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“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 ultimatum. Get out of England or his father would be told of the incident. As he boarded the Savannah, he had had the taste of ashes in his mouth as the sight of Caitryn exacerbated his guilt. She had not even said a word to him. Perhaps he had called out to her. He did not remember.
He thrust the memory away sharply, turned again to the dancers. Elfin Caitlin might be, but she had a nice shape, curves in all the right places. She had an unconscious grace, and her slim hips swayed in an enticing manner. He did not think she did it on purpose. She always had been a spritely creature.
Samuel idly swirled his drink and watched the candlelight spinning off her glossy black hair as she tilted her swanlike neck to the music. The arch of her throat made him feel heavy in his chest. Her vivid smile generated conflicting emotions deep within him. His hunger was like a pulse, a living thing existing deep inside him, separate and undeniable.
Samuel knew now that nothing would permanently slow or alter the quick, impatient way Caitlin moved. What was she now? Twenty-six? Twenty-seven? Her character was volatile, complex, and her restless intellect reached out for knowledge that was neither attractive nor necessary in a woman.
It was ridiculous, of course, but he felt the tension growing inside of him. He felt his insides clench, and he could hear the rushing of his blood in his inner ears as if it were part of a spring thaw. His hammering heart seemed to be threatening to choke him.
God, this was torture! He had not lain with a woman in a long, long time. Another dismaying thought flitted through Samuel’s mind. What of Caitlin? Why had she come all this way to marry him?
Chapter Two (#ulink_4499dddd-cb10-558a-863d-959b98ab34a3)
Caitlin’s eyes strayed to the corner where Samuel was leaning on the counter and conversing with Liam Murphy. She felt her skin tighten and tingle all over. Though she could not like the way he was paying more attention to his business partner than to his bride, she had to concede he did look very handsome in his dark blue evening coat.
She also had to concede that Saint John, at least, was above her expectations. Samuel’s letter had hinted that this country was crude, full of inconveniences and uncouthness, and that she would need all her strength for what lay ahead of her.
On the contrary. The hotel ballroom was as grand as any in London. From the lovely green-papered walls to the fine trio of crystal chandeliers that hung from the high gilded ceiling, the room reflected elegance and refinement.
Caitlin was partly amused, partly provoked, by Samuel’s harsh evaluation of his new country. She hoped that his opinion of her destination would prove as inaccurate. Until this journey, her childhood dream of having a true adventure had seemed unattainable. She sighed with pleasure, feeling a delicious sense of anticipation.
Samuel suddenly looked up, directly at her. She experienced again that queer breathlessness whenever he looked in her direction. He studied her for a moment, an intensity revealed beneath those half-closed lids that shocked her. It was as if there were a kind of vexation there, a frustration, held in check.
A heartbeat more, and he inclined his head. A smile appeared and vanished on his lips, so quickly that Caitlin was not sure she had actually seen it. The noise in the ballroom seemed distant, dreamlike, unreal.
It was happening again—that disturbing feeling was back, deep in the pit of her stomach, an awareness of the pressing softness of her shift across her breasts. She couldn’t pinpoint the feeling. All she knew was that it made her uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.
She felt her face warm, certain that it was wrong. Sinful. Caitlin was fully informed as to sex and reproduction. She had seen and studied things that would make any modern young woman blush, but she had never felt this upsurge of femaleness before. Perhaps it was simply that she was viewing Samuel as—
“Mrs. Jardine.” The banker’s voice interrupted her train of thought. “Your charming presence will be missed when you travel north. It is a shame you could not stay longer in Saint John.”
What was she thinking? Not wishing to appear impolite, Caitlin smiled demurely. “It’s a long journey, and Samuel is anxious to show me my new home.”
She wanted nothing more than to retire for the night and be alone with Samuel. But he was preoccupied with men’s business, and a squire’s daughter did have some sense of the proprieties. She understood, and she would wait for him. She had always waited for him, from the beginning.
As if he followed her thoughts, Martinus Soule’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, young love. It warms the cockles of my old heart. Here am I hogging you, when you’re no doubt wishing it was your young scalawag who was on the dance floor with you.”
That was true enough. Were her own feelings so transparent? The thought was appalling. Caitlin’s breath quickened, and she was acutely aware of a soft blush creeping up her cheeks. She shook her head.
“Samuel and I have all our lives ahead of us, Mr. Soule.”
The banker’s voice lowered earnestly. “We are rather apt to forget that our destinies are not always in our own hands—even for such a winsome beauty.”
Was the statement rhetorical or serious? Caitlin’s brightest smile flashed across her face. She couldn’t imagine what lay before her, but she embraced it with all her being.
“Beauty will pass—but love lasts forever.”
The banker smiled indulgently. “You are still very young.”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured, accepting the edict without reservation. “Quite young. But Samuel and I have known each other since childhood, and been pledged these many years past. I just wish—” She broke off, catching herself before she said the unthinkable.
“I wouldn’t like to see you hurt.”
Caitlin drew her delicate eyebrows together. “How can Samuel hurt me? He doesn’t gamble, and he has courage and genius and works hard—that’s what it takes to be successful in the lumber business—and you know he’s carved a fortune out of the wilderness, made a name for himself.”
“Too big a name for peace and comfort, and there are other faults a man can have. Sam Jardine is a mere man, not a god to revere.” Martinus Soule smiled as he said it, but his black eyes held a warning that was genuine. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, it’s time he rested on his laurels and settled down.”
Something in his expression caused Caitlin’s heart to flutter painfully. There was a sense of disapproving judgment, and the banker’s bland insinuations had created an uneasiness in her.
She wanted to hear about Samuel, about the tall timber that he said was like a vast green sea, endless, enduring, stretching into infinity. She felt that she would trade her soul for a few more bits of information out of which she could fashion her dreams.
With outward calm, she asked, “What are these awful faults?”
“Oh, he’s simply been a bachelor far too long, and in the past he has had other goals to occupy his attention.”
In America, a man has a chance to better himself, Samuel had told her. Promise to remember me, he had said to herself and Caitryn on that long-ago day.
And she had. During the weeks, the months, the years, that passed. Time had blunted her hope, and driven her to more practical matters, but she bad gone on doggedly preparing herself until she had done all she could.
Then the letter had come, with its confusion of names. Her deceit would be all right. Caitryn had wanted her to go. Had she not said, “I wish it. It must be so. Samuel has sent for you and I know you love him. I wish to devote my life to God, but can I rest quiet in the cloister, knowing you lie alone at night?”
Caitlin raised her gaze just in time to see the hint of a smile register on Samuel’s face. She inclined her head. The immediate tightening of his jaw rewarded her. She felt a pulse flutter in her throat, and a sudden weakness in her knees.
“Of course, but that is past, and who knows how God and fate work? None of we poor mortals, to be sure. So I won’t let it gnaw at me. Samuel is married now, and I think I’m going to enjoy Fairbanks.”
Fairbanks…even the name was enchanting.
The banker laughed suddenly. “You sound so certain, Mrs. Jardine.”
A small frown touched Caitlin’s forehead. She was beginning to feel quite neglected by her new husband. His consideration in sharing his bride as a dance partner was touching, but surely he should have claimed her by now. Her lips set in a stubborn line.
“I am,” she replied.
Samuel watched the whole scene unfold before him as if he were watching a melodrama. Caitlin floated around the room in her fancy gown, partners attracted to her like bees to a honey pot.
A succession of uninvited pictures flashed through his head. Caitlin in his bed. Her black hair had slipped its bonds and now whirled about her, a dark mantle. Ivory and charcoal.
His single-minded vision of the future was transformed. Within it was Caitlin Parr—no, correction—Caitlin Jardine. His bogus bride.
For the first time, he realized that, should his wife simply refuse to cooperate in his plans, he would feel horribly embarrassed, not only in front of Sagamore, but also the entire population of Fairbanks. Pride was a definite burden at times, and Samuel knew he had his full measure of it.
He had. good reason to be proud. He had done damned well. He had found his vocation, and his life, but only after the false starts, the shameful error that had led to his expulsion from medical school not three months before graduation, and the headlong restlessness that had flung him into the arms of Caitlin that day in the barn.
His expression relaxed into one tinged with humor. “Perhaps I’m just being prudent, Liam. Good for the character, prudence. You should try it sometime,” Samuel said, in a voice that he hoped hid his own inner tension.
Murphy nodded, his eyes thoughtful. He raised his glass in salute. “Marriage is a gamble.”
Samuel’s smile tightened, and he picked up his glass. “It’s a calculated risk, I admit.” He took a long, deep pull on the whiskey and felt its warmth spread across his chest.
“Now we get down to it, Jardine. Risk. You’re addicted to risk, Sam. Look at this impulsive marriage. Sending for a woman you haven’t seen in ten years. What if a logging camp in Maine don’t suit her? You may wake one morning to find the bride has taken to her heels.”
That was her problem, Samuel told himself. She had contracted the marriage willingly enough, and now she was stuck with it. He shrugged mentally. So was he, for that matter. A man set standards and lived by them, and if fate cast a die with a single spot, so be it.
“Even if her religion didn’t prevent a divorce, it’s not the Cornish way to break a bond.”
Samuel’s tone cut through the space between them. Liam Murphy’s thin eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing, contenting himself with a sip of whiskey. The two men sat in silence for a while, united by unspoken contemplation of marital obligations.
Murphy lifted his glass in the faintest of salutes. “You are sunk deep in thought, my friend.”
Samuel brushed at his trousers, staring absently at his hand. “The border dispute must be settled. There’s been more trouble. Heard Morgan’s boom was busted.”
“There’s hiring at Sagamore’s.”
“How many?” That Sagamore’s was hiring surprised him, since most lumber mills were not Only two weeks before, the deCarteret mill had dismissed fifty workers, because shingle production had fallen.
“I don’t know how many they’re taking on. I’m trying to find out.”
“If Sagamore’s recruiting this early in the season, seems he must be expecting a big consignment. It can only mean the land agents intend turning a blind eye to trespass and cutting on Maine territory for yet another season.”
“Very active, these trespassers, Sam. I don’t like it.” Open indignation tinged Liams’s voice.
Samuel shrugged. “We’ll deal with them, if we have to.”
“Hush, Sam. Don’t say the words, else sure it is that you will wish them unsaid tomorrow.” Even when he was serious the Irishman’s lips seemed to quiver with a barely controlled smile.
“It’s what comes of Tyler’s bein’ president,” Samuel went on, peering at the bottom of his glass in disgust. “Despite election promises, it seems Fairbanks is too far away to serve legal processes and too expensive to employ military ejection.”
“I thought we weren’t going to mention that.” Murphy spoke easily, his voice deep, but there was a stiffness in his features.
Samuel let out his breath in a long sigh. His partner had a timberman’s suspicion of any type of federal intervention. “Politics is a complicated affair. It’s a big country, but the lumber trade is a small community.” He held out his empty glass for a refill. “I’ve no political sympathies, only instincts, and they shy away from cheats.”
As Murphy poured in a generous measure of whiskey, Samuel’s eyes moved slowly to settle on Caitlin’s face. She was watching him, her pointed, fawnlike face lit as if from within. It was as if she were drawing him into herself, so that he had no will of his own. Soon, he thought, he would have to go to her. Samuel knew he could not delay much longer. He was running out of time.
He sighed and took another drink. He would go to her. He would do his duty. Yes, duty, that was what it would be. He saw that clearly now. This marriage would be a constant reminder to himself that he was a deserter, that he had shirked his duty when his father needed him. Yes, it was fitting.
Chills ran up Samuel’s spine. Somehow, in retrospect, every major turning point in his life had been associated with Caitlin Parr. He had known her since childhood, though he knew that this did not make her any more easy to understand.
Some things never changed.
Caitlin Parr—no, Caitlin Jardine—had been a strong-willed, reckless girl from the moment he had met her. She’d burst into his life like a miniature whirlwind, disrupting the even tenure of his existence.
Samuel winced, remembering.
He had been only a boy of thirteen when his father went to Cornwall to set up a medical practice in Port Isaac. Samuel had been born late in his parents’ married life, and his delicate mother had not recovered from the difficult birth. She had taken to her room until her death some ten years later, and her son had grown up without a woman’s soft, gentle touch.
For all his height and strength and the maturity of his thirteen years, he saw no reason for a tidy house, no purpose in study, no sense in putting on clean clothes that would only become soiled, and no logic in trying to tame his shock of curly chestnut hair. Never was a male so much in need of female attention or so blissfully unaware of his need.
Dr. William Jardine, a massive man with rough-and-ready manners, possessed a notoriously incendiary temper. He could intimidate the bravest man, but he could not understand or handle his obstinate son.
They were in the middle of a loud argument when a ball came bouncing through the open door of their cottage. Later, it occurred to Samuel that the ever-curious Caitlin had only been angling for an opening, an excuse to cross into forbidden territory.
She danced across the threshold on eager little feet and took in the room in one glance: the cracked stone floor, the peeling paper on the walls, the armchairs with the stuffing oozing from torn leather like purulent wounds, the shelves stacked with interesting bottles, and mysterious odds and ends strewn over the table. She glanced at William, at Samuel, then grinned and came forward with a little hop, skip and bounce.
Caitlin halted in front of Samuel. She made a sympathetic murmur, then hid her mouth behind one hand. “You sound as though you were on the losing end of the argument.”
Samuel made no attempt at reply. He froze inwardly. Green eyes. He had never seen green eyes before. He searched those bright, intelligent eyes, transfixed.
Tense silence fell.
Samuel realized that he was holding his breath and staring, and he let air out deliberately and breathed in again. A new voice, unmistakably feminine, distracted him.
“Cat?” A beat of silence, then the sound of feet approaching the door. The lyrical sound of a young girl’s soprano floated through the open shutter. “Cat? Where are you?”
Dark lashes lowered to partially conceal the green gaze Caitlin took a step, stopped, and said over her shoulder “It’s safe, Cait. You can come in.” It was her expression that told Samuel she was far from pleased about something
There was the sound of feet. Caitryn crept in like a frightened mouse. She was like an angel, a real-life cherub with fair ringlets, great blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. She looked at Samuel. Then she lowered her eyes from his face and quickly looked away, as if it hurt her to look at him.
Not so the bold Caitlin. That one took a step closer. She scanned his father’s rooms. There was a sense of reckless energy about Caitlin, a dynamic, almost rash force that Samuel later came to understand, was an intrinsic part of her nature.
“Oh, how disappointing. I thought there would be blood and guts everywhere. Being a doctor’s surgery, and all that.” The surprise in her tone was obvious.
Samuel made a soft noise of disbelief. William Jardine crossed his arms. He fixed a forbidding stare on Caitlin Her heavy, dark hair had escaped its ribbons and was lying tossed and untidy in joyous disarray across her shoulder. She did a little jig—like an intoxicated little bird.
William snorted and glanced around his chamber. There was a line, thin and deep as a knife cut, between his eyebrows. He stroked his beard. “It lacks a woman’s touch. My wife is dead. Which is why my son neglects his chores,” he replied brutally.
