Bogus Bride

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?

Chapter Two

Caitlin’s eyes strayed to the corner where Samuel was leaning on the counter and conversing with Liam Murphy. She felt her skin tighten and tingle all over. Though she could not like the way he was paying more attention to his business partner than to his bride, she had to concede he did look very handsome in his dark blue evening coat.

She also had to concede that Saint John, at least, was above her expectations. Samuel’s letter had hinted that this country was crude, full of inconveniences and uncouthness, and that she would need all her strength for what lay ahead of her.

On the contrary. The hotel ballroom was as grand as any in London. From the lovely green-papered walls to the fine trio of crystal chandeliers that hung from the high gilded ceiling, the room reflected elegance and refinement.

Caitlin was partly amused, partly provoked, by Samuel’s harsh evaluation of his new country. She hoped that his opinion of her destination would prove as inaccurate. Until this journey, her childhood dream of having a true adventure had seemed unattainable. She sighed with pleasure, feeling a delicious sense of anticipation.

Samuel suddenly looked up, directly at her. She experienced again that queer breathlessness whenever he looked in her direction. He studied her for a moment, an intensity revealed beneath those half-closed lids that shocked her. It was as if there were a kind of vexation there, a frustration, held in check.

A heartbeat more, and he inclined his head. A smile appeared and vanished on his lips, so quickly that Caitlin was not sure she had actually seen it. The noise in the ballroom seemed distant, dreamlike, unreal.

It was happening again—that disturbing feeling was back, deep in the pit of her stomach, an awareness of the pressing softness of her shift across her breasts. She couldn’t pinpoint the feeling. All she knew was that it made her uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.

She felt her face warm, certain that it was wrong. Sinful. Caitlin was fully informed as to sex and reproduction. She had seen and studied things that would make any modern young woman blush, but she had never felt this upsurge of femaleness before. Perhaps it was simply that she was viewing Samuel as—

“Mrs. Jardine.” The banker’s voice interrupted her train of thought. “Your charming presence will be missed when you travel north. It is a shame you could not stay longer in Saint John.”

What was she thinking? Not wishing to appear impolite, Caitlin smiled demurely. “It’s a long journey, and Samuel is anxious to show me my new home.”

She wanted nothing more than to retire for the night and be alone with Samuel. But he was preoccupied with men’s business, and a squire’s daughter did have some sense of the proprieties. She understood, and she would wait for him. She had always waited for him, from the beginning.

As if he followed her thoughts, Martinus Soule’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, young love. It warms the cockles of my old heart. Here am I hogging you, when you’re no doubt wishing it was your young scalawag who was on the dance floor with you.”

That was true enough. Were her own feelings so transparent? The thought was appalling. Caitlin’s breath quickened, and she was acutely aware of a soft blush creeping up her cheeks. She shook her head.

“Samuel and I have all our lives ahead of us, Mr. Soule.”

The banker’s voice lowered earnestly. “We are rather apt to forget that our destinies are not always in our own hands—even for such a winsome beauty.”

Was the statement rhetorical or serious? Caitlin’s brightest smile flashed across her face. She couldn’t imagine what lay before her, but she embraced it with all her being.

“Beauty will pass—but love lasts forever.”

The banker smiled indulgently. “You are still very young.”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, accepting the edict without reservation. “Quite young. But Samuel and I have known each other since childhood, and been pledged these many years past. I just wish—” She broke off, catching herself before she said the unthinkable.

“I wouldn’t like to see you hurt.”

Caitlin drew her delicate eyebrows together. “How can Samuel hurt me? He doesn’t gamble, and he has courage and genius and works hard—that’s what it takes to be successful in the lumber business—and you know he’s carved a fortune out of the wilderness, made a name for himself.”

“Too big a name for peace and comfort, and there are other faults a man can have. Sam Jardine is a mere man, not a god to revere.” Martinus Soule smiled as he said it, but his black eyes held a warning that was genuine. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, it’s time he rested on his laurels and settled down.”

Something in his expression caused Caitlin’s heart to flutter painfully. There was a sense of disapproving judgment, and the banker’s bland insinuations had created an uneasiness in her.

She wanted to hear about Samuel, about the tall timber that he said was like a vast green sea, endless, enduring, stretching into infinity. She felt that she would trade her soul for a few more bits of information out of which she could fashion her dreams.

With outward calm, she asked, “What are these awful faults?”

“Oh, he’s simply been a bachelor far too long, and in the past he has had other goals to occupy his attention.”

In America, a man has a chance to better himself, Samuel had told her. Promise to remember me, he had said to herself and Caitryn on that long-ago day.

And she had. During the weeks, the months, the years, that passed. Time had blunted her hope, and driven her to more practical matters, but she bad gone on doggedly preparing herself until she had done all she could.

Then the letter had come, with its confusion of names. Her deceit would be all right. Caitryn had wanted her to go. Had she not said, “I wish it. It must be so. Samuel has sent for you and I know you love him. I wish to devote my life to God, but can I rest quiet in the cloister, knowing you lie alone at night?”

Caitlin raised her gaze just in time to see the hint of a smile register on Samuel’s face. She inclined her head. The immediate tightening of his jaw rewarded her. She felt a pulse flutter in her throat, and a sudden weakness in her knees.

“Of course, but that is past, and who knows how God and fate work? None of we poor mortals, to be sure. So I won’t let it gnaw at me. Samuel is married now, and I think I’m going to enjoy Fairbanks.”

Fairbanks…even the name was enchanting.

The banker laughed suddenly. “You sound so certain, Mrs. Jardine.”

A small frown touched Caitlin’s forehead. She was beginning to feel quite neglected by her new husband. His consideration in sharing his bride as a dance partner was touching, but surely he should have claimed her by now. Her lips set in a stubborn line.

“I am,” she replied.

Samuel watched the whole scene unfold before him as if he were watching a melodrama. Caitlin floated around the room in her fancy gown, partners attracted to her like bees to a honey pot.

A succession of uninvited pictures flashed through his head. Caitlin in his bed. Her black hair had slipped its bonds and now whirled about her, a dark mantle. Ivory and charcoal.

His single-minded vision of the future was transformed. Within it was Caitlin Parr—no, correction—Caitlin Jardine. His bogus bride.

For the first time, he realized that, should his wife simply refuse to cooperate in his plans, he would feel horribly embarrassed, not only in front of Sagamore, but also the entire population of Fairbanks. Pride was a definite burden at times, and Samuel knew he had his full measure of it.

He had. good reason to be proud. He had done damned well. He had found his vocation, and his life, but only after the false starts, the shameful error that had led to his expulsion from medical school not three months before graduation, and the headlong restlessness that had flung him into the arms of Caitlin that day in the barn.

His expression relaxed into one tinged with humor. “Perhaps I’m just being prudent, Liam. Good for the character, prudence. You should try it sometime,” Samuel said, in a voice that he hoped hid his own inner tension.

Murphy nodded, his eyes thoughtful. He raised his glass in salute. “Marriage is a gamble.”

Samuel’s smile tightened, and he picked up his glass. “It’s a calculated risk, I admit.” He took a long, deep pull on the whiskey and felt its warmth spread across his chest.

“Now we get down to it, Jardine. Risk. You’re addicted to risk, Sam. Look at this impulsive marriage. Sending for a woman you haven’t seen in ten years. What if a logging camp in Maine don’t suit her? You may wake one morning to find the bride has taken to her heels.”

That was her problem, Samuel told himself. She had contracted the marriage willingly enough, and now she was stuck with it. He shrugged mentally. So was he, for that matter. A man set standards and lived by them, and if fate cast a die with a single spot, so be it.

“Even if her religion didn’t prevent a divorce, it’s not the Cornish way to break a bond.”

Samuel’s tone cut through the space between them. Liam Murphy’s thin eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing, contenting himself with a sip of whiskey. The two men sat in silence for a while, united by unspoken contemplation of marital obligations.