Bogus Bride

EMILY FRENCH

A living passion for the past, combined with the sheer joy of writing, has lured Emily French away from the cold ivory tower of factual academia to warm, heartfelt historical romance. She likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor, her heroes to be intelligent and kind, and her heroines to be witty and spirited.

Emily lives on the East Coast of Australia with her husband, John. Her interests are listed as everything that doesn’t have to do with a needle and thread.

To my first readers, Robyn Lee and Debra Spratley,

whose encouragement made a miracle seem possible.

Thanks, girls.

I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains,

And with my hand turn Fortune’s wheel about.

Christopher Marlowe

—Tamburlaine the Great

Prologue (#ulink_cadc0807-4427-5e6a-b087-fefab0126bd8)

Cornwall, England, Spring 1842

“A letter, Caitlin. Papa has a letter from America. From Samuel!”

With a passionate rustling of silken petticoats, Caitlin was on her feet. “Give it to me,” she commanded, her cheeks on fire.

“I may not see so well these days, but it is addressed to me,” her father said bitingly, “and your sister shall read it.”

Caitlin swallowed hard. There had been times when she thought that Samuel had forsaken her, that she would be a spinster for the rest of her life. But now the longed-for letter had come. She could wait.

The flimsy envelope held a much-crumpled letter, as if the writer had altered it many times before daring to send it. Caitryn gave her sister a small apologetic glance and sat on the settee beneath the tall silver candlesticks. It was a long letter, crossed and recrossed, and she spread out the sheets where the light would fall upon them. Her sweet face shone with anticipation and joy as she began to read the letter aloud.

Caitlin stood at the window, spine stiff, fingers interlaced too tightly, and watched the expression on her younger sister’s face. It was as if Caitryn believed that Samuel had penned the pages with a heart full of love for her and that what he had to say was for her eyes alone.

Samuel wrote of all that had happened to him since he had left Cornwall, ten years before. Then he went on to say that he had entered the lumber trade and had prospered mightily. He was now a man of means, with everything a man could wish for, except a wife.

Sir Richard grunted. Samuel was the only son of the local doctor, and it had been decided that Samuel should also become a doctor. But Samuel, though possessed of all those attributes desirable in a doctor—a warm heart, strong nerves, charming manners and an unshakable faith in his own judgment—had been a reluctant recruit. Samuel had preferred examining the earth and the trees that grew upon it, and the changing seasons that died and renewed themselves.

Dr. Jardine had cursed and sworn until Samuel gave in and began his medical studies. Then, somehow, he had bungled a simple prescription. The patient had almost died, and the good doctor had ranted and stormed. Rightly so, thought Sir Richard. But Samuel had flung his stethoscope in his father’s face and decamped to America, where he had completely disappeared.

Now here was a letter from this prodigal son!

“‘And so, sir, I come to the purpose of this letter,’” Caitryn continued reading aloud. “‘I have often thought of your beautiful daughter, Caitlin. No other woman has ever taken her place in my heart. If she is not wed, and is willing, would you permit her to travel to Maine and be my wife? I enclose a short note to her regarding arrangements for the marriage, and send my kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. Parr. Signed this Third day of May, 1842. Samuel Jardine. P.S. A bank draft for passage is enclosed.’”

There was a moment’s silence. Caitlin hurried forward. “The note!” There was a loud rushing in her ears that made her own voice sound faint. “The note Samuel wrote for me myself. Where is it?”

Caitryn blinked at her. She looked…different, somehow. A slight trembling shook her body, and her fingers groped upon the table as though her eyesight, as well as that of Sir Richard, was failing. Her face the color of ashes, she silently handed a small sealed note to her older sister. It was addressed to Miss C. Parr.

“The damned cheek of it! Thinking to wed one of my daughters, after dead silence for ten years! Arrogant young pup.”

With shaking fingers, Caitlin opened the personal note Samuel had written especially to her. Her heart slammed to a stop, and she felt the air leave her chest in a rush.

My dearest Caitryn…

Caitlin saw the words with eyes that burned, blurrily, as if from a great distance. In her mind, she tried to flee, but her legs would not move. It was like being stuck in quicksand. She was in a waking nightmare. For one instant, she thought her entire world had disintegrated. It seemed that even her heart had ceased to beat.

Then the fingers of one hand closed convulsively over Samuel’s letter, and she thrust it into the bodice of her dress, safe from prying eyes. The crackle of the paper set her mind leaping fiercely upon another track.

Each night, for ten long years, before she retired to bed, she had knelt in the window seat and found the North Star. The sight would bring a smile to her lips, while the memory of Samuel, fluttering through her mind, would lift up her heart like a flight of butterflies…. Now, standing by this window in the year of 1842, Caitlin felt out of patience with Samuel for his absurd confusion over the similarity of names between her and her sister.

“What an absurd to-do about nothing, Papa,” she said, managing to laugh lightly. A pox on doubts. Samuel loved her. Confidence flared up, welcome, fortifying, reassuring. “It was courteous of Samuel to write to you, but, as I am of age, there was really no necessity.”

Sir Richard’s jaw flexed. “No, by God. No daughter of mine will marry a man who deserted his father, a common lumberman, a fellow no better than a lackey.”

To stand before the altar with Samuel—that had been the goal of the whole of her life. Well, most of it, at least since she had been sixteen. Caitlin’s chin rose a notch.

She would go to America. She would marry Samuel.

“I am sorry, Papa, but that is exactly what your daughter intends to do.”

Chapter One (#ulink_c496ffbb-82a3-525f-b5f6-466ca08c9479)

Bay of Fundy, Summer 1842

Caitlin stood and braced herself with one palm against the ship’s bow. The world was filled with cold, blustery movement and the steady surge of waves. Her eyes crinkled against the sharp, cool, salt-laden moisture that sprayed her face. She leaned into the motion, the rail pressed against her waist, enjoying the breeze.

Great gray gulls tossed screaming in the upper air. Below her, the water whooshed by, pale, ribboning in the sunlight, swirling against the ship’s prow. They were within hours of landing, and to Caitlin, the clipper ship seemed swept along with steely purpose.

The ship’s port of call was Saint John. Once she and Samuel were married, they would journey to River de-Chute before setting off for the small backwoods settlement of Fairbanks, where Samuel operated his lumber business. She had spent much time preparing to be a good wife, but it was hard not to feel just a little afraid.

Not for a moment did she think Samuel would have changed. Not at all. He was still only thirty…She saw him as she had seen him last, in the Savannah’s dinghy as it skimmed across the harbor, tall and broad and straight, with big shoulders and a fine, strong, square face, his clear eyes fixed on her, and her alone. Ah! Had she not looked into their depths and there read love for herself?

That was the image of him that she had carried in her heart, and she had no difficulty in imagining the image of herself that he had carried through all these years, the image of a spirited woman whose steadfastness would be his redemption and whose love would be his salvation. For she loved the man to whose side she was hasting with a love that had neither height nor depth, nor any other measure, but was just all of her.

Caitlin’s heart danced a little jig. Elation surged through her. If even the thought of her had upheld him through the years of loneliness, what would her presence do? She felt a glow of delight already at the thought of the bliss of their mutual love, and the sweetness of home life together.

“Had no idea you were wantin’ to get married this side of the border, old son. Why all this cloak-and-dagger charade?”

Groaning inwardly, Samuel Jardine turned around at the sound of the soft Irish accent. Leaning back against the wall, his arms folded over his belt, his partner and best friend looked challengingly at him.

Liam Murphy was above average height, with hair the color of a midsummer wheatfield and piercing blue eyes. He had a snub nose and a deep dimple in his chin, as if someone had poked him with a finger and left an impression in the flesh.

Samuel smiled thinly. It was the sort of smile he would give to a stranger.

“Some things are meant to be kept to oneself, Murphy.” Even to himself, his voice sounded harsh. He struggled to lighten it. “I had to make sure that you came to Saint John, Liam. We have a contract for delivery of a million feet to sign, remember?”

Murphy looked blank for a second. Then he grinned. “We’ve five limits untouched, and we can scale around ten million feet of first-class timber from any one of ’em, so Conrad Hatt’s contract is no great problem. It’s more than that. Feeling nervous, Sam?”