TheWifeTrap (29 page)

If they rolled up next to Vitruvius they probably
would
have fleas! Utterly frustrated, she repressed the urge to give a very
undignified kick to the couch.

Her shoulders drooped, a weary sadness sweeping through her. “Very
well, you win. We’ll both sleep in the bed. But that is
all
we are
going to do tonight. Sleep. Is that understood?”

“Completely. So long as you can keep your hands off me.”

“I believe I’ll manage.”

She led the way back to the bedroom. Darragh followed, closed the
door and shut them inside.

“Now then, let me see to those buttons of yours,” he said, coming
up behind her.

She gathered her pride around her like a cloak. “Thank you, no. I
am fine.”

He tsked, took her by the shoulders and turned her back around. “I
saw how fine you were when I climbed through the window. You’ll be miserable if
you sleep in your dress and stays. Don’t be so stubborn, woman. You won’t be
hurting anyone but yourself.”

Why,
she cursed,
did he have to be right?
If she
refused him, she would be the one to suffer while Darragh slumbered peacefully
as a babe at her side. When she really considered it, he ought to have to do
all the things Betsy had done, since he was the reason her maid wasn’t here.

“All right,” she relented. “But I need a few things from my
traveling cases.”

“What things?”

“My nightgown, for one. My hairbrush and pin box as well.”

His brow wrinkled. “Do you know which trunks they’re in?”

She shook her head. “Betsy always arranged my things.”
And you
dismissed Betsy,
she thought on a sorrowful retort.

“I could be in there for hours searching. I’ll look tomorrow.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “But I want my night rail.”

His fingers began freeing her gown. “You can sleep in your chemise
tonight.”

“You are insufferable, do you know that?”

“Aye, so you tell me.”

With a minimum of fuss, he helped her off with her gown, unlaced
her corset and freed her petticoat ties. He left her to remove the pins from
her hair on her own.

She was finger-combing her long tresses when he approached and
offered her one of his brushes. Part of a matched set, it was round with no
handle, its silver top engraved with his initials. She considered issuing a
rebuff then decided to accept, drawing the soft boar bristles through her hair
in long, soothing strokes.

By the time she finished, he was in bed, one long arm tucked
beneath his head as he lay watching her. She tried not to stare, his beautiful,
powerful body very obviously naked beneath the sheets.

Crawling in beside him, she rolled over onto her side and faced
away from him. He sat up, leaned over her. She tensed, expecting him to demand
a kiss and more. Instead he only reached across to the nightstand, blew out the
candle.

Darkness engulfed the room.

“Good night, my Little Rosebush,” he murmured in a warm, velvety
tone.

“Little Rosebush!”

“Aye. I’ve thought for a long while that you’re like a rosebush.
Guarded by thorns but much too beautiful to resist.”

“And I think you’re a bully. And a devil.”

Her taunt only made his chest shake with laughter.

She did not speak further, hugging her hurt to herself the way she
hugged the blanket and sheet around her body. Even if he couldn’t afford to
keep Betsy, she thought, he ought to have discussed it with her first. He
should have told her beforehand that he planned to let her lady’s maid go, instead
of behaving in such a high-handed, dictatorial manner.

Domestic arrangements were always the wife’s purview, especially
the hiring and firing of servants. But this was not an elegant estate with
dozens of staff to manage, she reminded herself. It was a tiny cottage with
only the two of them in residence.

The seclusion of it frightened her. She had never lived like this.
How would she manage?

Day to day, she decided, the bed creaking lightly as Darragh
arranged his large frame into a comfortable position beside her.

She listened to his breathing until she knew he was asleep. Only
then did she relax. Only then did she allow herself to admit that despite
everything he’d done, she longed to turn and snuggle close inside the warm
shelter of his arms. Let herself be held so she wouldn’t feel so lost and alone
anymore.

Instead she stayed where she was, forced her eyes to close, her
mind to clear to let the comfort of sleep take her away.

Desire burned like a brand between her legs when she woke hours
later, the faintest hint of gray light creeping around the curtains into the
room. She whimpered, disoriented and half-asleep. Her breasts ached, feeling
heavy and swollen. Her bodice lay open, nipples damp and pinched tight,
exquisitely sensitive, exposed to the cool morning air.

She barely had time to think about how she’d gotten that way when
her hips arched upward, her head rolling against the pillow. Darragh’s head was
pillowed as well, on one of her thighs, as he kissed and suckled her in a place
where until her wedding night she’d never imagined being kissed at all. Somehow
without waking her, he’d positioned himself there, draping her other leg over
his shoulder.

But she was awake now. God Almighty was she awake, lying helpless
and enslaved beneath his mesmerizing touch. She remembered how cross she’d been
with him earlier. How she’d turned him and his lovemaking away.

“Darragh,” she murmured.

He heard her, pausing long enough to raise his head. “Morning,
darling. Did I finally manage to wake you?”

“What are you doing?” she panted. “I didn’t say you could…could,
you know.”

“I didn’t know I needed to ask. Shall I stop, then?”

Her flesh throbbed, begging for a release only he could provide.
Her pride urged her to say, “Yes, stop.” Her body told her not to be a fool.
Her body won, aching with a longing that was almost painful.

“God, no,” she groaned. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He chuckled and went back to what he’d been doing.

It wasn’t long before he brought her to an intense and incredibly
satisfying peak, violent shudders racking her entire body. Before she’d even
stopped shaking, he sat up, turned her over, raised her up so she rested on her
hands and knees.

He gave her a couple light smacks on the bottom that made her
gasp, not with pain but in heated arousal. Before she had time to adjust to his
last astonishing move or the shocking novelty of their position, he came into
her from behind, filling her to the hilt. And then she couldn’t think at all as
he moved inside her. Fast and deep, then faster and deeper, over and over until
he had her moaning, all but incoherent.

She clenched the damp sheets in her fists, her head hanging down
as he drove them both at a relentless pace. Raising her hips, she pressed back
against him to take more. His groan rang harsh and satisfying in her ear.

He cupped her breasts, massaged them, giving them a gentle squeeze
before skimming his big hands downward over her belly. Positioning one hand on
her hip to steady her, he slipped the fingers of his other hand between her
legs to play upon her wet, heated flesh. He stroked her there where she was
most sensitive, scattering wild kisses upon her shoulder and neck.

Then before she had any idea what he planned to do, he bit her
nape, his teeth clamping down just hard enough to send her hurtling over the
edge.

She cried out and let the fierce satisfaction sweep her away.

He claimed his own pleasure soon after, quaking against her,
around her, within her—so brutally, she felt his release almost as if it were
her own.

Sated, they slumped together against the sheets. Rolling to his
back, he tugged her close and tucked her against his chest. With a smile
curving her lips, she fell asleep, locked inside the safety of his arms.

Chapter Eighteen

Jeannette awakened in a profoundly mellow mood, well rested and
deliciously revitalized by the residual glow of good lovemaking.

She stretched and sat up, a surprised smile coming to her lips
when she saw the change of clothes laid out for her at the foot of the bed. Her
toiletries were there as well—hairbrush, comb, pin box, perfume, even the
milled soap she preferred—all neatly arranged on the bureau next to Darragh’s
shaving and grooming implements. A nightgown and robe were also draped over the
back of the chair, just as she had requested last night.

She rose, found fresh, warm water waiting in a large china
pitcher, soft clean towels nearby. Her upset over Betsy’s dismissal eased,
fading beneath the magnitude of Darragh’s thoughtful consideration. Clearly,
he’d gone through her trunks and unpacked the items he thought she would want
immediately. Then he’d carried them in, managing somehow not to wake her.

Under the circumstances, she supposed it would be spiteful not to
forgive him. And with his assistance, mayhap she could learn to do without a
lady’s maid for a time. At least until she could persuade him to rehire Betsy.

Cheered by the idea, she washed and dressed, the blue muslin
morning gown he’d chosen one she was able to don and fasten on her own. Her
hair presented a different challenge. It took three tries before she finally
managed to pin the heavy mass into a reasonably acceptable knot on top of her
head. With an indulgent smile on her lips, she went to find her new husband.

Ten minutes later the smile had vanished, along with her nascent
good humor. She stared at Darragh over a bowl of lumpy oatmeal, her spoon
forgotten in her hand. “You expect me to do what!”

“ ’Tis only the two of us, so the cooking shouldn’t take up too
much of your time. As you can see by our breakfast, I’m not a great hand in the
kitchen. As for housework, you’ll only have to clean and straighten on the days
Aine Murray isn’t here to take care of the heavy work, scrubbing floors,
washing the laundry and such. She’s young, but she’s a good girl. You’ll like
her.”

Jeannette jammed the spoon into her dish. “Have you lost your
senses? I am not some peasant housewife who bakes bread and dips candles and
stitches quilts. I am a lady, trained to manage a large household and direct
servants, not cook and clean and sew.”

“Aye, but since I haven’t a large household nor lots of servants,
you’ll have to try your hand at the other. I’m not saying it’ll be easy at
first but you’ve a keen mind. I know you’ll figure things out quickly enough.”

Despite having thought much the same thing last night regarding
the lack of servants and her duties in that regard, Jeannette could not help
but goggle, her eyes bulging in their sockets. “I do not wish to
figure
things out.
I am your wife, not some servant you hired.” She crossed her
arms. “I refuse.”

“Then we’ll be a sad and hungry pair for certain.” Lifting a
spoonful of the oatmeal, he let it plop back into the bowl in an unappetizing
heap. “Can’t say I’d like to eat this for every meal.”

“What about last night’s meal?” she challenged. “The fare was
simple, but quite delicious. Who made that?”

“Aine’s ma, but the meal was a special treat sent over in welcome.
We won’t be getting another of her suppers tonight.”

“I fail to see why not. Hire the woman to cook for us. And engage
more servants as well, ones who can live in and work every day, not just a few
days out of the week.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t afford to keep a permanent staff
of servants such as you’re used to. Never mind the fact there wouldn’t be the
room to house them all. As for Aine’s ma, she has seven other babies at home,
all of them younger than Aine. Mrs. Murray doesn’t have time to come and cook.”

“Surely with eight children she could use the money.”

“Why do you think she’s hired Aine out along with her other two
oldest children? Plus, Mrs. Murray is in the family way again, due to deliver
another babe come spring.”

Distressed, Jeannette tapped a fingernail against the wooden
kitchen tabletop. “Mrs. Murray ought to tell Mr. Murray to leave her alone.”

“Aye, but think of all the fun they’d miss.” He grinned.

She failed to see the humor. “This…this notion of me cooking and
cleaning and taking care of this cottage, however small it may be, is an
absolutely preposterous idea. I know nothing about that sort of work. I don’t
even know how to put a kettle on the stove, let alone how to light the blasted
thing.”

“I can show you. All it takes is a flint and some dry kindling.”

“Well then, if it’s so easy, you do it. Or better yet, hire some
servants to do it.” She crossed her arms. “You ask too much. Such labors are
simply beneath the dignity of a titled lady.”

“They’re not beneath the dignity of my wife. And there’ll be no
servants employed other than Aine, and she’s to clean, not cook. I’ll make sure
there’s food in the larder. It’s up to you to fix the meals.”

“But I told you. I haven’t the faintest notion how to cook.”

He eyed the cold oatmeal neither of them wished to touch. “You can
learn. Now, shall I show you how to work the stove and such?”

“No, since I will not be using it nor any other kitchen devise in
this house.” She pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet. “I am going to
my room.”

“Go, then, and pout all you like, but such measures won’t make an
anthill’s difference to me. And they won’t change my mind nor will they put
food on the table. When you change your mind, let me know and I’ll show you how
to work the stove.”

“I will never change my mind.”

He pinned her with a look. “Fair warning, lass. Never is an
awfully long time.”

Three days later, Jeannette decided that as much as she hated to
admit it, Darragh was right. Never was an awfully long time, especially when
one’s stomach was empty as an echoing cavern.

Hunger gnawed her insides with the sharpness of a small vicious
animal, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten a decent meal since the evening of her
arrival. Holding fast to her vow not to cook, she had been subsisting on raw
apples and carrots, along with some cheese and milk she’d discovered in the
larder. But apples and carrots, cheese and milk as a steady diet simply were
not enough.

She wanted food—meat and fish, butter and eggs and bread. Hot,
succulent, satisfying food that melted in her mouth and filled the empty,
aching hole in her stomach.

She’d been counting on Darragh to break, to toss up his hands in
defeat and agree to hire a cook. But as each new day dawned and he didn’t so
much as whisper a word of complaint, she began to fret. He was stubborn enough
to outlast her, she realized, no matter how long the siege might take. Worse,
she suspected the wretch was cheating, privy to a stash of food she couldn’t
find. And if he did have additional foodstuffs, Lord knows how long he might be
able to hold out.

When Aine arrived this morning, Jeanette had practically fallen
upon the girl, all but begging her to cook her a meal. With wide, sympathetic
green eyes and hair as black as midnight, Aine had bobbed an apologetic curtsey
and explained that Mr. O’Brien had forbidden her from doing aught else but the
cleaning and laundry chores as agreed. She’d said she could answer any
questions Jeannette might have on how to cook, but that she wasn’t to do any of
the actual preparation herself.

Jeannette had choked down an oath and stalked back to the bedroom,
infuriated all over again. She wasn’t even permitted the satisfaction of
twisting the key in the lock, since Darragh had secreted it away. He’d secreted
them all away, hiding every single blessed key in the house. Despite her pleas
on the subject, he had refused to return any of them. Not until he could trust
her not to lock him out, he said.

And since she couldn’t lock him out, she couldn’t keep him out
either. Not out of the bedroom nor out of her bed. She did her best to ignore
him during the day, letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly what she
thought of his loathsome edict.

But at night he was impossible to ignore. Devil that he was, he
delighted in finding clever and ever more inventive ways to turn her desire
against her, to make her eager and aching and yielding in his arms. The first
two nights he waited until she was too sleepy to put up more than a token
protest, quickly luring her traitorous body to override her mind. Then last
night he’d simply leaned close and started dropping random kisses onto her
skin. Refusing to be shooed aside, he persisted until he had her purring
beneath him, had her quite literally begging for his touch, his name a
breathless, fervid sigh on her lips.

She knew she ought to be ashamed for surrendering in his arms the
way she did at night, when by day he exasperated her to the point where she
could barely bring herself to speak so much as a civil greeting to him. But
there it was, the odd ambivalence of their relationship. The inexplicable push
and pull between them that stirred the full gambit of emotions from high to
low.

As the day progressed, she did what she could to pay no heed to
her empty, aching stomach, glad Darragh was occupied in his study drawing plans
or some such thing. But by afternoon she knew she could stand it no longer.
Still, she refused to ask for any quarter from her husband, seeking Aine out
instead.

She found the girl in the backyard, long hair tied back in a
kerchief as she hung wet laundry from the line.

“Excuse me, Aine,” she said. “Could you help me, do you suppose? I
need to light the fire in the stove, and I…well, I do not know how.”

The girl looked up, a pleasant smile curving her lips. “Sure and
I’d be that pleased to help you, ma’am. Just let me finish hanging this sheet
and I’ll be there in a nip.”

As a servant, Aine ought to have called her “my lady.” Even
married to an untitled commoner as Jeannette now was, her hereditary title—the
one that came to her through her father—was still hers to use. A correction
hovered on her lips, but she swallowed it down. What did it matter here in this
place whether or not this ordinary girl addressed her properly? What lady,
after all, would be asking the assistance of a servant to light a stove in the
first place?

Aine completed pinning the sheet, then turned with a lithe step
and disappeared into the kitchen. Jeannette followed, and once inside stood by
to watch and listen while the maid showed her how to add kindling and light the
range.

“Is there a simple dish you might suggest?” Jeannette asked the
girl once the stove was heating nicely. “Something flavorsome, but easy to
cook?”

Aine considered the question. “Potatoes, onions and bacon make a
nice quick dish. They’ll fry right up in a skillet in no time at all.”

Jeannette thanked the girl and watched her return outside to the
laundry. Potatoes, onions and bacon did sound simple. Plain and homey and
filling, a far cry from the elegant cuisine upon which she usually dined. But
under the circumstances, such fare would have to do. And surely even she could
cook such a dish—after all, how hard could it be?

Darragh followed his nose into the kitchen, pleased to find
Jeannette at the stove, but not so surprised to find her looking less than
happy.

Metal spatula in hand, she chiseled in clear desperation at
something cooking—or should he say burning—inside a heavy iron skillet.
Cursing, she blistered the air with a litany of words he wouldn’t have imagined
a gently bred woman like her to know. He watched as she grabbed a thick towel
off the counter and wrapped it around the handle to yank the pan off the heat.

“Ouch.” She stuck a knuckle in her mouth.

He hurried across. “Did you burn yourself?”

She rounded on him, her translucent eyes flashing hotter than a
boiling sea. “Yes, and I hope you feel badly about it, since it’s all your fault.”

“Here now, let me have a look.”

She slapped him away. “Keep your looks to yourself.”

He gathered up her hand anyway, saw a faint pink mark on her skin,
relieved to discover the wound wasn’t serious. “Shall I draw you a bit of cool
water from the well to ease the pain?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” she said in a martyred tone. “I will
simply have to bear the pain until it heals.” She glanced toward the skillet,
her disappointment plain. “Oh, look at it. It’s ruined.”

Whatever
it
was. In its current sad state he couldn’t
quite tell, though he suspected the main ingredient might have started out as
potatoes. Criticizing her first attempt at cooking, however, was no way to
instill confidence.

“Looks delicious,” he lied. “A mite crispy along the edges—but
then, I like it that way.”

Incredulous eyes met his own. “You like your potatoes burned?”