TheWifeTrap (3 page)

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 amongst 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?” Jeannette 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 and made a show of scanning the area, then he locked
his gaze with hers. “I’m sorry to say, 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
sit 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 turned back. Feeling slightly
better for her childish act of retaliation, she turned to find a seat.

Chapter Two

Lady Jeannette
was a spitfire, Darragh Roderick O’Brien, Eleventh Earl of Mulholland, decided
as he joined the men in search of flat rocks and tree branches, anything that
might be useful as leverage to dislodge the trapped coach.

Proud and willful
to a fault, a man might say. She reminded him of Queen Maeve of ancient Celtic
legend—fiery, impulsive and determined to the core. He could well imagine her
sending out an army of men to steal a prized bull for her own aggrandizement,
just as Queen Maeve had done so many centuries before—Lady Jeannette was every
bit as brazen and bold as her Irish counterpart.

Yet strong as her
will might be, ’twas no stronger than his own. And like the fearless mythical
warrior Cúchulainn, who had challenged Queen Maeve, he had no hesitation in
taking a stand against Lady Jeannette.

He’d met her type
before—spoiled, lofty English beauties certain of their own innate superiority.
Likely another man would have taken offense, and perhaps the Irishman in him
should have done so, but he wasn’t one to rise easily to anger. Nor did he tend
to hold grudges, at least not unless the offense was well and truly earned
beforehand.

Besides, Lady
Jeannette was just a girl, young and unsure of herself in a strange new land. Likely
scared as well. Though he had to admit she didn’t show it much, remembering the
intrepid way she’d confronted him when she’d believed he might be a thief. He
couldn’t imagine any other woman of his acquaintance challenging him in such a
manner. Having the nerve to brazenly threaten to put a bullet through him if
need be. He could well believe she would have done it too, and sent up thanks
he was no outlaw. The lady might be overbold but her words and actions bespoke
a brave heart, and for that he could only feel admiration.

He thought again
of her name—Jeannette Rose. A pretty, feminine appellation every bit as
exquisite as the stunning young woman who bore it. Yet like that glorious
flower, she came complete with a set of pernicious thorns. Wicked barbs she
wasn’t afraid to use to deadly effect. A man would do well never to misjudge
her, else he draw away injured and dripping blood.

Aye, she was a
regular little rosebush, he thought with a grin. Beautiful but sharp-tongued,
just as he’d told her. Even now he could still feel the bite of the words she’d
used back at the coach.

In the general
way, outspoken females didn’t bother him. How could they when he’d been raised
in a house full of fiery-willed women? Females who’d long since taught him to
respect their keen wit and laugh at the worst of their cutting words. Of
course, it didn’t hurt a man when he had the knack of knowing how to duck every
now and again.

The Little
Rosebush was just such a one and he had to confess he’d had a grand time
sparing with her—a grand time indeed.

He glanced over
his shoulder and caught sight of her sitting all stiff and proper on top of one
of her trunks, her maid holding an open parasol over her head. Studying her, he
realized he wouldn’t mind going another round with her like a pair of
linguistic pugilists. Then again, as a man in his prime, he wouldn’t mind doing
a lot of things with her.

She was pretty
and there was no denying the truth. Her skin creamy and soft as a blush peach. Her
hair lush and silky, its pale golden hue cool like young winter wheat. Her eyes
clear and vibrant as the shifting blue-green waves of a warm southern sea.

Desire ripened in
his blood as he recalled the way she’d felt in his arms, delicate and female. The
scent of her, sweet like apple blossoms and fresh as new-mown heather on a
perfect spring day.

No mistake about
it, she was a fine bit of femininity for all her determined ways and stubborn
words. An easy thing it would be to kiss her, to press his lips to hers for the
space of a few breathless moments. Of course, once the passion was through,
she’d like as not snatch up that parasol of hers, or whatever else came handy,
and cuff him for his presumption.

He grinned again
at the idea and his foolish longings, then set himself more determinedly about
his search.

A few minutes
later, he rejoined the others, a pair of heavy stones in hand. Setting the
rocks onto a dry patch of ground, he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up
his shirtsleeves in preparation for dealing with the mud-bound coach.

Good thing he
hadn’t worn any of his better clothes today, since they would soon enough be
ruined by the task ahead. A gentleman architect, he’d been out scouting a
nearby quarry for stone for a country house renovation he was undertaking, and
had dressed accordingly.

Unlike English
aristocrats, and many Irish ones as well, he didn’t hold with the notion that a
gentleman should not work. That a refined life must be one of entertainment,
Society and idle sport, with a smattering of estate business and politics
thrown in for variety. Of course, in his case he hadn’t always had the luxury
of excessive wealth. There had been a time years past when his family coffers
had nearly come up empty. When he’d set himself to the task of keeping the
Mulholland holdings together by sheer grit, relying upon nothing more than his
intellect and the strength of his labor and nerve.

The lessons he’d
learned then stood him in good stead now, and he was careful never to lose
sight of them. He loved his work, was proud of his achievements and knew there
was nothing shameful or lowering about wholeheartedly diving into a task, even
if it quite literally meant getting his hands dirty.

The collection of
stones and branches now positioned for maximum effect, he and the others took
up places around the coach. With a silent prayer, the four of them set to.

Darragh pushed,
his jaw locked in steely concentration, every muscle straining as he fought to
rock the vehicle forward out of its pit.

“Mr. O’Brien, I
would have a word with you.”

Lady Jeannette’s
voice pierced the air, originating from somewhere behind him and to the left. For
a second he thought he must be imagining things, then she spoke again.

“Did you hear me,
Mr. O’Brien?”

Good Christ, she
really was back there yammering at him. What on earth did she want? Couldn’t
she see he and the men were busy? Had the woman no eyes?

He closed his own
and did his best to ignore her as he shoved with all his might. His hands
slipped fractionally against the painted wooden boards of the vehicle, and for
a brief, hopeful instant he thought the coach might be on its way.

“Ahem, Mr.
O’Brien, your attention, please.”

He huffed out a
stream of breath. “I’m a might preoccupied at the moment, lass, if you’d care
to notice.”

Sweating, hot and
muddy, Darragh shifted his stance but knew the momentum had been lost. Biting
off a curse, he twisted around to glare at her.

She came forward,
careful to remain on dry ground. “How much longer is this going to take? The
wait has become intolerable and my skin is beginning to burn.” Her expression
reflected her distress as she raised a hand and pointed a single gloved finger
toward her face. “Betsy tells me my nose has turned distressingly pink.”

He eyed the
facial feature in question and thought it looked fine and white, even from a
distance. Betsy, he decided, ought to learn to keep her opinions to herself. And
Lady Jeannette should quit seeing mountains where there was nothing but tiny
hillocks.

“I’m sorry for
your malady,” he said, striving for patience, “but if you’ll have yourself a
seat again, we’ll get this coach on its way in a few shakes.”

Jeannette
frowned. “You don’t look sorry.”

“What?”

“About my nose.
You do not look sorry about my poor burning nose. In fact, I think you are
making mock of me.”

His usually
placid temper heated. He reined it in. “I am not making mock. Now, be a good
lass and go sit on your trunks.”

She marched
closer, as close as the strip of dry land would allow, halting just a few feet
to the rear of the barouche. “Now you are patronizing me. I believe you forget
yourself, fellow. For your information, I am the daughter of an earl.”

And I
am
an earl, Darragh nearly shot back. Instead he decided it was easier to stop
their useless bickering and simply return to the task at hand.

“I beg your
pardon, my lady, if I said anything to upset you. Now, if you’d please, stand
back so we can set this coach on its way again.”

Without waiting
for her reply, he turned back to the marooned vehicle.

With a sharp
command from the coachman, the horses strained while Darragh and the other men
pushed for all they were worth. He let out a roar at the intense strain, his
muscles shaking. One more good shove, he thought. Just another inch or two.

Suddenly the
wheels moved, spinning in a wild circle that geysered mud in a high, arcing
flume. The barouche rolled forward and out of the bog onto the safety of dry
ground.

Cheers and shouts
erupted. Darragh grinned, joining the men as they slapped one another on the
shoulders in pleased, prideful delight.

A scream
shattered the scene—high and shrill and female.

Darragh spun at
the sound and froze at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Lady Jeannette
stood, body quivering, her tiny hands clenched at her sides, her dress and face
and figure completely splattered in mud.

For an instant,
Darragh couldn’t draw breath, the sight of her so utterly astonishing. She
vaguely reminded him of a calico cat, her once immaculate orange gown bedecked
with a patchwork of caramel-colored spots. Not even her hat had been spared,
the jaunty white ostrich feathers on top drooping downward like a bunch of
wilted flowers.

Clinging to the
end of one of those feathers was a clump of mud that dangled precariously
downward. Darragh watched in amazement as the bit of sodden earth suddenly went
plop,
landing right on the end of the nose Jeannette had so recently
complained of sustaining injury. Her aqua eyes flew wide, her horrified
expression nothing short of priceless.

A bubble of
laughter rose into his throat, burst from his lips. Another followed, until he
was consumed, helpless to restrain his mirth.

The servants, who
up until this point had remained mute and stunned, suddenly followed suit. One
of the footmen snorted loudly then bent over double with hilarity. In a matter
of seconds they were all convulsed. Even Betsy covered a grin with one hand
before rushing forward to help her lady.

But plainly
Jeanette was too angry to be helped, her face blistered with fury and
embarrassment. To Darragh’s way of thinking, the Little Rosebush looked as if
she might burst into flames right where she stood.

He knew it was
wrong of him to tease her when she’d been brought so low, but the imp inside
him couldn’t be contained.

“My lady,” he
said, “would you like me to carry you to your coach? There must be a spot or
two left on your gown that isn’t covered in mud.”

If eyes were
knives, the glare she shot him would have sliced him to ribbons. He saw her
working up a retort but then she apparently thought better of the effort. Setting
her chin at a regal tilt, she turned away from him.

“Load the luggage
immediately,” she ordered the servants. “I wish there to be no further delay.”

As if she were
taking a stroll in the park, she picked her way through the muck to the coach.

He followed,
waited until she and her maid had been assisted into the barouche and the
coachman had closed the door.

Darragh leaned
forward and smiled at her through the window. “ ’Twas a pleasure making your
acquaintance, Lady Jeannette Rose Brantford. Here’s hoping we meet again one of
these days.”

Her sultry lower
lip quivered. “The next time a blizzard starts in Hades will be soon enough for
me.” With a snap, she lowered the blind in front of his face.

She fought off
tears for the next ten miles, pride the only thing that kept them at bay.

And anger.