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Bogus Bride. Emily French
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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