The Husband Trap (44 page)

Jeannette’s lip curled with distaste. She shooed at the insect with her handkerchief, hoping it would fly out the opposite window. Instead it turned and raced straight for her head. She let out a sharp squeal and batted at it again.

Buzzing past her nose, it landed on the window frame, its transparent wings glinting in the brilliant sunlight. The insect strolled casually along the painted wooden sill on tensile, hair-thin legs.

With equal nonchalance, Jeannette reached for her fan. She waited, running an assessing thumb over the fine gilded ivory side guard. As soon as the creature paused, Jeannette brought her fan down with an audible
thwap.

In a single instant, the big black bug became a big black blob. Gratified by her small victory, she inspected her fan, hoping she had not damaged the delicate staves since the fan had always been one of her favorites.

Catching a fresh glimpse of the squashed insect, her lips twisted in revulsion before she quickly flicked the carcass out of her sight.

“Sure and you’ve a deadly aim, lass,” remarked a mellow male voice, the lilting cadence as rich and lyrical as an Irish ballad. “He didn’t stand a chance, that fly. Are you as handy with a real weapon?”

Startled, she turned her head to find a stranger peering in at her through the opposite window, one strong forearm propped at an impertinent angle atop the frame.

How long had he been standing there?
she wondered. Long enough obviously to witness the encounter between her and the fly.

The man was tall and sinewy with close-cropped, wavy dark chestnut hair, fair skin, and penetrating eyes of the bluest blue, vivid as gentians at peak bloom. They twinkled at her, those eyes, the man making no effort to conceal his roguish interest. His lips curved upward in silent, unconcealed humor.

Devilish handsome.

The description popped unbidden and unwanted into her mind, his appeal impossible to deny. Her heart flipped then flopped inside her chest, breasts rising and falling beneath the material of her bodice in sudden, breathless movement.

Gracious sakes.

She struggled against the involuntary response, forcing herself to notice on closer observation that his features were not precisely perfect. His forehead square and rather ordinary. His nose a bit long, a tad hawkish. His chin blunt and far too stubborn for comfort. His lips a little on the slender side.

Yet when viewed as a whole, his countenance made an undeniably pleasing package, one to which no sane woman could claim indifference. And when coupled with the magnetism that radiated off him in almost visible waves, he looked rather like sin brought to life.

And a sin it was, she mused on a regretful sigh, that he was clearly not a gentleman. His coarse, unfashionable attire—plain linen shirt, neckerchief, and rough tan coat—betraying his plebeian origins along with his obvious lack of manners before a lady. One had only to look at him to know the truth as he leaned against her coach door like some ruffian or thief.

She stiffened at the idea, abruptly realizing that’s exactly what he might be. Well, if he was there to rob her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing fear. She might burst into tears on occasion, but she had never been a vaporish milk-and-water miss. Never one of the frail sort given to wailing for her smelling salts at the faintest hint of distress.

“I am well able to defend myself,” she declared in a resilient tone, “if that is what you are asking. Be aware I would have no difficulty putting a bullet through you should circumstances require.”

What a fib,
she mused, deciding it wisest not to mention the fact that she had never fired a gun in her life and had no pistol with her inside the coach. The coachman was the one with the weapon.

Where was he anyway?
She hoped he and the others weren’t, quite literally, tied up.

Surprise brightened the rogue’s eyes. “And why would you think you’ve cause to shoot me?”

“What else am I to imagine when a strange man accosts me in my own carriage?”

“Perhaps you might assume he’s here to help.”

“Help with what? Help himself to my belongings?”

His eyes narrowed, glinting with a dangerous combination of irritation and amusement. “You’ve a suspicious mind, you have, lass, painting me immediately as a thief.” He leaned closer, his voice growing faintly husky. “Assuming I were a thief, what is it you possess that I might find of value?”

Her lips parted involuntarily, alarm and something far more treacherous quickening her blood. “I have my clothes and a few jewels, nothing more. If you want them, they are in the trunks outside.”

“If I were of a mind to want such things, I’d have them already.” His eyes locked with her own, momentarily holding her prisoner before his gaze lowered slowly to her mouth. “No, there’s only one thing I’m craving after….”

Her breath caught in her lungs as he paused, leaving his sentence tantalizingly, frustratingly unfinished. Did he want
her
? she wondered. Did he intend to force his way inside her carriage and steal far more than belongings but kisses instead, and maybe other intimacies as well? Given the circumstances, she ought to be screaming her lungs out, ought to be terrified beyond measure. Instead she could only wait with her heart thundering in her ears for him to continue.

“Yes,” she prompted in a near whisper, “what is it you crave?”

The corner of his lips curved upward. “You, lass, hauling your fine backside out of this coach so your men and I can free it from the muck.”

A long moment of incomprehension passed as his meaning gradually sank in. Surely she could not have heard him right? Had he actually told her to
haul her backside out of the coach
!

Her mouth dropped open, her shoulders and spine turning stiff.

Why the gall of the man!
Never in her entire life had she been spoken to in such a disgraceful, disrespectful manner. Just who did he think he was?

“And what is your name, fellow?”

“Oh, my pardon for not introducing myself sooner,” he said. “If my dear ma were still alive, God rest her soul, she’d cuff me but good for my lack of manners.” He straightened to his full, impressive height, touched a pair of fingers to his forehead. “Darragh O’Brien at your service.”

“Darr-ah?”
She crinkled her brow. “Rather an odd-sounding name.”

He frowned back. “ ’Tisn’t odd, ’tis Irish. Which you’d know if you hadn’t just made the crossing over from England.”

“And how can you tell that?”

“Well, you haven’t a sign on your forehead, but you might as well since it’s plain as the nose on your pretty face that you’re English and new to this land.”

He could discern all that from a couple minutes of conversation, could he? Well, at least he had the grace to offer her a small compliment, even if it was wrapped around a criticism.

“Now then, lass, you know my name, so what’s yours? And where is it you’re bound? Your men didn’t say.”

“Nor should they have since my plans are really none of your affair, most particularly if you are indeed some sort of rogue.”

“Ah, a rogue, am I now? No longer a thief?”

“That remains to be seen.”

He barked out a laugh. “Sure and you’ve got a wicked tongue in your head. One that could slice a brigand to the bone and leave him fleeing in terror.”

“If that is true,” she asked with a teasing half smile, “then why are you still here?”

He flashed her an irreverent grin, obviously amused by her words. “Well now, I’ve never been one to run from danger. And I don’t mind dipping my toe into an interesting spot of trouble when I chance upon one every now and again.”

Up went her eyebrow at his salvo. Was he implying that
she
was just such a spot of trouble? Come to think of it, maybe she was at that.

“I stopped to offer my help as I tried to tell you before,” he explained. “I was riding past when I noticed the sorry state of your vehicle. Thought you and your men could do with an extra hand.”

His words reminded her of her servants’ conspicuous absence, some of her earlier suspicions returning. “And where exactly are my men?”

“Right there.” He gestured with a hand. “Where they’ve been all this while.”

She leaned forward and shifted on the seat, then looked over her shoulder through the window. And there they were, all four of them—coachman, two footmen, and her maid—grouped around her luggage on a patch of dry road. She thought they resembled castaways on a small, deserted island, looking hot, bored, and in absolutely no fear for their lives.

“Satisfied?” he questioned.

Clicking her tongue with a barely audible tisk, she settled back into her seat.

“Now then, I’ve shared my name. What might yours be, lass?” He leaned in again, resting both muscled forearms along the windowsill.

“My name is Jeannette Rose Brantford.
Lady
Jeannette Rose Brantford, not
lass.
I would prefer you do not refer to me in such familiar terms again.”

His smile broadened at her lofty reply, his vivid eyes twinkling with a boldness that made her heart squeeze out an extra beat.

“Lady Brantford, is it?” he drawled. “And where would your lord be then, this husband of yours? Has he sent you out traveling on your own?”

“I am presently on my way to my cousins’ estate north of Waterford, near some village called Inis…Inis…” She broke off, racking her mind and drawing a complete blank. “Oh, fiddlesticks, I can’t remember now. It’s Inis-something-or-other.”

“Inistioge, do you mean?” he suggested.

“Yes, I believe that is it. Do you know the place?”

“Aye, I know it well.”

Assuming he was not a rogue—though she still had her doubts on that subject—she supposed he might be a decent sort. A local farmer or some such, a freeholder mayhap or possibly a merchant. Although she couldn’t imagine Darragh O’Brien serving anyone, not with that brash, ungoverned attitude of his.

If he knew the village near her cousins’ home, though, perhaps she hadn’t too much farther to travel. Heaven knows she longed to arrive at her destination so she could climb down from this coach and shake out her skirts.

“I am to stay with my cousins there,” she said. “And though it isn’t actually any of your concern, my title is one of birth, not marriage. I am presently unwed.”

The gleam in his expressive eyes deepened. “Are you not, lass? I always knew Englishmen were fools, but I didn’t know they were blind into the bargain.”

A renewed ripple of awareness quivered in her middle. She buried it with a stern inner rebuke, reminding herself that no matter how attractive he might be, O’Brien was not the kind of man with whom a lady of her rank would consort.

“I believe I told you not to address me by the term
lass,
” she said, her tone too breathless to sound much like a scold.

“Aye, and so you did.” He grinned at her, visibly unrepentant. “Lass.”

Then he did the most astonishing thing—he winked at her. An audacious, irreverent wink that sent a flood of warmth rushing through her veins like the unleashing of a rain-swollen dam after a heavy storm.

If she’d been given to blushing, the way her identical twin sister was, she’d be stained scarlet as a poppy now. But thankfully blushing at every passing remark was one of the rare physical traits she and her sister, Violet, did not share.

The summer heat, she concluded,
that
was the cause for her untoward reaction. The steamy, unseasonable weather must be affecting her already overburdened senses. If she were back in London, she wouldn’t have given him so much as a second look. Well, maybe a second, but not a third.

“Come along with you then,” O’Brien declared in a no-nonsense tone. “We’ve talked long enough, and I need to get you out of this coach.”

“Oh, I’m not getting out. Perhaps my coachman didn’t mention it, but I have already had this discussion with him. We agreed that I would remain precisely where I am until the barouche can be set on its way.”

O’Brien shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to step out, unless you’ve a wish to start living inside this vehicle. In case you didn’t know, the coach is muck-mired up to its wheels, and your men can’t push it properly with you inside.”

“If it’s my safety you are concerned about, do not be. I shall be fine.”

A bit queasy, mayhap, but fine.

“It’s more than your safety, though, that is a concern. There’s the matter of your weight.”

“What about my weight?” Her eyebrows jerked high.

With a bold, assessing gaze, he scanned the length of her body, from the brim of her hat to the tips of her half boots. “I’m not implying you’re fat or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ve a fine womanly figure make no mistake. But even a few stone can make the difference between lifting this coach out of its hole or sinking it deeper.”

She sat, momentarily speechless, his rudeness beyond measure. Imagine discussing her weight and her figure in nearly the same breath! Why a gentleman would never dare. But then this man was no gentleman. He was a barbarian. From his tone he might have been discussing farm animals that needed to be shifted from one pen to another.

A long moment passed before he continued. “Of course, if you’d rather, you can stay here while I ride on. I’ll carry word to your cousins to let them know you’re in need of help. I don’t expect it’ll take above four or five hours to set you on your way again.”

Four or five hours! She couldn’t stay in this coach that long. Maybe he was exaggerating, using subterfuge to lure her out of the coach. But what if he wasn’t? What if her insistence upon remaining inside the barouche did make the difference between traveling onward or remaining stranded? Why in four or five hours it would be dark!

She shivered at the thought. God only knows what sort of dreadful creatures might lurk in the vicinity, ready to creep from their hiding places after nightfall. There could be wolves—did Ireland have wolves?—or some other equally dangerous beasts. Hungry beasts who might not mind nibbling on a young lady.

Deliberately she kept her voice from quavering, trying one last argument. “If all this is true, why are you here telling me and not my coachman? I should think if things were so dire he would be delivering the news himself.”