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Bogus Bride. Emily French
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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.