Читать книгу Bogus Bride - Emily French - Страница 12

Zoe. Zoe. Zoe. The name spun like a fiery litany in Caitlin’s head, sharp and painful, keen as the blade of a sword cutting through her sensibility, releasing those wretched twin failings of hers, anger and pride.

Don’t think about it, she told herself fiercely. She stood in the center of the cabin, shivering, alone with the empty bunks, and fought to put one coherent thought in front of the other.

She was being too intense again. Overreacting.

Zoe. Zoe. The name kept ringing in Caitlin’s mind, an interior thunder drowning out the rational words she kept trying to think of, to cling to.

For a little while, she thought Samuel would come back to her. That he would smile, and she would run into his arms, and angry constraint between them would dissolve.

But he did not.

A deep shudder ran through her body, and she knew she should have kept her mouth shut Why was she so cursed with vinegar on her tongue? Because she felt indignant and resentful about a woman she had never seen, that was no perverse reason to attack Samuel.

Caitlin glanced down at the narrow gold band on her finger, and her mouth set in a contrite curve. Poor Samuel. The linkage of his name with this mysterious Zoe had obviously caught him off guard, and his wife had driven him away with her petulance and sharp words.

It was just that the shock had staggered her to the core and scattered her sensibilities. And now, in the aftermath, she was embarrassed by the viciousness of her attack, ashamed for the way she had spoken to him. The destructive power of words was as deadly as a gun, she mused.

She clasped the crucifix that hung about her neck and promised that she would do penance for her faults the first chance she had. A week of celibacy should do it, she thought with a revival of humor.

Caitlin let out a little giggle at this absurdity. In the intoxication of her rage, she’d forgotten that, in his youth, Samuel had often been the prodigious clown. He would become embroiled in any foolish scrape, so that his father had dared not contemplate which tales were true and which were false.

Unexpectedly, a vivid memory of Samuel came to Caitlin…. It had been the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi. The blessing of the animals.

Poppies red against the white altar cloth, sunlight fanning through the stained-glass windows, reflections of gold and delicate rainbow hues spilling like treasure on the gray stone floor, worn over the centuries to the sheen of polished pewter. It was stuffy and airless in the church, and Caitlin wished they would open the door.

Heads were raised during the singing of the hymns and bowed during the blessing. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, with every parishioner bringing along some creature to be prayed over. It was so boring, until Samuel let the doctor’s white mice out of their cage right in the middle of the church service.

Later, when all the fuss was over, he excused himself, saying he’d thought it’d liven things up. Caitlin grinned. It sure did.

Farmer Johnson’s wife fainted away right there and then, and silly Margaret Reade climbed onto a pew and held her petticoats up so high that all the boys could see her drawers. Samuel and the other boys crawled round under the pews, ostensibly trying to catch the terrified mice, while getting a great lesson in what women wore under those voluminous skirts.

Later, saintly Caitryn stoutly agreed that Samuel deserved a medal for liberating the poor dumb animals. At the time, she cowered in the aisle with the other girls, gasping in horror, as if a great wickedness had been committed. It was foolish Caitlin who was caught standing with the open cage clutched between her hands and a guilty expression on her face.

Caitlin could picture Samuel plainly the moment he realized the enormity of his stunt, and somehow the memory of it now made her smile. He’d been parchment-white, his freckles bright as threepenny pieces on his face. But with an unflinching, reckless, scornful courage, he’d taken the empty cage from her, taking full blame for his actions.

“That was very stupid, Cat. My old man won’t like it one bit. I reckon he’ll just about raise the roof!”

Caitlin had stood in great anger against the wall. “Don’t speak to me, Samuel Jardine!” She had found it difficult to speak, knowing he would be beaten for his actions. “There’s nothing I want to say to you!”

She found a bright side to this unfortunate recollection. People did not change. Samuel was as honest now as he had been then. Would he have sent for her after all these years if he had another woman? Of course not!

A sly thought intruded, instinctive and unbidden. But what was the basis of these allegations? Truth? Fabrication? Both? Neither? she asked herself angrily.

In what manner had Samuel contributed to the sordid gossip? Surely the rumor could not be all fabrication?

Part of Caitlin was appalled at these pernicious thoughts. It was irrational. She knew it. But knowing didn’t stop the aggravation seething inside her. Somehow it seemed disloyal to Samuel to even consider such wicked notions.

Well, then, don’t think about such things! she berated herself.

Common sense reasserted itself. She reached down, picked up the candleholder from where it lay in silent reproach by the door and returned it to the narrow shelf. There was no point in wasting energy in worrying over false accusations. Work was always a panacea.

She untied the ribbons beneath her chin, pulled the dainty bonnet from her head, and tossed the frivolous confection onto her brass-studded trunk. Pulling up her sleeves, she set about making the tiny compartment comfortable.

Try as she might, while she folded linen industriously, her mind was elsewhere. How many times, as a young woman, had she dreamed her dreams and wondered what would happen if they came true? To be touched, to touch Samuel, to savor the textures of his hair and skin…

Caitlin shivered deep inside herself. She glanced at the narrow bunks, one above the other. Surely they could never, never be shared? That could not possibly be, she thought. Could what she had been told about the marriage act happen here? The thought sent a tiny thrill of excitement down her spine.

And what of Samuel? The brown, piercing eyes, as hot as the flame burning in the altar lamp—ah! Had she not looked into their depths and there read love for herself? Or had that been the product of her own imagination, a sort of wishful thinking on her part?

Stronger and stronger within her grew the certainty that she had already learned why Samuel acted as he did toward her. Little things. Simple things. The knowledge lurked somewhere inside her, hiding. Perhaps if she had eavesdropped longer, or even listened to the banker…

Somehow Samuel’s hesitation in greeting her at the dock now seemed ominous. She had put his odd behavior down to his nerves. To her excitement. She had thought she knew every passing mood of his tough, masculine features, but now she realized she did not know him at all.

Try as she might, she couldn’t dispel the thought. All because she had overheard a stupid conversation that was not intended for her ears, and which Samuel had claimed was false.

No. Samuel had not said that, another little voice whispered in her head. Samuel had simply made the disclaimer that this mysterious Zoe was not his mistress.

If the woman was not his mistress, who was she? And why was this unknown woman’s flamboyant name linked to Samuel’s in such a dishonorable way? That was what she’d wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. She was afraid to know the answer.

The nagging sense of feminine impotence began to irritate Caitlin. She sought to counter it in the only way she knew. She got angry again.

Damn Samuel for compromising himself like this, she thought fiercely. The idea infuriated her. He always had been a powerful fool, but he was not a simpleton.

Caitlin’s back teeth clenched in sudden tension as she deftly inspected the bundle of bed linens. If only the bunks were a decent wide double bed, with high pillows and enveloping sheets and blankets. She tried to ignore the discomfiting thoughts that washed through her, leaving her stranded with cold, solid facts.

The truth was, she was wicked and selfish, part of her admonished, while another part resented his leaving her here, alone in the cabin—even if she had provoked him and told him to go. As he had done once before. The world slid out from under her again in a belly-churning swoop and shudder.

Caitlin’s sensation of déjà vu was so strong that for a moment she staggered, and she had to grab the upright edge of the mahogany-and-brass trunk in order to keep herself from stumbling over the floorboards. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.

Once before, Samuel had left her, and though she knew the circumstances had been different, still he had gone at her command. Now, after all these years, was history about to repeat itself?

For an instant, Caitlin closed her eyes and thought of nothing at all. Then she recalled what Dr. Jardine had told her about loving Samuel, and his son’s determination to do any outrageous thing that he willed, with no care for the cost.

There are times, Caitlin, when you gain more by letting go, William had told her when Samuel left Cornwall. You are young now, but believe it or not, you will be glad Samuel has chosen his own path. It may be unfortunate, but one must at times make compromises, painful and uncertain though they may be.

Recalling William Jardine’s homily, Caitlin made a conscious effort to put aside her indignation. How could she speculate on Samuel’s former exploits? How could she believe a hot-blooded man hadn’t taken care of his needs? Better men than he had buckled under the strain of living in the wilderness.

Whatever she might wish, Samuel was a man among men, and he put his all into everything he did. He would get over her harsh words, she tried to convince herself. After all, there was no smoke without fire. And she hadn’t forced him into marriage, had she? He had no choice but to brazen the thing out.

It was all his fault, anyway. Let him straighten it out.

Another dark and disturbing realization struck Caitlin. It was just her pride that had been touched. It simply galled her pride to have her husband’s name denigrated. The Jardine name meant something in Cornwall. She meant to see that it remained that way.

With a shudder, Caitlin turned away from her thoughts, finished tidying the cabin, and glared at the door. She was angry at herself. She had never considered herself an intolerant woman, or an uncharitable one, and she found she was extremely discomfited by this sudden bitterness.

A noise at the door, footsteps and muffled laughter, tore her thoughts from the dark route they had taken. She straightened and went to peer along the dim passageway. Nothing unusual. Nothing at all.

Caitlin stared blindly in the direction her husband had gone. She wanted him—his closeness, his warmth, his strength, his immense desirability. How could she pretend otherwise? It had never, ever crossed her mind that she would travel three thousand miles to argue with her beloved Samuel within twenty-four hours.

She wanted to shout, in a frenzy. Instead, she must act the complacent little wife. She would not give the gossip-mongers the satisfaction of knowing they had created a rift between herself and her husband.

Devious adversaries demanded devious measures. Somehow, she must give Samuel time to consider and to reflect that she, Caitlin Jardine, was here, and that anything that had gone before was over.

Caitlin stood at the door, put on her bonnet and tied the broad green ribbons decisively beneath her chin. She had a plan. Her blood began to sing. It felt good to have a purpose again, to be caught up in stratagem and challenge, to have a cause to follow.

She would take one step at a time. She hurried past the cabin where they’d heard the laughter and wicked slander.

It was not long before she began to wonder if even one step at a time would prove to be too much. The moist, humid atmosphere wrapped itself around her like a damp towel as she stepped out of the dark passageway.

Above, the vast bowl of the sky, a breathtaking blue so lucid it seemed infinite, reflected itself in the sunlit water. It wasn’t just that it was hot; it was the humidity that made it uncomfortable. The deck smelled of humanity, and bilge water, and tar.

At several points along the length of the deck were small groups of people. A few steps from the passageway, a man in a woolen cap was stringing up hammocks, and Caitlin stood for a minute to watch.

Farther along, she saw a mother with a young baby in her arms, her husband and two small boys gathered around their baggage. The woman had a sweet face, though it was a little wan and tired, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

The woman’s eyes were piercing, and dwelled on Caitlin’s bonnet with an intentness that began to disturb her so palpably that she proceeded to move away, out of the range of her vision. She didn’t feel up to initiating a conversation with strangers right now.

The deck reeked of unwashed humanity, but overall there was a feeling of energy in the atmosphere. The air was alive with arguments and laughter. Two loggers were shouting at each other and jabbing their fists into the air, as if impaling flying insects, while another sucked on an orange, spitting the pips overboard.

Caitlin skirted several huddled forms. As she made her way forward, no one spoke to her, although several of the passengers cast glances at her and exchanged whispered comments.

Near the rail, a half-grown boy in a tatty blue waistcoat and black trousers he’d outgrown was supervising three squabbling children. All the sour smells that rose from the unclean bilge eddied about them.

A brown-bearded, brown-jacketed man, hurrying by in the manner of an anxious squirrel, muttered an apology when they nearly collided. The heat and the smell and the boat’s slight rocking motion began to nauseate her.

It must be her tense state of mind, combined with a lack of sleep, that made her slightly indisposed. She would feel better presently. She wiped her forehead, and when she took her hand away her glove was wet. This place was impossible!

And where was Eliza Freeman? Caitlin returned stubbornly to her search.

As the riverboat plied its way at a steady speed up the river, Samuel busied himself with pretended work in the cargo hold, checking Caitlin’s mountain of luggage and ensuring that the teamster had penned the livestock securely.

In this new perception and knowledge, his feelings were beyond endurance. He’d turned down Liam’s offer of a round of poker and conversation. His excuse was that the manifests needed to be in order for the next leg of the journey. He was certain Murphy wasn’t fooled.

Shut inside the hold, he inspected the bill of lading with an aching head, a sour, dry mouth, and the knowledge that he had done something there might be no forgiveness for. His mind refused reality, and he concentrated on the physical activity. By midmorning, he had gotten his breathing under control, and with it his temper.

In spite of his assurances, Samuel wasn’t sure that Caitlin was entirely satisfied with his denial of Liam’s foolish prattle, but he had made no further attempt to improve it. After his first denial of any relationship to Zoe, he felt devious and awkward, unable to think of any word of reassurance that was not a lie.

It seemed better to say nothing. He had not even taken the Irishman to task. When Liam found him, he’d looked startled, then stricken. “Oh, God, I really stepped in it this time. Damn my big mouth, anyway.”

Samuel had given his friend a narrow glance that spoke volumes on the subject of loose lips, but he hadn’t said anything. There was no point in taking offense at Murphy’s ideas of humor.

He stretched, every one of his senses taut and alive. He could not deny the pulsing in his body. All because of a woman, one with whom he had no business ever having involved himself. His intense physical attraction to Caitlin still surprised him. He was beginning to feel some slight uneasiness as to what the outcome might be.

All chickens eventually come home to roost. Whatever the future, he must accept it now. He had no option. Then Samuel remembered that it was his fate that had brought him this far. The marriage was his, just as his fate was his. He was its creator.

The headache didn’t go away all morning, even when he busied his mind. Checking the manifest did not ease the pain. He decided it might be best to keep from drinking too heavily too often, for it made him very slow-witted the morning after.

It was a temptation to go back to Caitlin, but he resisted. It was a battle within himself, but this was not a time for half measures. Instead, he thought of her. He thought of the touch of her lips on his, the smell of her and the feel of her.

Temptation indeed.

It had been a long time since he had had a woman, and his body was reminding him of that fact. Summer Dawn had died two, almost three winters ago, and he had been without a woman all that time. He had missed Summer Dawn so much.

Never could he tell Caitlin of the anger, the betrayal, the bitterness, the despair, that had conceived the vile plan that resulted in the letter that was never meant for her.

Better that she knew nothing.

Samuel let out his breath in an explosive sigh. But to abandon all his honor? Then what? He was utterly guilty, even if he regretted nothing of what he had done. He still was not sure why he had done it. Or rather, if he knew why he had done it, he still did not know why he had not stopped himself.

Indeed, for all of yesterday he had debated whether to tell Caitlin of the tumultuous circumstances that had led to that letter to Caitryn. He had determined to tell her the truth before the wedding ceremony, give her a chance to renege. But his mind had slowly changed, or had it been made up all the time, without his knowing it? He wondered now.

He was aware of a tremendous mixture of emotions. A sense of horror with himself for what he had done, for his misconceived missive, for his misjudged marriage, mingled with an enormous elation at the understanding he had just gained of his wife’s character. And mingled with that was a fierce determination to continue with the arrangement for as long as was necessary.

Or was there more to it than that? And what lay at the end of it? He spent the second half of the day’s journey deep in thought, his shoulders hunched and his eyes focused on the middle distance as he stared at the countryside that marched by the river bank, and tried to shake the spell of her away.

Minutes—hours?—later, the vibration of the riverboat’s powerful engine changed, deepening to a liquid gurgle as the craft hugged the outer limits of the waterway and, taking a long, sweeping curve, commenced a slow, almost ritualistic confrontation with the river’s strong current.

Samuel straightened. There was nothing especially exciting in the scenery, and it was getting late. He felt he had allowed Caitlin sufficient time to get over her ill humor, so he made his way back to their cabin. From past experience, he knew she did not stay mad long. Her tongue might be sharp, but she did not sulk.

In any case, he badly wanted a wash, and he was hungry.

Heart pounding, he hurried down the passageway, which was lit by a single lantern suspended from a deck beam. The beams themselves were so low that Samuel had to bend to avoid striking his head.

Repentance was not a familiar sentiment for him, and he wanted to get it over with. He began rehearsing suitably contrite phrases under his breath, the words of confession and forgiveness forming on his lips, even as his mind revolted at his intent.

On the threshold, some inner sense made the hair on his neck seem to prickle, and he checked his stride. He stood before the closed door, his hand on the knob. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then, throwing caution to the wind, he flung open the door.

The words died on his tongue. He could not stem his swift intake of breath.

His eyes skirted the tiny compartment. Boxes and trunks seemed to take up every available inch of space. A pale-faced woman, dressed in an unbecoming shade of brown, sat on a battered trunk and nursed an infant. On her head was a narrow-brimmed bonnet trimmed with feathers. But the crown of the bonnet was crushed out of shape, and the feathers were limp.

A stooped, rawboned man of medium build, whose cheeks bore the scars of a childhood bout with smallpox, stood beside her. Two scruffy children sat on the floor at their feet, playing with some jackstraws.

Caitlin knelt beside them, her skirts bunched in a wild rumple about her. Samuel was so dumbfounded, all he could do was stand in the doorway and stare at his wife stupidly.

“Oh, Samuel.” Her head came up. She swallowed and lifted her eyes to his. He could see her cheeks were flushed. “This is Eliza Freeman, her husband Tom, and their children. They traveled with me on the Angelica.”

There was a depth of emotion in Samuel that he couldn’t touch, dared not feel. Right now, what he wanted most was to be alone with Caitlin. He wanted her. That much his body was telling him.

He tensed all of his muscles, got his breathing firmly under control, and ducked his head as he stepped inside. He carefully negotiated his way round the children, and held out his hand.

“Evening, Freeman,” he said, with a slight questioning tilt of his head. But the rough, pockmarked countenance regarded him with an odd expression, as though the fellow were gathering his courage.

Tom Freeman smiled respectfully and took his hand, but said nothing, as if he were not brave enough to speak. Caitlin looked uncomfortable, suddenly. Now Samuel wondered what she had done—if she had done anything.

Samuel suddenly went cold all over. He was not going to ask. He didn’t want to hear what this family and all their baggage were doing in his cabin.

Caitlin sprang to life. She rose to pace the room, circling the children with quick, nervous steps. She stood before him, half defiant, half afraid, and thoroughly desirable. Desire started a slow coil in his gut.