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Bogus Bride. Emily French
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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