TheWifeTrap (34 page)

“You want to know why I decided to take you to that cottage,” he
stated. “I did it not to debase or demoralize you, but to give us time to be a
simple married couple without all sorts of conditions, be they based on the
status of commoner or peer. And there is one more reason,” he said, his voice
deepening. “Perhaps the most important reason of all.”

“And what is that?”

“Love.”

Her eyes, beautiful as a Grecian sea, glanced upward to meet his
own.

“I wanted to know that you could love me. Not my title or my lands
or my money, but me, the man you wed.”

For a moment, she looked startled, thoughtful. Then something in
her expression hardened again. “And you thought stranding me in some secluded
wilderness, making me cook and clean and take care of your needs like some
happy little farmer’s wife, would make me love you?”

“It did, didn’t it? Admit it, lass. You love me. I know you do.”

She laughed, but it was a sound without mirth, one that sent a
chill of doubt racing through his heart. He ignored it and reached out to wrap
her inside his arms. “Go on. Tell me you love me.”

She wiggled her arms up between them and flattened her palms
against his chest to push him away. “But I don’t. Let me go.”

“Now you’re the one who’s lying,” he said, refusing to release
her. “Since the first day we met, there’s been an electricity between us, a
connection neither of us can seem to sever.”

“It’s called desire. I believe we discussed this topic once
before.”

“Aye, it is desire, but it’s something more besides.”

She lowered her gaze, pale lashes fanning evasively against her
cheeks. “It’s nothing more.”

“Then what were all those little games we waged at your cousins’ house,
if not a courtship ritual, unorthodox as it may have been? And why did you let
me kiss you that time in the Merriweathers’ garden and again that day beside
the pond?”

She shook her head, made a muffled noise beneath her breath. “I
told you. Desire.”

“And why on the evening of the ball, when you knew you would be
free of me in only a handful of hours, did you let me do all those delicious,
wicked, passionate things out there in the dark in that conservatory?”

“I didn’t
let
you.”

“Did you not? A Society belle, who knew how to conduct far more
than an innocent flirtation, allowing herself to get caught with the likes of
me. From what I can see, you wanted to get caught.”

Her eyes flashed. “Preposterous. Your entire theory is nothing but
stuff and nonsense.”

“Is it now? Then why are your nipples puckered tight as a pretty
pair of beads?” He reached between them, flicked a thumb over her bodice and
the taut flesh beneath.

She sucked in a breath and tried to yank herself out of his grasp.

He held tight, ducking his head to take her lips in a kiss both
bold and persuasive. For an instant she yielded, meeting his demand. Then as
though she remembered herself, and what she was doing, she turned the kiss
around and bit his lip. Hard.

He drew back, tasting blood. His eyes narrowed for an instant,
need making his head buzz. He swooped in and bit her back, nipping her lower
lip just hard enough to sting but cause no lasting harm.

She jerked her head away, breath labored and heaving in her lungs.
She stared, her gaze locked with his in a passionate war of wills and needs
that radiated off her like sweat. Then just when he feared she might refuse him
and herself, she gave an odd, strangled whimper and captured his head between
her hands.

Moaning in relief, he let her drag his mouth down to savage his
lips with her own.

Chapter Twenty-two

The taste of him filled her mouth, inflamed her senses, his
short hair thick and springy beneath her fingers, a handhold to keep his lips
locked to hers exactly as she wished. She accepted his tongue, matched his hot,
slick thrusts with sensual thrusts and parries of her own, kissing him with a
forceful, ravenous fervor.

Part of her wanted to push him away even now, deny him this
pleasure of the flesh he coveted with such obvious desperation, the evidence of
his arousal pressed like iron between them. But to deny him would be to deny
herself and she could not bear the privation, her body desperate for the
fevered ecstasy she knew his touch would bring.

In this they were matched. In this they were equals. Each of them
hungering and craving, clamoring for the same end, one that would best be
served by full and equal participation.

Without letting herself think, she tore at his shirt, yanking the
tails out of his trousers so she could race her palms across the warm, hard
planes of his chest. She threaded her fingers into the dark curls that grew
there. Touched him in wide, greedy strokes before pausing to tweak his flat
nipples in a way that made him growl and shudder.

Then she reached lower, delving beneath his falls to find him
thick and rampant. Caressing him, she elicited a tortured moan that made his
flesh leap and pulse in her grasp. She gloried to know that in this, at least,
she held sway.

But before she knew what he was about, he turned the tables,
crushing her lips to his in a fresh, tempestuous kiss that left her knees weak,
legs shaking. As if she had unleashed a rapacious beast, he slanted his mouth
over hers and claimed her as though he could not get enough.

Without her even being aware, her bodice sagged, sliding down her
arms. Down went her chemise as well, tumbling her bared breasts into his
waiting hands. She cried out as he fondled her with supreme skill, then again
as he bent and used his mouth and tongue to equally devastating effect. Blood
beat behind her eyelids as he feasted upon her, a yawning emptiness that
demanded to be filled settling deep in her core.

Caressing his head, she freed him of his shirt so she could trace
his shoulders and along the firm, slightly moist skin of his muscled back and
arms.

Her dress, stays and petticoats landed in a sudden, silken pool at
her feet, leaving her wearing nothing but her stockings. She moved to slip them
off but he stopped her, straightening to his full height before lifting her
into his arms.

He lay her on the bed, her legs over the edge. Shucking off the rest
of his clothes, he spread her thighs, then stepped between. She expected him to
come into her. Instead he leaned across, planted his big, wide hands on either
side of her head and plundered her mouth. He left scarcely an inch between
them, their naked bodies touching along the peaks and angles that glided
together and apart with heady, tantalizing friction.

Savage hunger and torrid yearning clawed inside her. Catching him,
she squeezed his buttocks as she tried to pull him down and in. But he
resisted, using his greater strength to keep his body just out of reach.

She growled, her answering kiss turning brutal, demanding,
possessive. He returned it with an unflinching carnal intensity that further
incited her need. Breaking away, he showered kisses across her body, pausing to
lave and nibble and suck on her skin in a manner she knew would leave marks.

His
mark, as if he was trying to brand her. And perhaps
he was. Hadn’t he already staked a claim? One that went far deeper than only
her skin?

Just when she could stand it no more, he separated her knees a few
inches more and clasped her hips in his strong, male palms. She cried out as he
pumped himself inside, plunging her fast and deep into a world of wanton
sensuality, making her mind go dim from the bliss.

Her body welcomed his, instantly accommodating his large, familiar
length, delighting in the sensation of being stretched exquisitely full. But
instead of setting a rhythm and pace, he locked an arm under her back and
rolled them over.

Suddenly on top, she stared down, breath panting from between her
parted lips. He glided his hands over her skin. Shoulders, breasts, waist, hips
and thighs, setting every nerve ending in her body atingle.

“Tell me you love me, lass,” he murmured, his accent husky and
thick as he continued caressing her.

Tell him?
She sighed, her thoughts punch-drunk with
pleasure.

He pumped once inside her, the movement drawing a moan of longing
from deep in her throat. “You know you love me. Say it, sweetheart.”

“I,
ooh…
” She bit the edge of her lip, whimpering as he
rocked inside her.

“Say it. I want to hear.”

He thrust again, tendrils of delight spiraling through her frame.

“Say ‘I,’ ” he commanded gently as he thrust.

“I,” she murmured.

“ ‘Love.’ ”
Thrust.

“Love,” she repeated, her mind in a whirl.

“ ‘You.’ ” He thrust again, deep enough to stimulate, but not
quite satisfy.

“You,” she whispered.
Oh, God, what had she just said?

“You what? You love me? Tell me, Jeannette.”

“Yes,” she cried as he pumped, wringing a fresh moan from her
lips. “I do.”

Thrust.

“Love you!” Her heart skittered at her admission, but she was too
overwhelmed to care.

He smiled, drawing her down for a sweetly savage kiss. “Now show
me, darlin’. Show me how you feel.”

Unable to prevent herself, she did show him, kissing him with raw,
naked, unrestrained need. Flexing against him in undulating rolls and bouncing,
shuddering shimmies as she drove them both half mad.

Faster and faster she raced, gasping at the frenzied pace as she
sped them toward completion. When, at the very last, her strength gave way, he
reached up and grasped her hips to carry her to the finish. Spine arching,
fists braced on her quivering thighs as he flexed deep inside, he hurled her
into oblivion. She screamed from the unbridled force, rapture cascading through
her in a violent, mind-spinning flood.

Her body was shaking still, aftershocks flashing in wild pings and
twinges when he stiffened and claimed his own fierce satisfaction. She
collapsed over him, exhausted and shaken.

At length, she slept, cradled inside the security of his arms,
warm beneath the sheet and blanket he drew over them both.

Yet when she awakened near dawn, it was not with a sense of
happiness and peace.

What had he done to her? Why had he made her say it?

Tell me you love me,
he’d demanded.
Show me you love
me.

And she had, giving him exactly what he wished.

And yet he hadn’t said the words back. Hadn’t told her he felt the
same.

Chilled, she sat up, gazing down at him as he slept, a boyish
smile on his lips.

Did he love her? Or had he only wanted her to say the words in
order to assert his will over her? To bind her more fully to him, as their vows
decreed.

She could ask him how he felt. Wake him and say, “Darragh, do you
love me?”

And if he said “Yes,” what then? Could she believe him? His
deception had shaken her faith in him, made her doubt where once she had felt
only trust.

Another man had lied to her too. Toddy, who had whispered
endearments and promises of forever into her ears, only to reject her and cast
her aside.

Might Darragh one day turn from her as well? True, he hadn’t been
unfaithful, but there were more ways to deceive a person than with sex, as he
had so recently proven.

She loved him. Of that she had no doubt. Yet was it enough?
Because she knew if she let down her guard and gave her heart fully into his
keeping, another betrayal would surely destroy her.

Covering her face with her hands, she fought for clarity.
What
should she do?
She felt so confused, felt in some ways as if she no longer
knew herself, or what she really wanted.

Home.

How lovely it would be if she could go back to England to the safe
embrace of her family. Violet would help her, she knew. Being with her sister
would let her catch her breath, would give her a chance to sort things through.
Despite their differences in the past, Violet had always been there for her,
willing to provide a comforting shoulder as well as a compassionate ear and
sympathetic heart. And maybe she could help Violet. She must be nervous, with
the birth of the babies so near.

Beside her, Darragh stirred, shifting sleepily beneath the covers.
She didn’t react as he stretched up a hand and laid it upon her shoulder,
tracing the unusual kitten-shaped birthmark that dappled her skin. His fingers
skimmed lower, her traitorous body arching of its own pleasured volition.
Knowing how easily she might be tempted to succumb to his wiles, she got to her
feet.

Crossing the room, she retrieved the dressing gown Betsy had laid
out for her last evening, shrugging into the soft flowered wool.

She sensed Darragh watching her, heard the rustle of the sheets as
he climbed from the bed. Moving to her dressing table, she picked up her brush.
A few strokes later, she located a ribbon in one of the drawers and tied her
long tresses back at her nape.

His bare feet silent on the carpet, she didn’t hear him approach,
shivering faintly in surprise as he pressed his lips to her neck. Slowly, he
straightened and extended his hand into her line of sight.

On the flattened surface of his palm lay an oval locket, gold
glinting in the pale early light. “For you,
a stóirín.
”

She stared for a long moment, hesitating before accepting his
gift. Engraved roses trailed over the surface, simply yet beautifully etched.

“Do you like it? I bought the piece on that last trip to Ennis.
When I saw it I thought of you because of the roses, that being your middle
name and all.”

She stiffened at his mention of Ennis, skimmed a thumb over the
design. “Yes, it’s lovely.”

And it was. An enchanting, thoughtful gift tainted now by the
knowledge of what he’d done. Of the lies he’d told, the elaborate ruse he’d
fabricated to deceive her. Her fingers curled around the jewelry, metal links
biting into her skin.

“Why don’t you try it on, see how it looks,” he suggested on a
throaty murmur. “Then come back to bed.”

She moved to put some space between them. “I would rather not.”

“Why? We’ve plenty of morning left to us. No one will mind if we
stay abed a while more.”

“I would mind.”

“What is it, Jeannette? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything.” She spun to face him, rubbing her hands
over her arms. “I have been thinking and…well, I want to go home.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Yes, I want to go home, to England. And since I know you have
sufficient funds, it should not present a hardship.”

His eyes darkened and for a second she thought she saw a flash
akin to panic, then he blinked and it was gone.

“Will you make the arrangements or shall I?” she asked.

His expression hardened. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly that. I won’t have you going to England.”

“But I want to go. Besides, Violet is near her term and will wish
me to be present for the birth.”

“Has she written to say so?”

“No, but—”

“Then she’ll do fine without you and you’ll do well enough here.
Anyway, this isn’t the season for you to be traveling abroad. Perhaps we can
reconsider in the spring.”

From his tone, it didn’t sound as if he planned to reconsider,
ever. “I don’t want to go in the spring,” she declared. “I want to go now.”

His jaw tightened. “Well, you aren’t going now, so I suggest you
do your best to get used to that fact.”

“You’re a bully and I detest you.”

“That isn’t what you said last night.”

For a second she stood stunned, unable to believe he would use the
confession of love he’d wrung from her as a weapon.

“Get out! Get out and take your damned trinket with you.” Putting
the strength of her fury behind the throw, she hurled the locket at his chest.

He grabbed it in a neat catch, curling the gold inside his fist, a
glimmer of hurt on his face. “If you didn’t want it, you had only to say.”

“I don’t want it,” she lied.

Or you.

Her last words lay between them, as clearly as if she had spoken
them aloud.

“As you wish.” Jaw tight, he bent to scoop up his trousers from
the floor. Stepping in, he jerked them up around his hips, fastened the buttons
in quick, short movements.

“What I
wish
is to go home,” she said.

A black glower descended over his face. “You
are
home.
This
castle
is your home, and you had best remember that fact. The day you took
my name as your own is the day you became part of this place. The day you
became Irish.”