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Bogus Bride. Emily French
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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