TheWifeTrap (27 page)

She sighed. “All right, I shall try. After all, we are married,
whether we choose to embrace it or not.”

He studied her for another moment, then smiled. “Speaking of
embraces, you’re much too far away, wife.”

“But I’m sitting right next to you.”

“Aye, but next to me isn’t what I had in mind.” Kicking off the
sheet, he exposed his beautiful naked body and the rampant arousal protruding
from between his legs. “Come closer, lass, and have a seat.”

She eyed him, felt her eyes widen as he appeared to grow even
larger and stiffer beneath her gaze. Blood warmed her cheeks. Quickly she
glanced up.

He winked, a wicked grin on his lips. Then he patted one muscled
thigh.

Gasping out a shocked laugh, she crawled toward him and climbed
aboard.

A painless whap across her quilt-covered bottom brought her awake
the next morning.

Groaning, she cracked her eyelids open a faint slit and squinted
against the early-morning light that shone in a cheery rectangle from around
the window curtains. Cringing, she rolled onto her stomach and snuggled deeper
into her pillow to resume her dream.

A large male hand curved over her shoulder and gave her a shake.
“None of that, now. We need to get up and out and on the road. Arise, Lady
Jeannette.”

“Darragh?” she questioned in a groggy moan.

“Aye, and what other man would it be standing next to your bed?”

The scent of shaving soap and warm male skin teased her nostrils
as he leaned close to press a kiss upon her cheek.

“Leave me ’lone. I’m tired.” She raised a weak hand to push him
away.

He chuckled in good-natured amusement, then captured her hand and
kissed the center of her palm. “I am sorry not to leave you abed but we can’t
afford the delay. We’ve hours of travel inside the coach. You can sleep there.”

Listening with only half an ear, and a sleepy one at that, she let
her eyes drift closed again. But Darragh was relentless, using his hold upon
her to tug her into a sitting position. The covers fell away, exposing her
naked body to the cool morning air. Shivering, she huddled in a weary heap,
covered by nothing but her long hair.

“Now, stay awake,” he admonished. “I’ll send Betsy in to help you
wash and dress.”

She listened to the faint thump of his boot heels striking the
floorboards as he crossed to the door, the sound of the lock clicking as he let
himself out. Alone once more, she flopped onto her back and yanked the
counterpane over herself, head and all.

She was exhausted and it was all Darragh’s fault. He certainly had
a knack for keeping her from her rest. When he’d boasted last evening that he
planned to wear her out, he had not been exaggerating. The man had stamina and
more to spare, the night having been one round of energetic lovemaking after
another interspersed with occasional minutes of sleep.

He would have taken her again just before dawn, she knew, but had
restrained himself with a single kiss, realizing she was far too sore to
accommodate him again. Tonight, he’d murmured, would be soon enough. Tucking
her close, he’d let her drift into a deep sleep. So deep she hadn’t even felt
him leave the bed, nor heard him moving around the room as he shaved and
dressed.

She’d just started another dream when the window curtains were
yanked back to let in a stream of sunlight. The aroma of scrambled eggs and
bacon wafted through the room. She roused enough to sniff, heard her stomach
growl in response.

“Good day, my lady,” her maid greeted in a happy tone. “I’ve
brought you breakfast. Mr. O’Brien said he felt sure you would be hungry and in
need of something more substantial than toast this morning. If you’ll just sit
up, I’ll position the tray.”

“Leave it, Betsy,” she mumbled from under the covers. “I’ll eat
later.”

“Mr. O’Brien said you might say that. I am to remind you that you
need to be up and dressed and in the coach no later than eight. If you aren’t
ready by then, he said…well, you really ought to have your breakfast, my lady.”

Jeannette flipped the coverlet off her face, squinted a look at
her maid. “Why? What did he say?”

“Nothing, my lady. Now, I’ve brought you a lovely pot of hot
chocolate, all rich and creamy just the way you like it. Let me pour you a
cup.”

“Not until you tell me what he said.”

Betsy tucked her hands against her plain skirt. “Very well. He
told me to tell you that if you aren’t dressed and ready on time, he’ll come up
here and carry you out to the coach wearing whatever it is you have on.”

Jeannette’s lips firmed. Why, the barbarian. He knew full well
what she had on, which was absolutely
nothing,
since he’d removed
every last stitch of clothing from her body last night.

Carry her out to the coach naked, would he? Well, she’d like
to see him try.

Then again, knowing Darragh, he would make good on his statement
simply to get his own way, and devil take the consequences.
Dratted man.

Sitting up, she beat at the covers in irritation at her defeat.
“Very well. I will have my breakfast now.”

Betsy turned, a relieved smile on her face.

“And extra jam for the toast. Lord knows after the last
twenty-four hours, I deserve the indulgence.”

A good meal and a warm bath went a long way to improving her mood
and restoring her diminished energy levels. Allowing Betsy to assist her into a
sprightly yellow-and-white-striped traveling dress helped even more. At her
direction, her maid completed the ensemble by fitting fawn-colored half boots
onto Jeannette’s feet and perching an adorable, short-brimmed jockey hat with
matching striped ribbons atop her curls.

Jeannette felt almost herself again by the time she descended the
main staircase at thirty-one past eight. She was late and not the least bit
repentant about it, having blithely ignored Darragh the two times he’d thumped
up the stairs to “check” on her.

When she’d heard him come to the foot of the stairs and bellow up
something about “getting her blasted little backside moving,” she decided she’d
pushed him as far as he would go.

She expected to find him awaiting her in the front entryway.
Instead he stood outside, conversing with the coachman. Arranged in a
mountain-sized lump at his feet sat Vitruvius.

The dog’s ears perked, coming to attention the instant she exited
the house, his lolling tongue retracting into his mouth on a slurping lick.

She came to attention as well.
Zounds,
amidst all the
recent upheaval, she had completely forgotten about the beast.

But he obviously had not forgotten about her, dark doggy eyes
gleaming with pent-up excitement. Tail wagging, he jumped to his great hairy
paws and started toward her at a lope.

A sharp whistle brought him to a halt. “Vitruvius, heel.”

The dog stopped, whipped his head back and up in surprise. His
shaggy body quivered in thwarted desire as he gazed expectantly up at Darragh,
clearly hoping his master had spoken in error and would rescind the command.

Darragh patted his leg. “Come.”

Vitruvius whined, gaze pleading.

“Come.”

Seconds ticked by before the dog gave in. Head down, he padded
back to Darragh’s side. Obedient, he sat and accepted Darragh’s words of
praise, all the while raising sorrowful brown eyes her way.

She met those eyes, her heart softening in sympathy.
Silly
lunkhead.
One would almost suspect he was pining for her.

She started forward, intending to pat him on the head, then let
her hand fall to her side as she thought better of the action. After all, this
was the same dog who had once knocked her to the ground, smothered her face
with slobbery kisses and ruined one of her nicest gowns. A gown she could now
ill afford to lose, considering her less than pecunious marriage. Heaven only
knows how many weeks or months it would be before she set foot over the
threshold of a suitable mantua-maker again. Until then, her present wardrobe
would have to suffice.

Spirits dampened by the thought, she turned her sights back to the
dog. “What,” she stated in a dour tone, “is that big lollylob doing here?”

“You hear that, boy-o?” Darragh reached down, scrubbed a hand over
the animal’s wiry coat. “She thinks you’re a big lollylob, and after all the
hard work you’ve put in lately correcting your manners.”

Vitruvius thumped his tail.

She walked closer, boots crunching on the pea-gravel drive.
Stopping, she gazed pointedly at both man and dog.

The coachman murmured a greeting, then moved away to attend to his
duties.

“Well?” she said to her new husband.

“Well what? If you’re talking about the dog, Vitruvius is coming
with us. You didn’t think I’d leave him behind, did you?”

“No, of course not, but I had imagined by now that one of the
servants would have taken him in hand for the trip.” She tugged on her silk
traveling gloves. “I assume he will be riding in the luggage coach. Unless
you’re planning to let him run alongside.”

“I’d thought he would ride with us, seeing the luggage coach is
nearly full, packed high and wide with your belongings.”

Her brows shot upward. “Oh, no, he can’t ride with us.”

Only imagine all the dog hair, she thought, with a delicate
shudder of distress.

“But your maid has the only empty seat. There won’t be room for
them both in there.”

“Then he can ride up with John Coachman.” She nodded, the
discussion concluded as far as she was concerned. “Now, since you have done
nothing but complain about the need to depart ere these many minutes past, I
assume you would like to be off.”

He looked as if he would like to argue further about his dog, but
decided to keep his comments to himself.

She moved toward the carriage, only then noticing a crest painted
on the side that depicted a stylized Celtic bull and lion. “Whose coach is
this? I had assumed we would borrow one of my cousins’ coaches for the
journey.”

Darragh stilled, stared for a moment. “What? No. The only vehicle
the Merriweathers own isn’t suitable for long trips.”

“So where did this one come from?”

“This one?” He rubbed a finger along the side of his face. “Well
now, this one belongs to…a…um…local landowner near home. He heard about our
marriage and had it sent.”

She folded her hands at her waist. “How very generous of him. Who
is this man? He must be more than a landowner to have such excellent
transportation as this, and to send it so quickly as well. Is he one of your
patrons?”

An odd expression flickered through Darragh’s eyes. “In a manner
of speaking, you might say that he is.”

“What is his name, this benefactor?”

“His name?”

“Yes, surely the man has a name, and a noble one at that, judging
by his crest.”

“What do you need with his name?”

She stared, puzzling at his peculiar manner. Why was he behaving
in such a curious way all of a sudden? Mayhap, like all men, he had too much
pride and chaffed to accept the charity of others, even when offered as a
wedding gift.

“I thought when we arrive I might call upon him to express my
appreciation,” she explained.

He looked alarmed. “Call upon him? Oh, no, you can’t call on him
because…because he’ll be away. By the time we arrive, he’ll have left again.
Spends a great deal of time on the Continent.”

“Oh. I suppose, then, I shall simply have to write.”

“Hmm, you do that. In the meantime, we’d best be off. We’ve some
miles to travel today.”

A footman stepped forward, opened the coach door and let down the
step. He assisted her inside.

She arranged her skirts around her hips, then leaned back against
the comfortable silk upholstered seat.

Darragh joined her in the vehicle.

“So, what is his name?”

He scowled. “Whose name? Oh, that.” He paused. “Mulholland. The
Earl of Mulholland.”

“Thank you. Now, was that so dreadful?”

“No, and neither will this be.” Leaning out the open door, he
whistled.

Seconds later, Vitruvius sprang inside the coach.

Chapter Seventeen

Four grueling, travel-weary days later, they arrived at their
destination, the nights spent in Darragh’s arms the only thing that made the
trip bearable. Her new husband, she had rapidly discovered, was a man possessed
of deep passions and appetites. Some of them nearly insatiable, as he had taken
to showing her, much to her nocturnal delight.

Speaking of appetites, Jeannette thought as she felt her stomach
rumble, she was hungry again despite the satisfying midday meal of roasted game
hen and new potatoes she and Darragh had shared at an inn in the town of Ennis.
But that had been almost five hours since. Five long, tedious, teeth-rattling
hours spent bouncing over rutted, uneven roads, watching mile after mile of
endless green countryside pass by.

Green grass. Green trees. Flat green fields and gently sloping
hills stretching as far as the eye could see. Then more green interspersed with
rock-strewn patches of brown and gray, plus the occasional Celtic stone cross
with its unique circular design that speared upward toward a cloud-filled blue
sky.

A sky that looked glum and cheerless, threatening rain as evening
swiftly approached. She peered out the window of the now stationary coach and
felt a bewildered frown descend across her brow.

Obviously this could not be Darragh’s home, she reassured herself.

Not this single-story, thatched-roofed cottage, its stone exterior
covered with a fresh coating of whitewash. Some sort of bushy plant reminiscent
of ivy grew up in a quaint semicircle around the entrance, the wooden door
painted an intense, jocular yellow. A pair of four-by-four windows were
centered on either side to let in light and air. In the foreground yard lay a
small flower bed and herb garden, divided by a stone walkway and a curving path
that meandered around toward the rear. There, an empty clothesline stood, just
barely visible around the corner.

Clearly she was mistaken about their arrival, the place quite
obviously the home of a villager—a farmer or laborer or some such person to
whom Darragh must needs speak.

Her husband alighted from the carriage, preceded by Vitruvius, who
sprang down with a loud, exuberant bark. He barked a second time before loping
off toward a nearby stand of trees. She sighed and picked a wad of dog hair off
her peach-and-brown-printed gingham skirt, wondering how much longer and
farther their journey would be.

But instead of striding toward the cottage, Darragh turned back to
her and extended a hand.

“Oh, no, you go ahead,” she told him. “I shall wait here until you
have concluded your business.”

“What business?”

“
Your
business,” she repeated with agreeable forbearance,
“with whomever it is you have detoured here to see. Go in and I shall wait.”

“I fear you’re laboring under a confusion, lass. We haven’t
stopped to visit anyone. We’re here. We’ve arrived.”

She stared out the window again, saw nothing but the small cottage
and its surrounding yard. “What do you mean, arrived? Arrived where?”

“At our dwelling.” He gestured behind him with a hand. “Welcome to
your new home.”

She stopped breathing. For a long moment, she felt exactly the way
she had the time she’d fallen off a swing at age seven and had the air knocked
completely out of her lungs.

A dizzy buzzing started in her head. She swayed slightly on the
seat and grew faint from a lack of oxygen.

Looking alarmed, Darragh reached in and gave her a shake.

She sucked in a rasping breath and blinked twice. Exhaustion from
the trip, she concluded. That’s what it must be. Or maybe her ears were clogged
with wax and needed a thorough cleansing. Whatever the reason, she must have
misheard him.

“W-what did you say?” she questioned, fighting to slow her
thundering heart.

“I said welcome home. Now, I know it’s likely not quite what you
were expecting, but if you’ll just come inside you’ll find it quite pleasant.”

She stared, stunned. So it wasn’t a mistake. This really was his
house—his
cottage
! His whitewashed, thatched-roofed peasant’s cottage
that was smaller than some of the homes her father rented out to his tenant
farmers in Surrey. Darragh expected her to live here? Here in this…this
pea-shell-sized hut?

“Oh, no,” she said, frantically shaking her head, “this will not
do. This will not do at all.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your disappointment, but it’ll have to do.
This is my home and all that I have to offer. Now, come down from there and
take a look inside. You’ll soon see your imaginings are turning the place into
something far worse than it really is.”

A knot of dismay tied itself tight inside her chest. “But surely
you cannot be serious. You’re playing a joke upon me, aren’t you?”

Mercy, she prayed he was playing a joke upon her!

But her chest tightened further when he didn’t start to grin or
laugh, or unbend enough to confess to his prank. Slowly she realized he was
completely serious.

“But it’s a cottage,” she sputtered.

He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the coach door.
“Aye, it’s a cottage. A clean, tidy, well-constructed cottage with six rooms,
including a spacious kitchen that boasts the newest in modern cookstoves.”

Six rooms? And all the size of a matchbox, no doubt. Did he
seriously expect her to live in a six-roomed, matchbox-sized cottage?

Folding her arms over her breasts, she leaned back against the
upholstered coach squabs. “Take me back.”

“Back where?”

“To my cousins. I wish to go home, to England.” Her lower lip
quivered. “From my cousins’ house, I should be able to contact my parents and
procure a passage home.”

“Don’t be daft, woman. We’ve been on the road for half a week and
I’m not taking you back moments after we’ve arrived.”

“Fine. Then take me to an inn. I shall stay the night there then
make arrangements in the morning for my return journey.”

He let out a snort. “And what’ll you use for money to pay for this
return trip, since I won’t be giving you any of mine?”

She wrinkled her nose in consternation.
Money?
She hadn’t
even considered money. All she had in her reticule was a single half-crown
coin, a silver card case, her etui, a vinaigrette and a pair of lace
handkerchiefs. Certainly nothing of enough value to pay her way back to her
cousins’ home.

“I have jewelry,” she said, blurting out the thought the instant
it sprang into her head. “I shall sell some of that.”

“You could try, but folks around these parts have little use for
fancy baubles. You’d do better if you had a cow to trade.”

She gaped.
A cow?

“Besides, I believe you’re forgetting one essential point.”

“Oh, and what, pray tell, might that be?”

“The fact that you’re my wife, honor-bound to remain at my side,
to let me care and provide for you the best way I can. Before we came here, you
gave me your promise you’d try to make our marriage work. Have you forgotten
that promise already?”

“N-no,” she sputtered, “but surely you can’t expect me to live in
that.” She flung a hand out toward the cottage. “After all, I am still a lady.”

“Aye, you are, and living in that dwelling will not change that
fact. Wherever you reside, humble or grand, you shall always be a lady and the
person you were born to be. Now, come down with you and let me show you our
home.”

His words left her feeling churlish and every inch the snob he’d
once accused her of being. But it wasn’t right that she should have to live in
such a meager abode. She’d known Darragh was a commoner, but not
this
common. She’d expected a house with at least two stories and a comfortable
number of rooms. Something a member of the gentry, for instance, might be
satisfied to own.

Surely working as an architect provided a more lucrative income
than this tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere? Surely he could afford to
build something better, bigger, finer, since clearly he knew how. Until now
he’d been a bachelor, given to traveling for his profession. Maybe the cottage
had suited his needs and now that he was wed he planned to construct something
larger and more genteel. Or could it be he had another commission already
arranged and did not plan for them to remain here long? She brightened at the
thought.

Either way, she supposed she would have to make do for the time
being.

Thank God none of her friends or acquaintances could see her now.
How they would stare and deride her, shaking their heads in pity before turning
away. Even her best friend, Christabel, would sniff and cast sad, reproving
eyes upon her.

“Does Raeburn know?” she said, blurting out the question nagging
at the back of her mind.

“Know what?”

“About this? About our…circumstances?”

He met her gaze, his expression oddly enigmatic. “Aye, he knows.”

So, her jilted beau had found the means to have a bit of revenge
upon her, after all. It must seem a great joke to him, well deserved and
fitting in a perverse sort of way. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction
of begging for his assistance, probably what he was expecting of her. Likely
all of them were waiting for her to run back home, which she conceded she had
been only too ready to do a mere two minutes ago.

But despite her pampered upbringing, she was made of sterner
stuff. She would show them, every last one, of exactly what Jeannette Rose
Brantford O’Brien was made.

The footmen and coachman had been busy while she and Darragh
talked, unloading Darragh’s compact travel valise then her trunks and bandboxes
and hat cases, one after another after another.

She crossed to the front door, Darragh at her back. When they
reached the threshold, he stopped her with a hand and moved around to her side.
Turning the knob, he pushed the door open on silent hinges. Then before she
knew what he meant to do, he bent and swept her off her feet.

She cried out in surprise, her arms looping instinctively around
his sturdy neck.

“Tradition,
a ghrá,
” he murmured in his deep, lilting
voice. “To bring us luck.”

Her pulse stuttered and for an instant she lost herself in the
brilliant blue of his eyes.

The moment passed as he strode forward and set her on her feet.
She looked around, heart plummeting to the soles of her fashionable boots.
Gazing along the central hallway, she spied four doors, two on either side.
He’d said there were six rooms in the house, and just as she’d feared, they
were far from spacious. If she wasn’t mistaken, she believed the whole cottage
would fit into the family drawing room at Wightbridge House and still leave
room to spare.

She gulped against the new lump wedged in her throat.

At least he hadn’t lied about the place being clean. The floors
were neatly swept and scrubbed, furnishings and decorative items neatly
arranged, with nary a speck of dust anywhere to be seen. On the air, the scent
of polish and sweet dried herbs—rosemary and thyme. And beef stew cooking in
the kitchen, if she didn’t mistake.

Her stomach ached with hunger, reminding her that a hot meal would
not go amiss. But first she wanted to wash away her travel grime, change into
fresh linens and a clean dress for dinner. She might reside in a true backwater
now, but that didn’t mean she intended to forget her manners.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I believe I shall retire to my room,
if you would be good enough to show me where it is.”

“Of course, darling.” He nodded down the hallway. “Our room is
just there in the back, to the right.”

“
Our
room? So we shall be sharing?”

He tossed her a clearly amused look. “ ’Tis the usual way of
things for a wedded couple, would you not agree? Most particularly a newly
wedded couple.”

Not among her class, who generally kept separate bedchambers. But
she supposed new sleeping arrangements would be yet another adjustment to which
she would have to accustom herself.

“Please send Betsy to me if you would, and inform her I would like
a bath as soon as one can be arranged.”

Turning on her heel, she started down the hallway.

“About Betsy,” he called toward her retreating back.

She halted, swung around to face him. “Yes? What about her?”

He dug his thumbs into his waistband. “She…well, she isn’t here.”

Her stomach lurched in sudden dread. “What do you mean, she isn’t
here?”

“I’ve been scouring my mind, since this morning, trying to think
how to tell you, but there’s just no easy way. I am sorry, lass, but I had to
let her go.”

“Let her go?” she repeated, the tenor of her pitch rising with
each word. “What do you mean? As in release her from my employ?”

Alarm shot through her at his nod.

“But how could you?” she said, aghast. “Betsy is a wonderful maid.
Why would you dismiss her, especially without consulting me? It wasn’t your
right to send her away. She was my maid and my responsibility. You will send a
rider back immediately to wherever it is you abandoned her and bring her back.”
She stomped her foot against the floor on a wave of rising hysteria, and
sudden, unreasoning fear. “Bring her back now.”