruptly. “I am in the midst of a little problem. I will attend you shortly.”
Harlan’s gaze searched the chamber behind him, though Marcel knew he would see little through the narrow opening. The first mate said, “Charley said there was a stowaway.”
There was, indeed.
Marcel answered as evenly as he could. “Aye, a lad. I have decided to make him my cabin boy. Now as I said, make the ship secure.”
If the man who had become his friend in the past two years thought there were anything unusual in Marcel’s tone or actions he gave no indication of it as he nodded, then turned and made his way across the deck.
Grateful for this small favor from the heavens, Marcel closed the door firmly. He did not wish to try to explain anything in detail at the moment. The first mate was far too perceptive and Marcel first had to think of precisely what he was going to say.
This whole nightmare would be far clearer when he knew the reasoning behind Genevieve’s mad act. One thing was unfortunately and undeniably obvious. With a storm rising, there was no way they could turn around and take Genevieve back to Brackenmoore at the moment.
It was ever in his mind that his parents had died in such a storm. Angry as he was with Genevieve he would not risk her safety.
Marcel looked at Constanza where she stood. Her brown eyes fixed rigidly on Genevieve’s back, and he saw the unhappiness in her brown eyes, her unmistakable pallor. It was obvious that Genevieve believed they were lovers. Marcel knew how embarrassing this must be for Constanza, who was a still-grieving widow.
He was ashamed to admit that he had, until the moment she stepped from behind the screen, completely forgotten her presence in his shock at seeing Genevieve. The lovely and infuriating Genevieve, who had occupied his every waking thought since seeing her again at Brackenmoore.
He knew a great sense of sympathy for Constanza at having been placed in this position. Yet he suddenly realized that he could possibly use Genevieve’s misinterpretation of their being here together to his advantage. Her mistaken belief that he and Constanza were lovers had clearly angered her. This brought him a sudden revelation as to what Genevieve was doing here. What woman would not be angry at finding a man with another woman when he had kissed her, touched her the way he had at Brackenmoore?
For that must be why she was here. He would be daft to pretend that their embraces had been anything but compelling. But it was obvious to him that even a physical reaction such as they had shared could not be acted upon. Their lives had gone in opposing directions.
Did Genevieve understand this?
Clearly she did not, but she could not jeopardize her coming marriage for such madness. Nor he his peace of mind.
Aye, he would use her anger to protect her. It created a boundary between them he would not easily cross. And her coming marriage would act as a deterrent to him, for he had a distinct feeling that he would have need of one. But how his gaze lingered on the slender line