Authors: Tracy Anne Warren
The Husband Trap (45 page)
“He was gathering up the nerve to tell you, as I understand it, when I happened along. He didn’t like bearing the bad news, so I offered to deliver it myself.”
She peered again at the surrounding ocean of mud. “But where would I wait? Surely you can’t expect me to sit atop my luggage in the middle of this bog while the sun toasts me to a crisp.”
The humorous gleam returned to his gaze. “Don’t be fretting yourself. There must be a spot of shade somewhere hereabouts. I’m sure we’ll find one that suits.”
She sincerely doubted it, but what choice did she have? Either she vacate the coach or risk still being here, virtually alone and unprotected, come eventide.
O’Brien shot her a sympathetic look, clearly aware of her dilemma and the internal war being waged. Opening the barouche door, he stepped forward. “Come along with you and save your stubbornness for another day. You and I both know the quicker we get you out of this coach, the quicker you’ll be on your way.”
“Has anyone ever informed you that you are impertinent?” Grudgingly, she climbed to her feet.
He chuckled. “A time or two, lass. A time or two. Now gather whatever it is you need and let’s be going.”
She hesitated for a long, indecisive moment then bent to retrieve her reticule where it lay on the coach seat. With it barely in hand, he reached inside and whisked her up into his arms. Shrieking, she almost dropped her purse as he swung her clear of the coach, his strength and balance the only things separating her from harm’s way.
He cradled her against his solid chest, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a feather despite his earlier remarks to the contrary. His nearness washed over her, engulfing her, surrounding her, the scent of fresh air and horses teasing her nostrils along with something else, something indescribably, deliciously male.
Surreptitiously she tilted her head to catch a deeper whiff, the illusive fragrance uniquely his own, she realized. She closed her eyes and for the briefest second considered pressing her nose against his neck. Instead, she held herself rigid in his arms, distressingly aware of the thick brown ooze that encircled them like a slick, squishy sea.
“Don’t you dare drop me,” she admonished, catching up the edges of her skirts to keep them from falling into the mire.
Methodically he slogged forward, mud slurping in noisy protest against his tall boots as nature fought to maintain its tenacious grip upon him. They were halfway across to the oasis where the servants anxiously waited and watched, when O’Brien teetered, his knees dipping precipitously downward for a sudden heart-stopping instant. She screamed and wrapped her arms around his neck, unprepared for the plunge into the tepid muck below.
But just as quickly as O’Brien faltered, he recovered, his feet as steady as if he’d never wavered at all.
Her heart threatened to thunder out of her breast, throat dry and tight. An instant passed as the truth slowly dawned. A glance at the wide, wicked, totally unapologetic grin on his face confirmed her conclusion.
“You beast.” She cuffed him on the shoulder. “You did that deliberately.”
“Oh, aye. I thought you could use a bit of jollying. You scream all high and funny like a girl, did you know that?”
“I
am
a girl and that was not funny.” Or it wouldn’t have been if he’d miscalculated and actually dropped her. She tightened her hold.
He laughed again.
If only he knew who she was, he wouldn’t laugh or taunt her. Back in England, before the scandal, she’d been used to gentlemen hurrying to do her bidding. Wealthy, refined men, who catered to her slightest wish, who fought one another for a chance to satisfy her most fleeting desire. She’d been the Ton’s Incomparable for the past two Seasons. And she would be again, she vowed, once her parents came to their senses. It wouldn’t be long before Mama missed her and Papa’s temper cooled. Soon the pair of them would realize what a horrible mistake they’d made, sending their beloved daughter away to this rustic frontier.
Until then she supposed she would be forced to endure unspeakable indignities, such as being carried about by disrespectful, provincial Irishmen like O’Brien.
Her servants stood in a mute cluster, their eyes round as planets, when O’Brien set her on her feet among them. Betsy hurried instantly to her side, an act for which Jeannette was silently grateful, and made a shy attempt to pluck Jeannette’s reticule from her grasp.
O’Brien moved to turn away.
“Are you leaving me?” she asked.
He paused, swung back. “Aye. I’ve got to help your men with the coach.”
“But you promised me shade and a comfortable place to sit.”
He planted broad hands on his narrow hips, made a show of scanning the area, then he locked his gaze with hers. “It’s sorry I am to tell you, but the only shade to be had is over in that little glade just there.” He pointed to the spot, a small cluster of silver fir trees standing several yards distant. “And I suspect the ground beneath those trees is just as muddy as the ground here. If you’ve a parasol, I’d have your maid open it out for you to keep you from the sun.
“As for the comfortable seat, I never promised you such as I recall. If I were you, I’d have a sit-down on your strongest traveling case. Otherwise, you’ve a fine pair of feet on which to stand. After all the hours you’ve been in that coach, I’d think you’d be craving a good stretch by now.”
With that he turned and strode back toward the foundered barouche. One by one, her men stole away after him, the warm summer stillness broken only by the undulating hum of insects singing in the fields.
Jeannette stood immobile, stunned to speechlessness. She didn’t know whether to stamp her feet in frustration or burst into another noisy bout of tears.
But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her so upset.
Dastardly man.
And to think she’d considered him attractive.
Aware no one was looking, she stuck her tongue out at O’Brien’s back. Feeling slightly better for her childish act of retaliation, she turned to find a seat.
The Husband Trap
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Ivy Books Mass Market Original
Excerpt from
The Wife Trap
by Tracy Anne Warren © 2006 by Tracy Anne Warren
Copyright © 2006 by Tracy Anne Warren
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ivy Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
I
VY
B
OOKS
and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
The Wife Trap
by Tracy Anne Warren. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49079-7
eISBN-10: 0-345-49079-7
v1.0