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Bogus Bride. Emily French
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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