Bogus Bride

Murphy lifted his glass in the faintest of salutes. “You are sunk deep in thought, my friend.”

Samuel brushed at his trousers, staring absently at his hand. “The border dispute must be settled. There’s been more trouble. Heard Morgan’s boom was busted.”

“There’s hiring at Sagamore’s.”

“How many?” That Sagamore’s was hiring surprised him, since most lumber mills were not Only two weeks before, the deCarteret mill had dismissed fifty workers, because shingle production had fallen.

“I don’t know how many they’re taking on. I’m trying to find out.”

“If Sagamore’s recruiting this early in the season, seems he must be expecting a big consignment. It can only mean the land agents intend turning a blind eye to trespass and cutting on Maine territory for yet another season.”

“Very active, these trespassers, Sam. I don’t like it.” Open indignation tinged Liams’s voice.

Samuel shrugged. “We’ll deal with them, if we have to.”

“Hush, Sam. Don’t say the words, else sure it is that you will wish them unsaid tomorrow.” Even when he was serious the Irishman’s lips seemed to quiver with a barely controlled smile.

“It’s what comes of Tyler’s bein’ president,” Samuel went on, peering at the bottom of his glass in disgust. “Despite election promises, it seems Fairbanks is too far away to serve legal processes and too expensive to employ military ejection.”

“I thought we weren’t going to mention that.” Murphy spoke easily, his voice deep, but there was a stiffness in his features.

Samuel let out his breath in a long sigh. His partner had a timberman’s suspicion of any type of federal intervention. “Politics is a complicated affair. It’s a big country, but the lumber trade is a small community.” He held out his empty glass for a refill. “I’ve no political sympathies, only instincts, and they shy away from cheats.”

As Murphy poured in a generous measure of whiskey, Samuel’s eyes moved slowly to settle on Caitlin’s face. She was watching him, her pointed, fawnlike face lit as if from within. It was as if she were drawing him into herself, so that he had no will of his own. Soon, he thought, he would have to go to her. Samuel knew he could not delay much longer. He was running out of time.

He sighed and took another drink. He would go to her. He would do his duty. Yes, duty, that was what it would be. He saw that clearly now. This marriage would be a constant reminder to himself that he was a deserter, that he had shirked his duty when his father needed him. Yes, it was fitting.

Chills ran up Samuel’s spine. Somehow, in retrospect, every major turning point in his life had been associated with Caitlin Parr. He had known her since childhood, though he knew that this did not make her any more easy to understand.

Some things never changed.

Caitlin Parr—no, Caitlin Jardine—had been a strong-willed, reckless girl from the moment he had met her. She’d burst into his life like a miniature whirlwind, disrupting the even tenure of his existence.

Samuel winced, remembering.

He had been only a boy of thirteen when his father went to Cornwall to set up a medical practice in Port Isaac. Samuel had been born late in his parents’ married life, and his delicate mother had not recovered from the difficult birth. She had taken to her room until her death some ten years later, and her son had grown up without a woman’s soft, gentle touch.

For all his height and strength and the maturity of his thirteen years, he saw no reason for a tidy house, no purpose in study, no sense in putting on clean clothes that would only become soiled, and no logic in trying to tame his shock of curly chestnut hair. Never was a male so much in need of female attention or so blissfully unaware of his need.

Dr. William Jardine, a massive man with rough-and-ready manners, possessed a notoriously incendiary temper. He could intimidate the bravest man, but he could not understand or handle his obstinate son.

They were in the middle of a loud argument when a ball came bouncing through the open door of their cottage. Later, it occurred to Samuel that the ever-curious Caitlin had only been angling for an opening, an excuse to cross into forbidden territory.

She danced across the threshold on eager little feet and took in the room in one glance: the cracked stone floor, the peeling paper on the walls, the armchairs with the stuffing oozing from torn leather like purulent wounds, the shelves stacked with interesting bottles, and mysterious odds and ends strewn over the table. She glanced at William, at Samuel, then grinned and came forward with a little hop, skip and bounce.

Caitlin halted in front of Samuel. She made a sympathetic murmur, then hid her mouth behind one hand. “You sound as though you were on the losing end of the argument.”

Samuel made no attempt at reply. He froze inwardly. Green eyes. He had never seen green eyes before. He searched those bright, intelligent eyes, transfixed.

Tense silence fell.

Samuel realized that he was holding his breath and staring, and he let air out deliberately and breathed in again. A new voice, unmistakably feminine, distracted him.

“Cat?” A beat of silence, then the sound of feet approaching the door. The lyrical sound of a young girl’s soprano floated through the open shutter. “Cat? Where are you?”

Dark lashes lowered to partially conceal the green gaze Caitlin took a step, stopped, and said over her shoulder “It’s safe, Cait. You can come in.” It was her expression that told Samuel she was far from pleased about something

There was the sound of feet. Caitryn crept in like a frightened mouse. She was like an angel, a real-life cherub with fair ringlets, great blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. She looked at Samuel. Then she lowered her eyes from his face and quickly looked away, as if it hurt her to look at him.

Not so the bold Caitlin. That one took a step closer. She scanned his father’s rooms. There was a sense of reckless energy about Caitlin, a dynamic, almost rash force that Samuel later came to understand, was an intrinsic part of her nature.

“Oh, how disappointing. I thought there would be blood and guts everywhere. Being a doctor’s surgery, and all that.” The surprise in her tone was obvious.

Samuel made a soft noise of disbelief. William Jardine crossed his arms. He fixed a forbidding stare on Caitlin Her heavy, dark hair had escaped its ribbons and was lying tossed and untidy in joyous disarray across her shoulder. She did a little jig—like an intoxicated little bird.

William snorted and glanced around his chamber. There was a line, thin and deep as a knife cut, between his eyebrows. He stroked his beard. “It lacks a woman’s touch. My wife is dead. Which is why my son neglects his chores,” he replied brutally.

His heavy face looked as if it had been carved in wood, so still and stern it seemed. It was an expression that brought excuses immediately to Samuel’s lips.

“It is clean—only a little untidy,” Samuel said, bravado elevating his chin. He knew he sounded insolent, but he could not help himself.

Caitlin seemed not to notice the threatening atmosphere. She treated William with a casual irreverence that Samuel could only marvel at, and certainly could not hope to imitate.

“I am Caitlin Parr. This is Caitryn, my sister. The squire would not be averse if your son joined us for lessons, Dr. Jardine. He says all children should have regular lessons. Our tutor knows Latin and Greek, and Mama would see that he changes his shirt and bathes frequently. It would be good for him.” She spoke primly. Even at nine years, her clear brain led her to make an unerring attack upon the paternal sense of duty.

Samuel had stood there, crimson-cheeked with mortification. He studied the rather grim expression on his father’s face, and decided that the girl’s preposterous suggestion was being considered very seriously, as if there were some question about whether or not it would be accepted. He shrugged. It was all one to him. He didn’t care.

“Caitlin and Caitryn. Too much alike. Cat and Cait. Too confusing,” Samuel said, determined to be perverse. He knew he was beginning to sound rude, but he couldn’t help it. The green eyes bored into him. For a gleeful instant, he thought she was going to blow up.

“Would you come? I’ve always wanted a brother.” Caitryn smiled a smile that gripped Samuel smack in the middle. What sweet words. His shy, lonely heart lightened, lifted.

“Oh,” he said with soaring joy, forgetting his vexation with the angel’s older sister. “I’d consider it an honor to be your brother, Caitlin.”

“I’m so glad!” She smiled all over her little cherub’s face. “But you’ve mixed us up. She’s Caitlin. I’m Caitryn.

Caitlin gave him a furious look, as if she’d taken a grip on her resolve. She found an unexpected ally.

William’s voice was stern. “That’s settled, then! You need proper schooling, Samuel, else weakness of memory and confusion of brain will land you in a fine mess one of these days.”

Caitlin cast a glance at William. “If I am ever so quiet and well behaved, Dr. Jardine, can I come and watch, and—maybe when I am bigger—help you?”

Samuel almost laughed, seeing how disconcerted his father looked, as if he thought that the girl was an alien creature. He felt a flare of grudging admiration for her impudence.

To his surprise, William laughed. “I’ll think about it,” he said, but Samuel knew him well enough to see that he liked Caitlin’s bold approach.

And so, the Parrs took Samuel in, and Caitlin won over William Jardine with her high spirits and rebellious nature.

Grace Parr had been so taken with the life of King Henry VIII and his many wives that she had named her daughters after the ill-fated Catherine Parr. The similarity in pronunciation confused the child Samuel and, much to everyone’s amusement, he was forever getting their names mixed up.

The large, rambling house, hunkered by the edge of Bodmin Moor, had soon become a second home to the doctor’s son. His hair slicked back, his face scrubbed and polished, his jacket brushed, he’d visited the Parrs as often as possible. While Caitlin teased and tormented, Caitryn had smiled and soothed.

Samuel topped up his glass from the bottle of rye resting on the counter. He tried not to think ahead. Yet an unwilling dream enveloped him. He saw Caitryn waiting. He pictured her opening his letter with hope in her face….

He took a mouthful of the strong liquor, and wrinkled his nose. A voice in his head told him he had indeed had more than enough whiskey, but a louder voice cried out for more.

He made wet circles on the polished timber counter with the bottom of his glass. Why the hell was he thinking of the past now? It must be the whiskey. Too much grog made a man maudlin. And while drink was not one of his vices, he needed something to dull the pain.

In life, Samuel knew, one not only had to cross bridges, but one had to cross them at the proper time. Around went the empty glass. The trouble was, he had just burned his bridges. He shoved the empty glass toward Murphy with a violent motion.

Caitryn was the woman he should have married. Not Caitlin. Caitlin had been the bane of his life.

Damn, he needed time to comprehend the merging of past and present, to let the scattered pieces fall gently into place. Besides, he was in too far for backing out, now that he’d taken vows in front of the altar.

Samuel took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, accepted the refilled glass. His bride had a lot to answer for! He could still remember his father’s anger that his son of nineteen years had endangered the lives of the thirteen-year-old Caitryn and her fifteen-year-old sister.

And it hadn’t been Samuel’s fault Even after all these years, the injustice of his father’s accusations still rankled. It had been Caitlin who suggested taking the dinghy over to the cove and exploring the caves. And it had been Caitlin who went gaily tripping off into the hollow caverns and twisted her ankle, the delay caused by rescuing her making it impossible to leave the cove once the tide had turned.

Samuel was now convinced Caitlin’s sprain had been all pretense, but at the time he had been a gullible fool and believed her fabrication. Unfortunately, he did not even have the consolation that time had taught him wisdom. He might be that much older, but he had still fallen for another of Caitlin’s falsehoods. The letter…

Samuel settled on the situation at hand.

Caitlin. She was a part of that life he had pushed into the dark recesses of his mind, that life that included the mortification of the anguished secret that gnawed at him.

Caitlin. She had become like a many-armed octopus, her tentacles weaving themselves into every crevice of his life Yet he saw no remedy. Now he was married to her.

He should not have waited this long to fetch Caitryn. It had been a shock to him when recently he calculated her age and realized that by now she might already have married, and be nursing children. He could not picture it. He had not wanted to picture it. He had not wanted Caitryr changed.

For the first time in years, he’d felt the desolation of the exile, the poignant ache for home; thus, he had penned a letter to Sir Richard. It had been a long letter, the scrawling script telling them of all that had happened to him since leaving Cornwall, explaining how successful he had be come, and that he wanted to wed their daughter, Caitryn.

Only the wrong sister had come. It was Caitlin to who he was now married.

Samuel looked at the whiskey at the bottom of his glass What was it about the woman that made him so vulnerable? Was it the brain that was too quick and hard and brillian for her sex? Or was it that small, indomitable chin, or those firm lips that were the physical evidence of a passionate temper?

Samuel took another long swallow. The memory of the day he had realized Caitryn was the eternal Madonna and that Caitlin was the true daughter of Eve was crystal-clear. It had been one of those magical summer days.

He could recall the querulous sound of gulls calling overhead, the sounds of the sea surging and retreating, and Caitryn, his gentle Caitryn, sitting in the shallow crescent of the stony cove, diligently painting. She had turned her shoulders just enough so she could see both him and the sea.

Light had spilled out over the bay, chopped by the waves into splinters. The air had been strange, as if it had been combined with mist or syrup, and Samuel had watched Caitryn, transfixed. He had been young, and he had been susceptible.

She was like an angel, all pale skin and hair, her soft, harebell-blue eyes staring at something on the other side of the bay that Samuel could not see. Her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze never wavered.

Samuel, rapt as he was, longed to see what she saw, to know what she was thinking, to understand the nature of her spirit. At thirteen, Caitryn had a sweet, generous nature and a cherub’s smile.

“Stop dreaming, Samuel! Come and explore!”

Caitlin positively beamed. Her open mouth showed perfect white teeth. She seemed to mock him. The magic spell was broken. The sun seemed less warm now.

Samuel felt himself flushing at Caitlin’s evident amusement. He stared straight ahead, ignoring her.

Caitlin was not a beauty like her sister, although, she was arresting, in an exotic way. There might have been beauty in her green eyes, had they not been so needle-sharp.

Abruptly as a shark’s dorsal fin rising from water, there was the sound of a scream. That scream vibrated in his gut like a hard-driven blade, tearing into his mind, his heart, making him rush off to be the hero.

It had been Caitlin. Caitlin and her devious ways. A sham, a cheap trick—and Samuel had fallen for it! Lord, his stupidity, his utter gullible imbecility, to have been taken in by the green-eyed witch.

And she was his bride. His bogus bride.

Now, Samuel stared at the back of her head, with its heavy knot of midnight hair, at her slender back, at the graceful curve of her waist, and the sweet flare of her hips. Deep inside him, something rippled. He tingled with the force flooding through him, which caused Samuel to groan inwardly. Have you no shame?

His lips set hard. “Canvass an extra team tonight, Liam. The new crew can join us on the trip upriver tomorrow.” He placed a hand on Murphy’s shoulder to brace himself as he struggled to his feet. “It’s more simple and more effective to be ready for any trouble.”

Marshaling courage, Samuel pushed himself away from the table with one knuckled fist. He needed time to deal with the problem. Time he didn’t have. Heart pòunding, he moved to claim his bride. He put out a hand, clasped hers. Caitlin flashed him a brilliant smile. Her eyes behind their sooty lashes shone intensely green.

He took a deep breath to keep the quiver of emotion from his voice. “My dance, I believe?”

She accepted with a shade of restraint In Samuel’s arms, Caitlin lost all sense of time and space, as if the music had thrown her free, displaced and rushing with the wind.

“The last time we danced together was on my sixteenth birthday. You trod on my gown. Remember?”

Samuel closed his eyes to the memory. The hotel ballroom seemed to ebb and recede, a surging in his ears wreaking havoc with his balance. He stumbled, and Caitlin took his arm.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Samuel looked at her. She stared into his face, her eyes huge and liquid, their green turned dark as the forest. Her long lashes threw tiny shadows into the soft hollows of her face. He merely nodded.

“You’re an imprudent man, Samuel Jardine.”

Her tone managed to convey both a solicitous care for his well-being and a repressed anger. His expression darkened. She was probably riled both about his neglect and his inebriated state, but it couldn’t be helped. Samuel skated swiftly over the thin ice.

“It’s late. We should turn in.”

“You’re right.” Caitlin slid her arms around him, leaning her cheek against his chest. “You’re always right.” That was a lie, but no one wants to make a false start, she thought.

“Right.” He took a breath that momentarily lifted his chest. “Let’s go,” he said, the words a thick, hot jumble in his mouth.

A silence heavy with significance stretched between them as they slowly made their way to their room. Caitlin felt his fingers moving across her flesh, saw that languid, lustful look in his eyes that made her melt inside. A burst of happiness exploded inside her. She would tell him that she cared, and how much.

At the door, going up on tiptoe, she began to kiss him. Her lips parted as he angled his mouth to hers. His kiss was wide, wet and demanding. He tasted of whiskey, not a bad taste. One arm came up, enfolded his head, stroking.

Samuel felt her body, strong and supple against his, the ripple of her breathing, the warmth of her breasts and belly. He touched her cheek, the side of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the flat planes of her shoulder. He put his lips against her neck.

Everything should have been rosy. He was young and strong. His blood howled and leaped through anguished veins. A liquid heat rushed up his body. Trouble was, the world kept sliding out from under him on an oblique tangent, away from now, toward what he couldn’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t, remember, so that he was no longer sure of anything. Except that she was his wife. Completely, unequivocally.

Chapter Three

The usual confusion prior to departure from the wharf at Saint John was in full swing. There came a clang of a bell from the shallow-draft riverboat. The sound ricocheted under the iron roof of the pilothouse and echoed across the poop deck and along the quay.

People descended the gangway to the squat and powerful craft in a rapid stream, and a flood of mingled French and English reached Caitlin’s ears. From her vantage point on the poop deck, she watched a dozen men stringing in from the road, bearing bundles and bags and rolls of blankets.

They were big, burly men, unshaven, flannel-shirted, with trousers cut off midway between knee and ankle so that they reached just below the upper of their high-topped, heavy laced boots. Two or three were singing. All appeared unduly happy, talking loudly, with deep laughter.

It dawned on Caitlin that these were loggers. They were a rough lot—and some were very drunk. The men began filing down the gangway to the bulwark amidships. One. slipped, and came near falling into the water, whereat his fellows howled gleefully.

Caitlin shivered, glanced up, and found Samuel watching her. He raised a well-defined auburn brow, managing offense and amusement at the same time. Her mouth compressed. “It’s plain folly employing such ruffians, picturesque though they be.”

He shook his head slowly. A grin eased up along one side of his sculpted mouth. “A strong back and a good sense of humor is all that’s required in a lumberjack. Comeliness is not a requisite.”

Caitlin felt hot blood go to her face at the mild rebuke. There was an edge to his voice that disturbed her. She felt as if he had dealt her a light but very decided buffet in the face. Again it struck her that Samuel had changed in some indefinable fashion.

Perhaps it was simply the aftereffects of the liquor he had consumed last night? While she must make allowances for the excitement of getting married, she must ensure that he did not indulge in such intemperate behavior on a regular occasion.

The Samuel she thought she knew was not a drinking man, and manifestations of liquor were most inconvenient, especially when it came to marital intimacies. Her eyes, refusing to obey her edict of caution, drifted downward, taking in the long, muscular line of his thigh, outlined by his breeches. She swallowed, wanting nothing so much as to reach out her hand and touch him right there.

Caitlin touched her upper lip with her tongue, excited and a little perturbed at the shocking drift of her thoughts. She saw Samuel’s eyes flicker to her mouth at the movement and linger there.

He was very close, so close she could see the pulse beat in his throat. She released a shuddering breath. He swallowed hard. Then he cleared his throat and shifted his feet.

Studying him, her heart swelled anew with love and did a mad dance along her rib cage. The pose of polite calm was a facade. Underneath, he was as tense as she was.

Samuel’s eyes found hers at last. She lifted one hand a little toward him, and let it fall helplessly. The shadow of something came and went across his face. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

Caitlin’s mouth went dry, her palms damp. For a moment she wished she could look inside him, and just see for once what he was actually thinking.

There followed a long, tense moment when nothing happened. He did not smile. His brown eyes did not waver. But they were alive, hot—and hungry.

It came to her suddenly that he wanted to kiss her. Her heart did a little flip of anticipation. The blood surged in her ears, and her breath was in short supply.

But he did not.

There came a rumble and sputter through the boat’s side as the valves of the steam engine plunged into the pistons, and the steady thrum of its power reverberated through the wooden craft.

Samuel looked away. Deep creases formed in his forehead. He looked as if he were in pain. What was the matter with him? Perhaps he had the headache? Of course, that was perfectly logical, she told herself. After all, he’d consumed a considerable quantity of liquor the previous evening.

Caitlin’s initial rush of relief at this interpretation quickly started to fade. It was beginning to be followed by doubts. Samuel looked, if anything, a little annoyed. Maybe she’d been wrong about him?

After all, she had not had a great deal of experience with Americans and their strange ways. And her husband had been in this country for nigh on ten years, sufficient time to have assimilated thoroughly its culture and habits.