TheWifeTrap (2 page)

“Yes?” she
prompted on 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, straightening to his full,
impressive height. He 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’ 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. “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
tsk,
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, again, 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, 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 vehicle. 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.”

“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 fret. 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 vacated 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 she
waged. Opening the barouche door, he stepped forward. “Come along 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 us
go.”

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 her breast, her 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.