Summer's Bride. Catherine Archer
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His arms closed about Genevieve’s pliant form. His lips found hers as her sweet womanly shape seemed to mold itself to his.
Genevieve felt as if she had waited for this moment her whole life. No matter what she had tried to tell herself over the past two years, she had never, for one moment, stopped wanting this man. Marcel—his mouth was firm and hot on hers, the taste of him so heady, and more wonderful than she had even dreamed. His hands on her back were strong and sure, molding her to him, and she wanted to cry out with joy that he was finally touching her, kissing her as she had longed for him to.
She gave a husky gasp and whispered, “Marcel.”
When his tongue flicked over her lips, she opened to him, welcomed him into her, felt a spark of something hot and fluid move in her lower belly. This was Marcel, the man she had longed for with each aching part of her as she lay in her lonely bed. She raised her hands to hold the back of his head, threading her eager fingers through his thick black hair. She strained into him, increasing the pressure of their kisses with a growing urgency, knowing a sense of pleasure as his hips pressed in to her.
Marcel drew her closer to the length of his ardent and increasingly eager body, running his tongue over hers, reveling in her responses to him. Never, even in his most heated dreams, had Genevieve been this pliant, this responsive, this enticing.
He was infinitely aware of his own readiness, the aching need of him. As his manhood pulsed against her belly, she gasped, wriggling closer to him. Awed and humbled and undeniably aroused by her response, Marcel felt an indefinable something expanding inside him. It radiated out through his body, rippling in wave upon wave of not only pleasure but also a tenderness so overwhelming that he was dizzied and shaken by it.
When her hands clasped his hips, Marcel closed his eyes on the resulting flash of heat that throbbed in his belly. He reached up to slide his hand between their bodies, closing around the firm weight of her breast, hearing her cry of yearning and reveling in it.
Genevieve was on fire, her blood turned to a molten river of desire—a desire for something she could not name. But as her breast seemed to swell beneath his questing hand, she realized that her body knew what she wanted, knew and was more than prepared to seek the answer to this indescribably delicious longing—this all-encompassing need.
Marcel was at first only distantly aware of a strangled gasp that came from neither himself nor the woman in his arms. Breathing heavily, he pushed back and looked in the direction of the sound.
Lily stood in the entrance to the chamber, her fingers covering her mouth in obvious surprise, but he could see no hint of condemnation in those gray eyes.
As her gaze met his, she spoke hastily. “I…forgive me.”
Marcel felt Genevieve start and he reacted instinctively, pressing her face protectively against his chest as Lily went on, her expression seeming to display approval. “I did not know that you were…I thought Genevieve was alone. I will speak with her on the morrow.”
With that, Lily was gone.
That approval made Marcel realize just how wrong he was in what he was doing. He had no right to hold this woman, kiss her, and lead others to believe that he had feelings for her. Not only did his life at sea lie as a barrier between them but there was also her future marriage to Beecham to consider. He took a deep breath, concentrating on easing the erratic beating of his blood, calming the fierce need in his belly.
Finally Marcel let his arms fall away from Genevieve’s and stepped back. Dear God, what had he done?
He could not meet the probing weight of her gaze, as he spoke. “Forgive me, Genevieve. I…” There was nothing he could say that would not make things worse. His assurances that he felt nothing for her that was not brotherly seemed very foolish now.
He squared his shoulders and went to the door. He paused only briefly when he heard her plaintive cry of “Marcel!”
“There is nothing to say, Genevieve. I am very sorry.”
He was more sorry than he could ever say. Sorry that no matter what his resolutions now and the last time he had been with Genevieve, he still had no power to resist his attraction to her.
It was best that he was leaving in the morning. Not only for himself, but for both of them.
He could only pray that time and her marriage would eradicate the wildly confused feelings that existed between them, for he had no wish to hurt her. The sorrow in her voice as she had spoken his name could not be missed.
Though he felt a tug to return to her, he would not allow himself to do that. He would go back to the sea, to the life he had made for himself, where he was sure of what he wanted and why.
Genevieve could only stand there staring at the closed door in stunned silence, her heart beating so fiercely and painfully that it felt as if it might surely break through the wall of her chest.
Why had Lily come?
The thought was immediately followed by a horrified thanks to God she had done so, for if she had not…Genevieve was afraid to even contemplate what might have occurred. She had been past reason and sanity, aware of nothing save the way it felt to be kissed and held in Marcel’s strong arms—save her own desire for him.
Surely he felt something, too.
Yet his distress at Lily’s having seen them together was more than evident.
Genevieve put her hands to her head, her headdress falling unheeded to the floor as she ran her fingers through her too heavy hair. She gained no relief from her anguish, only a horrifying certainty that her feelings for Marcel were stronger than they had ever been.
Stronger, the word was such an understatement. Heaven help her, she loved him. All these long months when she had tried to convince herself she did not care for him in that way had been nothing more than a lie. A lie to hide the truth of her own feelings from herself, for surely she had loved him all along.
Marcel’s reaction to her told her that he was not immune to her, no matter how he might wish otherwise. Even she, as innocent as she was of such matters, knew that his kisses had been far from indifferent or even brotherly.
Why should this displease him so? Whatever could make him wish to deny the depth of passion and sense of deep connection that had overtaken them?
They were surely the same unknown reasons that had made him leave Brackenmoore two long years ago.
If he would only talk with her she was sure his reservations could be overcome. Surely her love for him would be enough to turn his passion to true caring. The problem lay in the fact that he would have to be convinced to tell her what was troubling him, why he was holding back from her. His departure in the morning would severely limit any opportunities for them to speak.
Who knew how long Marcel would remain gone this time?
If they were apart, she could have no opportunity to overcome his unexplained reticence, make him see that with her love as a basis their feelings could grow. There was no conceivable way for a man to kiss a woman the way he had Genevieve lest he have some feeling for her.
Suddenly Genevieve knew what she had to do. She could not allow Marcel to walk out of her life again.
She would simply have to go to West Port, board the Briarwind and go to Scotland with him. Then she would have an opportunity to convince him that they belonged together. How she would manage this feat would take some contemplation, but Genevieve was not afraid of either planning or executing the deed.
She had escaped from the unwanted advances of her cousin Maxim Harcourt by running from Treanly in the dead of night, when she was barely more than a child. She would find a way to get to West Port and board that ship.
Her love for him would be her guide.
A few hours later, Genevieve wrapped her hair tightly in a wide strip of fine cloth and tucked it into a floppy velvet cap of William’s. As she stepped into the other garments she had taken from William’s