Shut inside the hold, he inspected the bill of lading with an aching head, a sour, dry mouth, and the knowledge that he had done something there might be no forgiveness for. His mind refused reality, and he concentrated on the physical activity. By midmorning, he had gotten his breathing under control, and with it his temper.
In spite of his assurances, Samuel wasn’t sure that Caitlin was entirely satisfied with his denial of Liam’s foolish prattle, but he had made no further attempt to improve it. After his first denial of any relationship to Zoe, he felt devious and awkward, unable to think of any word of reassurance that was not a lie.
It seemed better to say nothing. He had not even taken the Irishman to task. When Liam found him, he’d looked startled, then stricken. “Oh, God, I really stepped in it this time. Damn my big mouth, anyway.”
Samuel had given his friend a narrow glance that spoke volumes on the subject of loose lips, but he hadn’t said anything. There was no point in taking offense at Murphy’s ideas of humor.
He stretched, every one of his senses taut and alive. He could not deny the pulsing in his body. All because of a woman, one with whom he had no business ever having involved himself. His intense physical attraction to Caitlin still surprised him. He was beginning to feel some slight uneasiness as to what the outcome might be.
All chickens eventually come home to roost. Whatever the future, he must accept it now. He had no option. Then Samuel remembered that it was his fate that had brought him this far. The marriage was his, just as his fate was his. He was its creator.
The headache didn’t go away all morning, even when he busied his mind. Checking the manifest did not ease the pain. He decided it might be best to keep from drinking too heavily too often, for it made him very slow-witted the morning after.
It was a temptation to go back to Caitlin, but he resisted. It was a battle within himself, but this was not a time for half measures. Instead, he thought of her. He thought of the touch of her lips on his, the smell of her and the feel of her.
Temptation indeed.
It had been a long time since he had had a woman, and his body was reminding him of that fact. Summer Dawn had died two, almost three winters ago, and he had been without a woman all that time. He had missed Summer Dawn so much.
Never could he tell Caitlin of the anger, the betrayal, the bitterness, the despair, that had conceived the vile plan that resulted in the letter that was never meant for her.
Better that she knew nothing.
Samuel let out his breath in an explosive sigh. But to abandon all his honor? Then what? He was utterly guilty, even if he regretted nothing of what he had done. He still was not sure why he had done it. Or rather, if he knew why he had done it, he still did not know why he had not stopped himself.
Indeed, for all of yesterday he had debated whether to tell Caitlin of the tumultuous circumstances that had led to that letter to Caitryn. He had determined to tell her the truth before the wedding ceremony, give her a chance to renege. But his mind had slowly changed, or had it been made up all the time, without his knowing it? He wondered now.
He was aware of a tremendous mixture of emotions. A sense of horror with himself for what he had done, for his misconceived missive, for his misjudged marriage, mingled with an enormous elation at the understanding he had just gained of his wife’s character. And mingled with that was a fierce determination to continue with the arrangement for as long as was necessary.
Or was there more to it than that? And what lay at the end of it? He spent the second half of the day’s journey deep in thought, his shoulders hunched and his eyes focused on the middle distance as he stared at the countryside that marched by the river bank, and tried to shake the spell of her away.
Minutes—hours?—later, the vibration of the riverboat’s powerful engine changed, deepening to a liquid gurgle as the craft hugged the outer limits of the waterway and, taking a long, sweeping curve, commenced a slow, almost ritualistic confrontation with the river’s strong current.
Samuel straightened. There was nothing especially exciting in the scenery, and it was getting late. He felt he had allowed Caitlin sufficient time to get over her ill humor, so he made his way back to their cabin. From past experience, he knew she did not stay mad long. Her tongue might be sharp, but she did not sulk.
In any case, he badly wanted a wash, and he was hungry.
Heart pounding, he hurried down the passageway, which was lit by a single lantern suspended from a deck beam. The beams themselves were so low that Samuel had to bend to avoid striking his head.
Repentance was not a familiar sentiment for him, and he wanted to get it over with. He began rehearsing suitably contrite phrases under his breath, the words of confession and forgiveness forming on his lips, even as his mind revolted at his intent.
On the threshold, some inner sense made the hair on his neck seem to prickle, and he checked his stride. He stood before the closed door, his hand on the knob. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then, throwing caution to the wind, he flung open the door.
The words died on his tongue. He could not stem his swift intake of breath.
His eyes skirted the tiny compartment. Boxes and trunks seemed to take up every available inch of space. A pale-faced woman, dressed in an unbecoming shade of brown, sat on a battered trunk and nursed an infant. On her head was a narrow-brimmed bonnet trimmed with feathers. But the crown of the bonnet was crushed out of shape, and the feathers were limp.
A stooped, rawboned man of medium build, whose cheeks bore the scars of a childhood bout with smallpox, stood beside her. Two scruffy children sat on the floor at their feet, playing with some jackstraws.
Caitlin knelt beside them, her skirts bunched in a wild rumple about her. Samuel was so dumbfounded, all he could do was stand in the doorway and stare at his wife stupidly.
“Oh, Samuel.” Her head came up. She swallowed and lifted her eyes to his. He could see her cheeks were flushed. “This is Eliza Freeman, her husband Tom, and their children. They traveled with me on the Angelica.”
There was a depth of emotion in Samuel that he couldn’t touch, dared not feel. Right now, what he wanted most was to be alone with Caitlin. He wanted her. That much his body was telling him.
He tensed all of his muscles, got his breathing firmly under control, and ducked his head as he stepped inside. He carefully negotiated his way round the children, and held out his hand.
“Evening, Freeman,” he said, with a slight questioning tilt of his head. But the rough, pockmarked countenance regarded him with an odd expression, as though the fellow were gathering his courage.
Tom Freeman smiled respectfully and took his hand, but said nothing, as if he were not brave enough to speak. Caitlin looked uncomfortable, suddenly. Now Samuel wondered what she had done—if she had done anything.
Samuel suddenly went cold all over. He was not going to ask. He didn’t want to hear what this family and all their baggage were doing in his cabin.
Caitlin sprang to life. She rose to pace the room, circling the children with quick, nervous steps. She stood before him, half defiant, half afraid, and thoroughly desirable. Desire started a slow coil in his gut.
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