Читать книгу Bogus Bride - Emily French - Страница 9

Bay of Fundy, Summer 1842

Caitlin stood and braced herself with one palm against the ship’s bow. The world was filled with cold, blustery movement and the steady surge of waves. Her eyes crinkled against the sharp, cool, salt-laden moisture that sprayed her face. She leaned into the motion, the rail pressed against her waist, enjoying the breeze.

Great gray gulls tossed screaming in the upper air. Below her, the water whooshed by, pale, ribboning in the sunlight, swirling against the ship’s prow. They were within hours of landing, and to Caitlin, the clipper ship seemed swept along with steely purpose.

The ship’s port of call was Saint John. Once she and Samuel were married, they would journey to River de-Chute before setting off for the small backwoods settlement of Fairbanks, where Samuel operated his lumber business. She had spent much time preparing to be a good wife, but it was hard not to feel just a little afraid.

Not for a moment did she think Samuel would have changed. Not at all. He was still only thirty…She saw him as she had seen him last, in the Savannah’s dinghy as it skimmed across the harbor, tall and broad and straight, with big shoulders and a fine, strong, square face, his clear eyes fixed on her, and her alone. Ah! Had she not looked into their depths and there read love for herself?

That was the image of him that she had carried in her heart, and she had no difficulty in imagining the image of herself that he had carried through all these years, the image of a spirited woman whose steadfastness would be his redemption and whose love would be his salvation. For she loved the man to whose side she was hasting with a love that had neither height nor depth, nor any other measure, but was just all of her.

Caitlin’s heart danced a little jig. Elation surged through her. If even the thought of her had upheld him through the years of loneliness, what would her presence do? She felt a glow of delight already at the thought of the bliss of their mutual love, and the sweetness of home life together.

“Had no idea you were wantin’ to get married this side of the border, old son. Why all this cloak-and-dagger charade?”

Groaning inwardly, Samuel Jardine turned around at the sound of the soft Irish accent. Leaning back against the wall, his arms folded over his belt, his partner and best friend looked challengingly at him.

Liam Murphy was above average height, with hair the color of a midsummer wheatfield and piercing blue eyes. He had a snub nose and a deep dimple in his chin, as if someone had poked him with a finger and left an impression in the flesh.

Samuel smiled thinly. It was the sort of smile he would give to a stranger.

“Some things are meant to be kept to oneself, Murphy.” Even to himself, his voice sounded harsh. He struggled to lighten it. “I had to make sure that you came to Saint John, Liam. We have a contract for delivery of a million feet to sign, remember?”

Murphy looked blank for a second. Then he grinned. “We’ve five limits untouched, and we can scale around ten million feet of first-class timber from any one of ’em, so Conrad Hatt’s contract is no great problem. It’s more than that. Feeling nervous, Sam?”

“Not a bit,” Samuel answered, feeling the heat invade his cheeks. Was he nervous? Surely not. To cover his embarrassment, he poured strong black tea into a tin mug and pushed it across the slab-timber tabletop. Murphy smiled back, showing very white, very strong teeth. He held out his hand, palm upward.

“Mother Mary, you should be. All the best husbands are nervous on their wedding days, just as all good wives are nervous on their wedding nights.”

A black look speared Murphy. When Samuel spoke, it was without inflection. “It’s a bad time for investment, and I want all accounts squared. We’ve got to get the timber out of the woods and boomed in the water, ready to tow to the mills, before we can thumb our nose at Sagamore and his henchmen.”

A look of concern crossed Liam’s cheery face. “The Angelica docks in an hour. Maine’s a rough country, and with trouble brewing between the rival lumber camps, perhaps it’d be best not to take a wife upriver. If you have any regrets, there is still time to change your mind, Sam. The wedding arrangements can be canceled.”

Samuel didn’t want to speculate on that. He stood upright with a jerk. “I’m not changing my mind about anything. Murphy.” He spoke succinctly, and smiled the smile of a captain prepared to go down with his ship. “There isn’t a man anywhere in God’s universe who knows what he wants better than I do. My bride has waited ten years and traveled three thousand miles for this marriage,” he said, in a tone that meant “And that is that.”

Sunlight glanced dully off the thick, low bollards and the secured mooring lines. Crowds of visitors—men, women and children—lined the wharf. Eyes wide, Caitlin anxiously scanned the blur of faces.

Could she venture among the crowd, she wondered, to meet and greet Samuel, before so many interested and curious eyes? Her heart beat, and her eyes swam in a happy mist at the prospect. Steadying herself against the rail, she tried to focus on the dock, and sweep its limited space, so that she might find the figure she sought.

The letter in which he had fixed the day of her arrival lay in her reticule. It had been only brief, and hinted at, rather than expressed, the passion of his soul. When he saw her, he would tell her that he cared, and how much. After all, there had been neither bond nor promise between them, not even an ordinary goodbye.

“Cat!”

She leaned over the rail. A little gasp came from her lips. There was Samuel! Yes, it was him, pushing through the crowd on the quay, his hat in his hand. His hair was the same tossed, untidy chestnut mop, but his strong, lean body seemed larger, more overpowering than she had remembered. And his face looked sterner. The arched nose and high cheekbones seemed more prominent, the line of the mouth harder.

“Samuel! Samuel!”

Caitlin scrambled to the wharf level. Impossibly tall, terrifying in his imposing presence, he stuck out his strong, square hand as he would to a long-lost friend.

“Good to see you, Caitlin. You haven’t changed at all. You’re a picture in your fine gown.”

What was wrong? she wondered, watching Samuel’s aloof face from under lowered lashes. He was behaving as if she were someone he had just met. She smiled as she gripped the hard fingers. His hand seemed to dwarf hers, and the top of her forehead barely reached his shoulders.

“You look different,” she managed breathlessly. “I hardly recognized you.”

“A man doesn’t get anywhere on his appearance in this country, Cat, especially when he’s a lumberjack. He shucks off a lot of things he used to think were quite essential,” he answered, with just a ghost of his remembered smile.

It was a strange and unfamiliar Samuel who looked toward the clipper, his figure set and still. The shadow of something came and went across his face. A soft breeze ruffled his hair, and then it was calm again. He looked her over again.

“Where is Caitryn?” His voice sounded a little stilted.

Caitlin smiled as she saw the deep furrows appear on Samuel’s forehead. She wanted to throw herself into his embrace, but was paralyzed, while vagrant feelings she could barely comprehend rose and fell within her. Love, excitement, joy and, above all, sheer nerves reduced the moment to one of almost unbearable rapture.

She extricated her hand from his. “She could not come.”

Samuel’s face went dead white. There was an odd, shuttered reticence in the high cheekbones, the arrogantly-arched nose and the proud mouth. He looked out along the inlet of the bay at the sun-sparked waves, the small fishing boats scudding along with the wind, as if they were objects whose purpose he could no longer quite comprehend.

What was wrong? Caitlin wondered desperately. Why was he treating her with this distant courtesy? Had she been wrong? Had he truly intended that letter for Caitryn? No! Her mind rejected that notion.

“Samuel!”

Samuel turned back to Caitlin. He slanted her a hardedged glance. His strong jaw clenched as he watched her. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel his intent gaze, as if he were probing her inner thoughts.

The sensation made her uneasy. A strange awareness settled in her. Was he sorry that he had sent for her? She swallowed.

He hesitated a moment. “I had thought she would come.”

Something in Samuel’s voice made Caitlin say, “She is to join the Little Sisters of Saint Teresa, and wanted to prepare herself through prayer and devotions. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

There was a distinct pause. His expression hardened. He stood there like a stuck image, his face set. Sudden, irrational fear gripped her. This blankness, this cessation of eagerness, disturbed her. He seemed strangely alien.

Caitlin looked away from him, seeking the indistinguishable line where sea met sky. She licked dry lips. What was it? Anything was possible, and it was always dangerous to jump to conclusions.

Apprehension went through her. Had she been wrong? Could her father have been right? If Samuel had truly cared, would he have waited ten years to write? Did he simply need a wife?

Caitlin’s own attraction was like a pulse, a living thing existing deep inside her, separate and undeniable. She shook her head in bewilderment. Surely he could feel it? Or was that wishful thinking? Had she miscalculated the depth of his feeling? Had she made her attraction, her desire, his? The questions sent a small chill down her spine.

True, she had none of her sister’s fair beauty: golden hair, blue eyes, and small, delicate mouth. But she had added strengths, an enviable mastery of language and art, a more profound knowledge of medicine and science than even Samuel’s father, and she was fiercely protective of her lover. In truth, she suspected that she was the only one who understood Samuel.

Her eyes flicked to his face. He looked so…remote. She ruthlessly squashed her doubts. Come the night, she would be married to Samuel, in a place more appropriate to direct speech, with full honesty. Now wasn’t the moment for frank discussion.

He looked singularly uncomfortable. She could feel his discomfiture; it was like rubbing up against a rusty scow. What should she do?

She resisted the urge to touch him. Instead, she clasped her hands tightly together. It was going to be difficult curbing her own far more dynamic, often impulsive nature. She took a deep breath, let it out in a rush.

“What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to kiss me, Samuel? Is there something wrong?”

He looked at her with surprise, as if he had forgotten she was there. His hand closed upon her shoulder. Caitlin seemed to feel the whole man vibrate behind it, like a steel spring. She watched him with an expectant, eager expression, curious as to how his kiss would feel.

Then, just as suddenly as he had frowned, his face cleared. The serious look left his mouth, to be replaced by a lazy smile. He was once more her Samuel, the Samuel she loved.

Very gently, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was the merest brush of his lips over the trembling warmth of her mouth. Before she could encircle his neck with her slim arms, he had pulled away.

He traced the delicate line of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand, and sighed. “I’d best sort out your baggage, and get you to the hotel. You’ll have time for a rest. I’ve arranged for Kate Flaherty to help you dress. The marriage ceremony is at seven. The river steamer leaves at first light.”

Caitlin did not demur, but stood and watched Samuel disappear down the companionway amidships, to see about her luggage. She felt a little dazed, for some intuition warned her that something had gone amiss.

Was this the welcome of a man passionately in love? If he did not return her love, the bonds would be those of duty and obligation. That was not what she wanted, to be trapped by her impulsive, sensual nature into a lifetime of guilt and bitterness. Then she shook the doubt away.

It was not the greeting or the embrace she had expected, but the immense tenderness of it was very sweet, more suited to a public place than passion. Of course, this was perfectly logical.

What she hadn’t expected was the change in Samuel.

This man was not the same person she had loved so passionately ten years earlier. This man was taller than she remembered, his face harder, stronger, his skin burned brown by the wind and sun.

Ten years of pioneer life had changed Samuel almost beyond recognition. He was not the slim, cocksure youngster willing to be tormented by the nearness of a silly young girl. No longer would he be easily led into mischief, or easily provoked to anger.

This man was a stranger. He would go where he wanted, and do what he wanted at the time and place of his choosing. He was in control of himself, and he would not be manipulated.

When she thought of Samuel, a curious fluttering warmth uncurled in her stomach, leaving her heart pounding and her knees weak. Caitlin supressed a shiver, appalled at the wildness of the emotion that flooded her.

What had she done? What had she done?

She was here, and that was that, with an ocean between her and home, with a man she had not seen for ten years. In a panic, she wondered wildly what she would do if he sent her away. She would survive, of course, but, she asked herself, to what purpose?

She was trying to calm her frantic thoughts when she felt his hand touch her arm. Ever so gently, he stroked the in? side of her bare elbow. Suddenly, as if by magic, her legs stopped trembling and her breath fluttering.

She smiled faintly, with relief. She knew she had no need to fear. She was there. The bridegroom was there. Pride was there, as well. The wedding was prepared. There was no need to feel concern. She’d take her chances.

Now on to getting married. The sooner the better.

In the church, only trivial things caught her attention. The scrubbed wooden floor, the plain glass on the windows, and the single red flame that burned before the altar.

Fiercely she concentrated on the lamp’s mystic glow as she repeated everything that was said to her in a low, almost inaudible voice. She felt Samuel move beside her and wrenched her eyes from the behavior of the solitary sanctuary lamp to look down as he slipped the gold wedding ring over her knuckles.

Caitlin’s eyes opened, flared. Samuel made a small, hoarse sound, as if his voice were clotted with emotion. With a shock of surprise, she realized that he was taking her arm. The service was over and she hadn’t heard a word, nor did she remember making the necessary responses.

Married…Married… It was done. Her confidence came up with a surge. It had been easy enough, after all, becoming Mrs. Samuel Jardine, by name at least. As for the rest—the triumph that flooded her at the thought of her audacious success shut out any thought of what was to follow.

Astonishing. It was done. The terrible finality struck Samuel Jardine. He had married the wrong woman!

Samuel took a long draft, half draining the glass he clenched in his hand. He grimaced. Straight whiskey never did appeal to him, but it might help unravel his knotted stomaeh.

Hell and damnation! What had he done to himself? Walked into it with his eyes open, as well. How could he have been such a fool? Such a goddamned honorable fool? But he had been unable to resist the appeal in Caitlin’s wide eyes and trembling lips. In that brief moment when he could have, should have, spoken the truth, she reminded him of the child of yesteryear whose generosity and wisdom had changed his life, and of today’s child, Zoe, who needed the same big heart and clear vision. Had he been mistaken? He’d never had a thought like that about Caitlin before.

Sudden, irrational fear gripped him. He felt savage, mortified to the marrow of his bones. His fingers clenched almost white on the glass. What do I do now? The chaotic thought whirled around in his brain. Everything in his body and brain and blood screamed out to him to run, to save himself. Too late.

His thumb moved along the glass. He frowned, his eyes focused on the bottom of his glass. He was not at all accustomed to impulsive action on his own part, and yet he’d married Caitlin Parr an hour ago.

Dammit. Why was nothing ever easy? How had it happened?

Samuel put his glass down on the polished timber bar and ran a hard, call used finger slowly around the rim. What a fool I am, he thought. There was no future for them. Not when his bride should have been her sister, Caitryn.

He heaved a great sigh. He’d written to Caitryn. At least he’d meant to write to Caitryn—not her sister, Caitlin.

Despair gripped him. How could he have been so stupid as to confuse the names? But, of course, he wasn’t stupid at all. On the contrary, he was considered very shrewd, with a reputation from Montreal to Philadelphia for his sound business acumen. And he certainly was under no illusions about which sister he had wanted to marry—and it was not the sharp-tongued Caitlin.

In fact, he had never been able to be in the same room with Caitlin for more than ten minutes without finding her an aggravation. She was as irritating as a burr in a man’s breeches, and here he was shackled to her!

Liam Murphy’s voice cut across Samuel’s thoughts. “Don’t look so glum, Sam. A wedding’s meant to be a joyous occasion, not one for soaking yourself in whiskey.”

Samuel stiffened, his back going ramrod-straight. “What would you know?”

“I thought I knew you, Sam, an’ now I have me doubts. You’re not a drinkin’ man, so you must be the jealous type who resents your little woman dancin’ with every jobber in Saint John. Am I right?” Liam asked with a smug look. He raised an eyebrow archly, as if amused at his own foolish witticism.

Little woman. The phrase grated. Caitlin was small, Samuel could not deny that. Almost fragile. But that was deceptive. No one knew better than he that Caitlin’s delicate exterior hid a tough, shrewd interior, one that was resilient and held its own secrets. The innocence, the sweetness, were all Caitryn’s—which had been one of the reasons for his offer of marriage.

He flicked his eyes toward the dance floor, where his bride was dancing a reel with one of their wedding guests. Her face was aglow with enthusiasm, and even from this distance her eyes sparkled like the sun cutting across shards of ice.

One must admit, she was an elfin creature, all dark hair and wide eyes. Though one could not approve the nuance of recklessness in the faint tilt of the green eyes, one had to admire the porcelain skin, heart-shaped face and deeply etched, sensual lips.

The movement of the dance created an empty space between them, and they gazed at each other across it. Her head was tilted back now, her long cat eyes watching him.

Jealous type. The truth came unbidden and unwelcome, hitting Sam like a blow to the stomach. Dismay, stupefaction, guilt and desire swept him up in an intolerable chaos. His male hunger simmered just below the surface. It filled him with hot blood.

It was irrational, this surge of desire. This is Caitlin, not Caitryn, he reminded himself. He shook his head. She might not be his first choice as a bride, but Caitlin was certainly delectable. She made this so damn difficult.

Samuel didn’t know what it was about the woman that disturbed him. The idea of taking her to bed was driving him to distraction. The heat leaked up from his neck to his cheeks, circling his ears. He prayed Caitlin didn’t notice, but that was too much to ask.

As she was spun into the dance, Caitlin rotated her head so that she could keep him in her line of vision. She raised her delicate eyebrows in a subtle challenge. The woman had a way of taunting him without even opening her mouth.

Samuel had the oddest feeling that those extraordinary green eyes were seeing right through into his thoughts. He hoped not. He had to force himself to look away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped at the Irishman. His voice lacked conviction even to his own ears. Murphy made a wry face.

Samuel considered taking refuge in silence, then changed his mind as, he looked at the Irishman. He’d have to do better, or Liam would be on to him.

“It’s not very civilized in Fairbanks, so this is probably the only chance Caitlin will have to show off her city finery.” He was glaring at Murphy now, so hard his eyes ached with the effort. “A logging camp in Maine isn’t exactly Paris.”

The wide smile disappeared. Liam eyed him thoughtfully, hesitated a moment. “I was only joking.” Murphy took a long swallow of whiskey. “Then again, maybe I wasn’t. My advice is to let the little lady have one last fling, ’n’ enjoy herself with all them handsome young bucks twirlin’ her about the dance floor, before she’s claimed by her lover and has all them wifely duties to attend.”

Awareness hit Samuel immediately as a tremendous surge in his loins. He felt it right in the center of his stomach. Like a kick. Claimed by her lover. The words echoed in his head.

What was he letting the woman do to him, for God’s sake? The answer was far too disturbing. His whole body was seething with unreleased tension and sensual excitement.

Mentally he chastised himself for his own weakness but the unexpected response of his body was unnerving, as was the strangely possessive, yet uncomfortably vengeful, sensation he was experiencing. Setting snares for women apparently wasn’t his forte.

At that moment, Samuel decided to get drunk. Soaking himself in whiskey was exactly what he needed. In spite of everything, his mouth curved faintly.

“Sure, why not? The end result will be the same. She is my wife.”

Murphy narrowed his eyes at Jardine’s display of male possessiveness. “You’re not worried about Sagamore, are you?” It was a statement, not a question.

Just don’t screw up now and ruin everything, Samuel finished wryly in his head. Something in his mind shied away from abandoning the project he’d planned for his bogus bride. It was becoming very important to make it work.

He shook his head once, very determinedly. “An uppity, unpredictable, difficult female like Caitlin will send that jackass on his way with a flea in his ear.”

“Sounds like you’re having regrets already.”

There was a sharpness to Liam’s tone that startled Samuel, and the bland innocence in the Irishman’s gaze made him decidedly wary. He made a disagreeable sound in the back of his throat.

“Certainly not. I haven’t seen Caitlin for ten years, and I’m feeling a mite nervous.”

Murphy made a face. “There’s a paradox there somewhere, but I’m damned if I know what it is.” His eyes flicked to the dance floor. “Just know if it was my missus, I wouldn’t have time to be nervous. I’d have her in bed quick smart ’n’ let nature take its course. And I wouldn’t be sittin’ here swilling whiskey like some drunken fool an’ abusin’ her feelin’s.”

A faint tingling warning came alive in Samuel’s head as he scanned the dance floor with his eyes, seeking his bride. The reception room was crowded. Saint John society adored parties, and guests danced with eager faces, the men in formal dress, the women bright as flowers, their hair bound up with silver combs.

There she was, dancing with Martinus Soule, the tails of the banker’s frock coat flying out as they spun about the floor. Samuel clenched his teeth and absorbed the scene.

As he followed her progress through the dance, he experienced a sense of déjà vu so acute he felt momentarily dizzy. She was wearing a gown of white satin with a pale green sash and a low bodice from which her breasts swelled in becoming fashion. Between them, shifting and gleaming with each movement of her bosom, was the simple silver crucifix he had given her on her sixteenth birthday….

They’d sneaked out of that party so that Caitlin could show Samuel the mare her father had bought for her. A full moon had shone through the barred windows of the stable. In his mind, he saw her face dappled in moonlight, moving from shadow to shadow.

She’d stumbled, and he’d reached out toward her. “Careful, Cat. You’re such a tiny thing—a real shrimp. I’ll bet you’ve got the hem of that gown all dirty.”

“Who cares about a silly old dress. And you can find a better thing to call me than a shrimp, surely?”

Her face had shone like a playful puppy’s, all innocence and light. Samuel had felt a shared intimacy, and it had made him careless. He’d been thinking of her in an oblique fashion. He would be twenty-one in another week, but he would be gone by then. Somehow his imminent departure had triggered in him an intense sadness.

“A pixie? An elf? A fairy? A sprite? A witch?” Each question had been interspersed with a kiss. The first on her forehead, the second on her nose, the third on her ear, the fourth on her neck, the fifth on her mouth.

By that time, his knees were weak, his hands less than steady, and all he was aware of was the heavy weight between his thighs. Desire was a physical ache. Her mouth was open, all moist, warm invitation. She had been so wild, so sweet, that he wanted to part her soft thighs and feel that honeyed warmth wash over him.

He was, in short, so enchanted that when she took his hands and pressed them to her breasts, taut with passion, he savored the sweetness beneath his fingers. They kissed long and deep, their tongues exploring for the first time.

It was madness, he knew, and for a second he began to pull away. But then he felt her fingers undo the flap of his trousers, move across his flesh, saw that languid, lustful look in her eyes, and he melted inside.

Caitlin’s sleek head came forward, through bars of shadow and light. He saw the pink of her tongue tip, bright and shining as it passed through a swath of light just before it touched him. A sigh like a cloud riding high on warm wind and sunlight escaped her lips as she traced his long length upward.

“Go on,” he said thickly. His chest heaved. “Go on.”

His eyes closed in exquisite pleasure as she explored the nerve on the underside of the thickening head. Her open lips engulfed him slowly, slowly and so wetly. Spirals of ecstasy swirled with each swipe of her tongue, and he groaned deep in his chest as liquid heat rushed up his body.

Her lips lifted and she stared into his face, her eyes huge and glassy. “Love me, Samuel,” she said to him. “Love me, now.”

And Samuel, his manhood quivering with tension, slid to his knees, moved against her. But that was as far as he got.

Sound brushed through Samuel’s mind. A noise at the stable doorway. It was Caitlin’s father. Caitlin scrambled up, retreating now to the mare’s stall. Streamers of hay flew from her skirts, attaching themselves to his broadcloth trousers.

The squire had given him an ultimatum. Get out of England or his father would be told of the incident. As he boarded the Savannah, he had had the taste of ashes in his mouth as the sight of Caitryn exacerbated his guilt. She had not even said a word to him. Perhaps he had called out to her. He did not remember.

He thrust the memory away sharply, turned again to the dancers. Elfin Caitlin might be, but she had a nice shape, curves in all the right places. She had an unconscious grace, and her slim hips swayed in an enticing manner. He did not think she did it on purpose. She always had been a spritely creature.

Samuel idly swirled his drink and watched the candlelight spinning off her glossy black hair as she tilted her swanlike neck to the music. The arch of her throat made him feel heavy in his chest. Her vivid smile generated conflicting emotions deep within him. His hunger was like a pulse, a living thing existing deep inside him, separate and undeniable.

Samuel knew now that nothing would permanently slow or alter the quick, impatient way Caitlin moved. What was she now? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Her character was volatile, complex, and her restless intellect reached out for knowledge that was neither attractive nor necessary in a woman.

It was ridiculous, of course, but he felt the tension growing inside of him. He felt his insides clench, and he could hear the rushing of his blood in his inner ears as if it were part of a spring thaw. His hammering heart seemed to be threatening to choke him.

God, this was torture! He had not lain with a woman in a long, long time. Another dismaying thought flitted through Samuel’s mind. What of Caitlin? Why had she come all this way to marry him?