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Bogus Bride
Emily French
He Married The Wrong Sister… .Ten Years after he left England, Sam Jardine wrote home for a bride, but instead of the angelic beauty he remembered, the fiery Caitlin Parr had arrived on America's shores. A decade of silent infatuation had finally paid off.Caitlin knew she wasn't Sam's first choice, but she vowed that he would never regret making her his wife, and the fire that sparked between them only proved that her rightful place was by his side.



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u9ba2288a-825a-5c15-9b7a-3f8faf1a804c)
Excerpt (#u9b5594f9-afc7-5221-9617-93074bb7313e)
Dear Reader (#uf6f3f847-16e6-535b-8e36-a19e2b2efdb6)
Title Page (#u37083849-7cf8-52b0-8c18-97a04f780040)
About The Author (#u8e5ea7bf-c4eb-54f1-8d24-065e37995b65)
Dedication (#u80d7ff32-5d32-5067-97b0-5a21e913b022)
Prologue (#u13954941-2861-55f6-83f4-94984ca9c0af)
Chapter One (#u614e0d29-517a-5f64-877b-df9e5f815daa)
Chapter Two (#u5e64e3c9-eb68-5f70-9cad-3fee10b70725)
Chapter Three (#ud37d0655-512d-57fe-a2aa-d5a27be6664b)
Chapter Four (#u483c2cf2-e325-5c24-8421-52901b064ce4)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“It’s too early for bed—so what
shall we do to fill in the time?”
Samuel laughed abruptly.

Realizing the implication of her innocent question, Caitlin blurted, “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I—I just mean I wasn’t weary enough to be packed off to bed like a pesky child.”
“Cat, I’d never put you to bed like a child.”
Caitlin saw that special glint appear as his eyes rested on the swell of her breasts, which suddenly began to feel too large for her bodice. She found it increasingly difficult to breathe, and she was wondering what would happen if she dared to lean slightly forward.

Sam circled her with his arms and pulled her onto his lap.

Dear Reader,
Emily French is fast gaining a reputation for the incredible emotional impact of her stories, and this month’s Bogus Bride is no exception. It’s the story of a young woman who gives up everything to travel to America and marry a man whom she has loved from childhood, in spite of the fact that he is expecting to wed her younger sister. Don’t miss this wonderful story.
Haunted by their pasts, a gambler and a nobleman’s daughter turn to each other for protection against falling in love in Nina Beaumont’s new book, Surrender the Heart. And a Federal Marshal on the trail of a gang of female outlaws doesn’t realize that the woman he’s falling in love with is their leader in Judith Stacy’s heartwarming Western, Outlaw Love.
Our titles for the month also include Knights Divided by Suzanne Barclay. In this medieval tale from one of our most popular authors, a young woman finds herself embroiled in a maelstrom of passion and deceit when she kidnaps the rogue whom she believes murdered her sister.
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope you’ll find a story written just for you between the covers of a Harlequin Historical novel. Keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely.

Tracy Farrell,
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Bogus Bride
Emily French





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

EMILY FRENCH
A living passion for the past, combined with the sheer joy of writing, has lured Emily French away from the cold ivory tower of factual academia to warm, heartfelt historical romance. She likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor, her heroes to be intelligent and kind, and her heroines to be witty and spirited.

Emily lives on the East Coast of Australia with her husband, John. Her interests are listed as everything that doesn’t have to do with a needle and thread.
To my first readers, Robyn Lee and Debra Spratley,
whose encouragement made a miracle seem possible.
Thanks, girls.

I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains,
And with my hand turn Fortune’s wheel about.
Christopher Marlowe
—Tamburlaine the Great

Prologue (#ulink_cadc0807-4427-5e6a-b087-fefab0126bd8)
Cornwall, England, Spring 1842
“A letter, Caitlin. Papa has a letter from America. From Samuel!”
With a passionate rustling of silken petticoats, Caitlin was on her feet. “Give it to me,” she commanded, her cheeks on fire.
“I may not see so well these days, but it is addressed to me,” her father said bitingly, “and your sister shall read it.”
Caitlin swallowed hard. There had been times when she thought that Samuel had forsaken her, that she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But now the longed-for letter had come. She could wait.
The flimsy envelope held a much-crumpled letter, as if the writer had altered it many times before daring to send it. Caitryn gave her sister a small apologetic glance and sat on the settee beneath the tall silver candlesticks. It was a long letter, crossed and recrossed, and she spread out the sheets where the light would fall upon them. Her sweet face shone with anticipation and joy as she began to read the letter aloud.
Caitlin stood at the window, spine stiff, fingers interlaced too tightly, and watched the expression on her younger sister’s face. It was as if Caitryn believed that Samuel had penned the pages with a heart full of love for her and that what he had to say was for her eyes alone.
Samuel wrote of all that had happened to him since he had left Cornwall, ten years before. Then he went on to say that he had entered the lumber trade and had prospered mightily. He was now a man of means, with everything a man could wish for, except a wife.
Sir Richard grunted. Samuel was the only son of the local doctor, and it had been decided that Samuel should also become a doctor. But Samuel, though possessed of all those attributes desirable in a doctor—a warm heart, strong nerves, charming manners and an unshakable faith in his own judgment—had been a reluctant recruit. Samuel had preferred examining the earth and the trees that grew upon it, and the changing seasons that died and renewed themselves.
Dr. Jardine had cursed and sworn until Samuel gave in and began his medical studies. Then, somehow, he had bungled a simple prescription. The patient had almost died, and the good doctor had ranted and stormed. Rightly so, thought Sir Richard. But Samuel had flung his stethoscope in his father’s face and decamped to America, where he had completely disappeared.
Now here was a letter from this prodigal son!
“‘And so, sir, I come to the purpose of this letter,’” Caitryn continued reading aloud. “‘I have often thought of your beautiful daughter, Caitlin. No other woman has ever taken her place in my heart. If she is not wed, and is willing, would you permit her to travel to Maine and be my wife? I enclose a short note to her regarding arrangements for the marriage, and send my kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Parr. Signed this Third day of May, 1842. Samuel Jardine. P.S. A bank draft for passage is enclosed.’”
There was a moment’s silence. Caitlin hurried forward. “The note!” There was a loud rushing in her ears that made her own voice sound faint. “The note Samuel wrote for me myself. Where is it?”
Caitryn blinked at her. She looked…different, somehow. A slight trembling shook her body, and her fingers groped upon the table as though her eyesight, as well as that of Sir Richard, was failing. Her face the color of ashes, she silently handed a small sealed note to her older sister. It was addressed to Miss C. Parr.
“The damned cheek of it! Thinking to wed one of my daughters, after dead silence for ten years! Arrogant young pup.”
With shaking fingers, Caitlin opened the personal note Samuel had written especially to her. Her heart slammed to a stop, and she felt the air leave her chest in a rush.
My dearest Caitryn…
Caitlin saw the words with eyes that burned, blurrily, as if from a great distance. In her mind, she tried to flee, but her legs would not move. It was like being stuck in quicksand. She was in a waking nightmare. For one instant, she thought her entire world had disintegrated. It seemed that even her heart had ceased to beat.
Then the fingers of one hand closed convulsively over Samuel’s letter, and she thrust it into the bodice of her dress, safe from prying eyes. The crackle of the paper set her mind leaping fiercely upon another track.
Each night, for ten long years, before she retired to bed, she had knelt in the window seat and found the North Star. The sight would bring a smile to her lips, while the memory of Samuel, fluttering through her mind, would lift up her heart like a flight of butterflies…. Now, standing by this window in the year of 1842, Caitlin felt out of patience with Samuel for his absurd confusion over the similarity of names between her and her sister.
“What an absurd to-do about nothing, Papa,” she said, managing to laugh lightly. A pox on doubts. Samuel loved her. Confidence flared up, welcome, fortifying, reassuring. “It was courteous of Samuel to write to you, but, as I am of age, there was really no necessity.”
Sir Richard’s jaw flexed. “No, by God. No daughter of mine will marry a man who deserted his father, a common lumberman, a fellow no better than a lackey.”
To stand before the altar with Samuel—that had been the goal of the whole of her life. Well, most of it, at least since she had been sixteen. Caitlin’s chin rose a notch.
She would go to America. She would marry Samuel.
“I am sorry, Papa, but that is exactly what your daughter intends to do.”

Chapter One (#ulink_c496ffbb-82a3-525f-b5f6-466ca08c9479)
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?

Chapter Two (#ulink_4499dddd-cb10-558a-863d-959b98ab34a3)
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.
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 (#ulink_6e45acd6-6e1f-5dd7-aa5b-6d776ed739fc)
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.
What was certain was that his virile handsomeness was quite different from the insipid, pale-faced young men she had known in Cornwall. Most likely, the foolish notion that he wanted to kiss her had been all her imagination, she counseled herself.
No, she realized, with dizzying relief. She had not imagined the way he looked at her, the tension, the desire that seemed to vibrate in the air between them as loudly as the engine.
Samuel was a considerate, genteel man—even if he was forced to associate with ruffians. He was trying to act with propriety. This was not the time and place for a gentleman to kiss his wife. He would wait until it was appropriate.
Caitlin swallowed the thick knot of love that pushed high in her throat, understanding what he felt, overcome that for Samuel it should be as splendid as it was for her. She slipped her hand around his upper arm and hugged him, leaning her head against his jacket. She could smell the deep, male scent of it.
“How true. It’s always best to be chosen on your merits, nothing else. Otherwise you’re just a player in a masquerade. All show.” She made her voice very cool, in order to mask her emotion.
Samuel did not reply. Perhaps he had not heard her. He stood, hands on the rails, idly watching a wagon from which goods were being unloaded. A motley array of passengers trailing around the wagon were forced to dodge barrels and casks as two men piled its cargo aboard.
Caitlin stood next to Samuel and took deep breaths, inhaling the crisp fragrance of the morning air. A small smile played around the corners of her lips as she fantasized life in the future.
There would be Samuel, a pleasantly ordered home life, and, of course, a variety of social activities. They would be delightfully happy. If she had remained in Port Isaac, except for the matter of being married, things would have moved along the same pleasant channels. But what else did women do in this country? she wondered.
And, abruptly, the thought triggered in Caitlin a doubt, a welling of uncertainty, of the mind’s apprehension, that she had allowed a girlish infatuation to trap her into the narrow, conventional mold that she had tried for years to escape from.
There had been a time when she thought Samuel had forgotten his promise, and she began helping Dr. Jardine. At first, she had washed bottles, folded linen, ordered supplies and sent out accounts.
Gradually, things had changed. She had a quick and eager mind, and Dr. Jardine, somewhat to his own astonishment, had found himself not only acquainting her with medical facts, but also initiating her into the practical aspects of medicine.
While she had not been permitted to go to Edinburgh and sit the examinations needed for formal qualifications, she’d been able to work with patients, instead of just learning theory from books. It had been many years since the sight of Caitlin Parr perched up beside the good doctor as he made his rounds raised eyebrows in Port Isaac.
What was her life to be? While marriage was all well and good, she hoped Samuel would understand that he had acquired a wife whose horizons had been broadened by none other than his own father.
The hush between husband and wife allowed normal activities to intrude on her thoughts—the creak and groan of the timbers of the sturdy riverboat, the shush of water beneath pilings and a man’s laugh. The clang of the ship’s bell brought her out of herself.
Caitlin looked around, catching sight of the drunken loggers. Their actions were theatrical—even melodramatic. They reminded her vaguely of a pantomime. Precariously they negotiated the slanting passage. All but one. This beefy, bearded, dirty-looking brute sat himself down on his bundle at the slip head and began a quavering chant.
Samuel’s mouth set in grim lines. His breath hissed out, and she saw his chest rise and fall with a deep, controlled breath. He hailed the logger sharply.
From below, his fellows urged the recalcitrant one to come along. When the call went unheeded, Samuel excused himself, then removed her from his path without the smallest ceremony, and was gone before she could protest. A man of action at all times was Samuel. A couple of passengers smiled at her, but she quickly looked away.
The ship’s bell sounded again. From the bridge, the captain called, “All aboard!”
Samuel ran lightly up the slip. Arms akimbo, he stood before the logger. He spoke now with authority, impatiently. “Hurry aboard, Raoul. We’re waiting.”
The logger rose, waved his hand airily, and turned as if to retreat down the wharf. Samuel caught him by the arm and spun him to face the slip. “Come on, LeFeuvre,” he said evenly. “I have no time to fool around.”
The fearsome creature drew back his fist. Evidently he was angry at Samuel’s decree. This looked serious, which didn’t come as a surprise. It was serious. Somehow it seemed an irresistible force was about to meet an immovable object.
The crowd at the rail watched, stilled either by fear or by anticipation. Something quaked in Caitlin, and her heart fluttered painfully. She went still, her breathing labored, as she steeled herself for imminent disaster.
The logger was a big, barrel-chested man. But if he had it in mind to deal a blow, he failed, for Samuel ducked and caught him with both arms around the middle. He lifted the logger clear of the wharf, hoisted him to the level of his breast and heaved him down the slip as one would throw a sack of bran.
The man’s body bounced on the incline, rolled, slid, tumbled, until at length he brought up against the boat’s guard, and all that saved him a ducking was the prompt extension of several stout arms, which clutched and hauled him to the flush poop deck. He sat on his haunches, blinking.
Then he laughed. So did Samuel and the lumberjacks clustered on the boat. Homeric laughter rang out in an explosive roar, as at some exceedingly funny jest.
The man who had taken that shameful descent clambered unsteadily to his feet, his mouth expanded in an amiable grin. “Hey, Sam!” he shouted. “Can y’ throw me blankets down, too, while yer at it?”
Samuel’s rich laughter spilled across the space. He caught up the roll, poised it high, and cast it from him with a quick twist of his body. The woolen missile flew like a well-put shot and caught its owner square in the chest, tumbling him backward on the deck—and the laughter rose in double strength.
The captain called, “Got a schedule to keep. All aboard!” The bell clanged again. The sudden jarring was so overwhelming it set Caitlin’s heart thumping—or was the reaction caused by the sight of Samuel, still on the wharf? She felt a moment of panic when the boat began to swing.
Arms flung wide, Samuel ran down the length of the gangway. At the very brink, he leaped the widening space as the steamer, chugging steadily, drew away from her mooring. It seemed impossible that he set down on his feet, for from here, the distance seemed vast, but for all his size and hard muscle, he was as graceful as a dancing master.
Caitlin’s breath came a little faster. Her lips parted, and her heartbeat leaped wildly within her bodice of green sprigged cotton. The fingers of one hand moved to the underside of one breast, as if to keep her heart confined within her body. A shuddering breath fell from her.
For a brief moment, her heart sank, as she looked at her husband and let herself think of the gigantic step she had undertaken. What in the world had she stepped into? Caitlin wondered.
Everything had changed. Nothing was the same as it used to be.
She stood there with her eyes closed, and was glad of the support of the rail, or she probably would have fallen.
Footsteps sounded behind her. Samuel caught her arm, and spun her around. He stood before her and grinned like a little boy who’d just done a magnificent feat.
“Cat, you should see yourself, standin’ there all in a panic, wonderin’ whether you’d be a widow before becomin’ a wife.” His voice still held traces of laughter.
Before she could answer, a voluble French family of four crowded against them and they were overwhelmed by a clatter of tongues, which, for the next few minutes, made any further conversation impossible. What was there to say?
Even after the riverboat had set its course, some time elapsed before their fellow travelers began to subside, and Caitlin contented herself in the interval with gazing out at the landscape. Somewhere distant along that stretch of water was to be her home.
Standing at her side, Samuel felt a confusion of emotions such as he’d never felt before. Guilt at marrying a woman he did not love, chagrin at his earlier uncharacteristic drunkenness, irritation at himself for his primitive male weakness in wanting to bed Caitlin. To top it all off, his head ached dully.
He looked down at the water that rushed past and felt physically sick. The river was like a sheet of silver that reflected and enormously magnified the sun. He could scarcely bear to turn his eyes toward it. The piercing, metallic sheen of it was unendurable.
He let his eyes blank out the bright daylight that hurt his already throbbing head, but he turned his head too fast and grimaced at the resulting pain. He sucked in a sharp breath.
There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her about the previous night She’d been in his arms, dancing across a floor of glass, while he drowned in the green depths of her eyes. There’d been smiles and kisses, even sweet words, but none of the words reached his brain now.
He could still feel the warmth of her pressed against him, the soft dampness of her. His last coherent thought had been how she clung harder when he pushed his knee between her legs and thrust…
The churning of the engine below had begun to recede. The boat seemed to be rounding a bend.
Samuel became aware that they were being watched. As if suddenly mindful of the loggers staring at her, Caitlin turned toward him.
Samuel took her hand and held it for a moment, marveling at its smallness. It seemed to go to nothing in his grasp. He rubbed his thumb absently over the back of her wrist and watched goose bumps ride her skin, which prompted him to ask, “Sure you’re warm enough?”
She nodded. He cocked his head to one side, his eyes focused on her mouth. He watched her with the same hungry eyes she’d seen before. There was silence between them for a few moments. Then a sudden tremor shook him.
Caitlin gave him a weak smile. “Samuel! People are watching.”
Samuel took a step backward. Damn. This was going all wrong. Her sharp green eyes made him tense. He inhaled a deep, slow breath. “Cat, let’s go somewhere and talk. I have a great deal to tell you—and I want to talk about last night.” His voice came out low and muffled.
Understanding, and a silent message to be cautious, met his gaze. Again he was struck by the self-possession that seemed to go oddly with her fragile appearance. He drew a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair.
“Let’s not talk about anything unpleasant on this lovely day.”
She met his gaze steadily, and without flinching, and certainly never had she looked more attractive and alluring. With her dark hair slightly ruffled beneath the fringe of her bonnet, she looked even younger than when he had left Cornwall.
Caitlin was exquisitely made, and her sprigged gown gave her a fairylike aspect. Around her slim waist was tied a green satin ribbon to match that on her bonnet. Wide white skirts, like a puffy cloud, were lifted by the breeze, while the bodice hugged her slender frame and pressed firmly upward on breasts that rose and fell sharply.
Samuel didn’t want to argue with her, but suddenly he wanted all his cards on the table. “I think we do need to talk.” He held his arm out to her. “Shall we go?”
Without waiting for her agreement, he guided her gently toward the row of cabins reserved for first-class passengers. The glare lessened as they reached the accommodation area. There was a good deal of bustle and, apparently, some difficulty in finding accommodation for all the passengers.
Caitlin knew she was looking distracted as they walked along the deck. She had just caught a glimpse of a woman who had a fragile new baby, and who had lost two of her four other children on the voyage between Plymouth and Saint John. When she and Samuel were settled in their cabin, she would go find them in the mêlée of trunks, bags and milling people and renew their acquaintance.
It had been Caitlin who stood at her side when the two small bodies, almost too weightless to sink, were slid into the curling waves. At twenty-five, Eliza Freeman had already borne her phlegmatic husband, Tom Freeman, five children. Now three survived, and Caitlin wondered what the new country would do to the remaining children.
She was deep in thought when a familiar, throaty laugh sounded from one of the cabins. “Wait and see how things’ll change now that Sam’s taken a wife. No more late nights drinkin’, no more cardplayin’, no more visits to the Indian camp. Anyways, I made sure he had a good start t’ marriage. OF Sam drowned his sorrows like a man.”
Caitlin stumbled, halted, and applied a bit more pressure to the arm she was holding. Samuel narrowed his eyes and studied the woman by his side. Her green eyes widened and a red glow spread across her cheeks, and Samuel knew without asking that she’d already comprehended Murphy’s words. Ouch, he thought, was he in trouble.
Someone replied in a high-pitched feminine voice that echoed along the passageway, “Are you crazy or something? Don’t try to kid me that encouragin’ Sam t’ drink himself blind was for Sam’s own good, Liam Murphy!”
Murphy and that hellcat Kate Flaherty! Samuel swore under his breath, and his gaze shifted for the briefest moment to Caitlin’s face.
“Sure it was. I was only tryin’ to be of some help! A desperate man’s an irrational man, Kate. Sendin’ for a woman you haven’t seen in ten years is a foolish t’ing t’ do.”
“Sam Jardine didn’t need your help, you idiot! Succeed too well, and you fail completely! Sam’s quite capable of tending his own affairs. He may have been a little too far gone to handle straight logic last night, but he could still handle a woman.”
“Let’s not be downright churlish about this, Kate! Even if he didn’t disgrace himself last night, it’s going to be a little difficult for Sam to explain away little Zoe.”
Samuel winced inwardly. That insensitive turnip-brain! Now what was he to do? He pushed past the cabin, dragging Caitlin with him.
When she tried to jerk free, his fingers tightened. She glanced down at his hand, and then her eyes slanted up at him. Her green eyes glittered, as if she were trying to decide how to deal with this unexpected and puzzling information.
Samuel frowned, leaning forward slightly to study her upturned face. Her head was so close to his that he could smell the fresh scent of her hair. “You’d better walk very carefully,” he said, “because it’s rather slippery.” That was true enough. “You’re wondering what happens next, aren’t you?”
She looked at him fiercely. “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper, a muted feminine sound that caught him off guard.
Samuel lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. His sun-browned hand looked very dark against her pale, delicate skin. “It’s a bit complicated, and you’re just going to have to trust me!” His fingertips lingered at her face.
He gently traced the outline of her face, pausing at her chin and tilting it upward. He groaned inwardly. He badly wanted to kiss those wet, shiny lips, not to confess some past indiscretion.
Dammit! What was the matter with him? Why was this so difficult? He wanted very much to tell her the truth, but just as he was about to do so, he paused, biting his lip.
Why should he confess? That was the honorable thing to do, and he was tired of honor. Wasn’t it better to let Caitlin find out the truth about himself now, rather than a couple of weeks from now?
Caitlin ran her index finger along the back of his hand. Samuel was strangely astounded at the incredibly erotic effect the simple caress had on him. And he certainly shouldn’t be having these feelings now.
If he once gave way to this raw emotion, he’d burn like straw. He could not accept it. He concentrated grimly on controlling his arousal. It was not easy. He took a grip on his resolve.
Caitlin stiffened imperceptibly, her mouth becoming a tight line. “Those in glass houses can’t afford to throw stones. Who am I to judge?”
Samuel cursed under his breath. Obviously, what he had been thinking showed on his face. Embarrassed, he turned away and ushered her into their cabin.
The small, musty cell contained several narrow wooden bunks, all of them shorter than Samuel’s length by a good six inches. A small commode stood nearby, atop which was a cracked porcelain bowl and pitcher.
Standing erect, Caitlin could easily touch the planked ceiling. How could a man possibly be comfortable in such a small cubicle? At the thought of sharing one of those bunks with Samuel, her insides turned upside down, and there was a strange, trembling sensation in her knees that she couldn’t explain.
Not a very sound medical diagnosis, she knew, but it did describe how it felt. What she needed was an explanation of Liam Murphy’s insinuations and innuendos.
“Care to share your thoughts?” he said from the doorway.
Caitlin looked away from her husband, so that he couldn’t see her face. She wanted to give away nothing of what she was feeling. Pain…betrayal…nothing she wanted him to see.
She thought quickly. If she framed her answer carefully, she could be honest, yet not tell too much. She gave a little laugh. “Actually, I was just thinking about the lack of accommodation. I was wondering where the little ones were going to sleep. Very unromantic thoughts, I assure you!” She was talking too fast, and she knew it.
Samuel’s lips curled into a lopsided smile. “You like children?” His tones were unfathomable.
Caitlin’s eyes darted to his eyes, and once again she found him looking at her. She wasn’t sure how to describe the look he gave her. Intense. Penetrating. Probing. It made her nervous.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said in a small, defensive voice. “It’s natural that the children should be in my thoughts. Young ones are very vulnerable to the damp night air.”
“Caitlin, you’d best sit down.” He paused, as if trying to decide how to phrase his next words. “We must talk.”
His face wore a curious expression. It was what Caitlin was beginning to think of as his “American” look—a look in which humor and sheer savage determination were very oddly mingled.
The wooden floor planks creaked as she took a seat on a bunk. She stared at the husband who had become a stranger. “What is it that you are so determined to talk about? Does it have anything to do with the absurd conversation we overheard just now? Or the fact that you fell asleep last night at a most inopportune moment?”
Both were questions he had feared. Samuel settled himself so that he could look straight at her. Seated, he dropped his laced fingers between his spread legs and raised his eyes to her face, where a smile that he could not interpret seemed only a challenge. He said nothing for a moment, sitting in silence while he gathered his thoughts.
Actually, he didn’t have a thing to say. It had simply been a wild idea that he must tell her about Zoe before they arrived at Fairbanks. Better to wait until they were home. He let the silence grow.
Caitlin made a sharp movement of protest, and scooted so close to the edge of the bunk, she was in danger of falling off. She hugged her knees. “I may be naive, but I’m not stupid. Are you not going to tell me there was some mistake, some exaggeration? That the friends you invited to the wedding are not friends?” she asked, with an odd rasping note in her voice.
“Enemies come to your wedding. Friends come to your funeral.”
“With friends like yours, who needs enemies?” Caitlin swallowed the lump in her throat and blurted out, “Is Zoe your mistress?”
Samuel shook his head and said absolutely nothing, but she could see the change in his red-brown eyes. They held a speculative, half-amused look. It was like being slammed into a brick wall.
“So why don’t you deny these allegations? Why won’t you even try to defend yourself?” Caitlin choked out. She was so angry she felt she might burst.
Samuel stood up. “Caitlin, I’ll thank you to stay out of my—”
“Your what? Your affairs? After what just happened, how you can even think about—”
“Caitlin, I didn’t ask your opinion. Zoe is not my mistress. It is a simple matter of trust. Either you are with me or you are against me. As my wife, you have no other options. I will tell you that much.”
“What is it exactly that you want from a wife?”
Samuel’s brown eyes were cautious. He shrugged and said, “Oh, I want a woman who is so besotted with me that she won’t worry óver who or what I am. She won’t care what I have done in the past and will enthusiastically embrace every project I undertake in the future. She’ll be a faithful helpmate, a mother to my children, and never give me cause to suspect her loyalty….”
Samuel fell silent. His mouth twitched a little, as if in self-ridicule, but Caitlin did not find the expression reassuring. Her breath was coming fast, and her hands were balled into fists at her sides.
For a moment, she almost voiced her own sentiments, then her ever-present sense of humor came to her rescue. She suppressed a giggle and fixed him with a meek, understanding, dutiful look.
“You want a woman to follow you barefoot wherever you choose to lead?” she asked, a little too sweetly.
“Exactly,” he agreed, obviously pleased at her perception.
Caitlin caught her breath. The temper she had tried to control flared, and she did nothing to control it. Grabbing for a weapon, her hand curled around a metal candlestick. She hurled it. He didn’t so much as flinch, even when it hit his shoulder.
“You sound as if you want a doormat, you great oaf. Murder and mayhem sound very attractive to me right now.”
His brown eyes widened, and then he half smiled, teasing. “To love, honor, and obey…”
She took the point, but faced him undefeated. “You’ve had the only promise you’re getting. Go take a walk, else I shall be converted into a doormat instantly.”
“I just might do that.” This time he dodged the missile, which hit the door frame. His rich laughter followed him down the passageway.

Chapter Four (#ulink_a1ba0b8c-ccc4-54aa-8aca-a0f1ae3e2329)
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.

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