TheWifeTrap (31 page)

His lips dropped open. “Pardon me, but your husband, did you say?”

“I did,” she affirmed. “Who are you, sir, and what do you want?”

He slapped a palm against one knee so hard she jumped. “Well, I’ll
be dipped in Guinness and set aflame.”

Before she knew what he intended, he stepped forward and wrapped
her inside a massive bear hug, lifting her feet clear of the floor. She
screeched, then screeched again when he planted a smacking kiss right on her
lips. Grinning ear to ear, he leaned back and let out a laugh.

Dear God, she’d let in a madman.
Darragh. Where was Darragh?

As if he’d heard her silent plea, or at least her screams, heavy
footsteps rang out in the hall. The sound of dog nails scrabbling on wood
followed close behind, Vitruvius unleashing a pair of loud, deep-throated
barks.

“What in the blue blazes?” Darragh said, only to break off.
“Saints preserve us, Michael, would you set her down before you give her the
death?”

The crazy man turned his head. “She’s a pretty one, Darr, where
did you find her?”

“On a faerie mound, where do you think? Now leave off before you
crack one of her ribs.”

“Oh, I’m not hurting her.” Silver-blue eyes swung back to her. “Am
I now, lass?”

“I…you might set me down. Please,” she amended on a gasping
breath, “if you would.”

At her request, the Bedlamite, who apparently went by the name
Michael, deposited her on her feet. Tossing her a winking grin, he bent to pet
Vitruvius, who had rushed up between them.

She expected the gigantic dog to bite him or, at the very least,
give a menacing growl. Instead, the silly animal turned into a quivering mass
of ecstasy, as Michael scrubbed an enthusiastic pair of wide palms over the
dog’s wiry fur.

“Would you look how he’s grown,” Michael said. “Why, he was
nothing but a pup last time I saw him. But you remember me, don’t you, boy?” he
cooed to the dog. “Yes, you do. You do. I know you do.”

Vitruvius licked Michael’s cheek, making him laugh. The man
straightened, turned toward Darragh. “So, have you no hug for your brother
after nearly a year away?”

Brother?

Jeannette stared between the men, suddenly seeing the resemblance
lurking in their similarly shaped eyes.

Darragh took a step forward, spread his arms wide. He and his
brother embraced, beating each other on the back with fists and hands before
drawing apart.

Darragh turned to her. “I suppose it’s a bit late for formal
introductions, since Michael has a way of forgetting his manners. But if you
can bring yourself to forgive him for molesting you, then I’d like you to meet
my brother.”

She forced herself to relax, ingrained politeness compelling her
to nod and curtsey.

“Michael, my wife, Lady Jeannette.”

A fresh grin split Michael’s face. He bowed, caught her hand and
dropped a kiss on the top. “ ’Tis grand to have you in the family. I’d have
brought a gift had I known there were nuptials to celebrate.” He cocked a brow
at Darragh. “Why didn’t you send word?”

Yes, she wondered, why hadn’t he sent word? Darragh didn’t speak
often of his family. She hadn’t even realized he had a brother living in the
vicinity.

“We’re on our honeymoon.” Darragh caught her around the waist to
draw her close. “I wanted to keep her to myself for a bit before the whole lot
of you descended to scare her away.”

Whole lot? Exactly how many O’Briens were there? Though she
guessed she should have known he would have a great many relatives, the Irish
being known for their large extended families.

She tossed him a look. “But I should like to meet your relations,
Darragh. Really, it would be vastly impolite not to make their acquaintance
soon.”

“And so you shall, love, when the time comes right for a visit,”
he said in an oddly evasive tone. “Michael’s traveled quite a distance to find
us, haven’t you, lad?”

“Aye. I rode all day.”

“Oh, then you must be quite fatigued from your travels.” She
slipped out of Darragh’s embrace. “I would accompany you into the sitting room,
but our maid is not in residence today. Why don’t you two go on ahead and I
shall procure us some refreshments. Would tea be agreeable?”

Michael traded an inscrutable glance with his brother. “Aye,
indeed, most agreeable.”

“And if you don’t mind a small delay, I shall put the roast on as
well. You will stay for supper, will you not?”

“He can’t,” Darragh stated.

“Of course I can. Hope to stay the night too, if you’ve the room.”

“We don’t,” his brother said.

“Darragh,”
she scolded, amazed at his rudeness, before
turning her gaze on Michael. “We are using much of the spare room for storage,
but if you don’t mind a bit of inconvenience, then you are most welcome to
stay. Isn’t he, Darragh?”

Darragh seemed on the verge of disagreeing, then gave a curt nod.

“Please, have a seat in the sitting room,” she invited.

She waited until the men did as she bade, then she returned to the
kitchen.

“What in Saint Brigid’s name are you up to?”

“ ’Tis none of your concern,” Darragh said in a low voice,
switching smoothly from English to Gaelic, “and when she comes in here you’re
to tell her you can’t stay, after all, and find yourself an inn for the night.”

Michael replied in the old native tongue that was forbidden by the
English, but still used nonetheless, especially here in the West. “There are no
inns, not unless I ride all the way to Ennis, and that’s hours off in the wrong
direction.”

Michael’s jaw turned bullish. “Why are you so blasted eager to see
me gone anyway? And speaking the
Gaeilege
besides? Is there something
you’re not wanting her to hear? I ran into Dermot O’Shay a fortnight back, who
said he’d been traveling through these parts and saw you. Said you acted mighty
peculiar and were not much given to talk. So being the curious sort, he trailed
you back here.”

Darragh growled. “Dermot O’Shay ought to be put to the lash,
blasted busybody.”

“Guess you’ll be wanting to take a lash to me too, since I was
curious myself,” Michael continued. “Curious enough to travel all the way here
to see why you’d come west, but hadn’t seen fit to write a word to your family
about it. I assumed this woman you were living with must be your mistress, and
you were keeping her secret, but if she’s your wife—”

“She is my wife.”

“Then why are you hiding her? Is it because she’s English? Mary
Margaret will need time to get used to the idea that you’ve not married an
Irish lass, but me, I don’t mind. And I can see why you’d be smitten. She’s
pretty enough to near blind a man.”

“Well, keep your eyes off her and your mouth closed, especially
around Mary Margaret. Does she know you’re here?”

“No, and I haven’t told any of the others. But you won’t be able
to keep them ignorant forever.”

“I don’t need forever. Just a couple more weeks.”

At least Darragh prayed a couple more weeks would be enough. He
thought Jeannette was close, on the verge of saying the words he longed to
hear. Tender, whispered words confessing her love.

Their first days together had not been precisely easy, but lately he’d
sensed a change in her. She smiled at him as she never had before. She
conversed with him, relaxed with him, even pampered him, seeming to take
surprising delight in creating new and inventive dishes to please his palate.

And the way she responded when they came together in bed…Well,
there had to be more to her feelings than the simple lust she’d once claimed.
Did a woman snuggle against a man all night, draping herself over him as if she
couldn’t bear to be separated, if there wasn’t a measure of love inside her?

No, it had to be more. It was more, and soon she would tell him
so.

“What happens in a couple weeks?” his brother repeated.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Doesn’t sound like nothing. Perhaps I should go and have
a chat with her—”

Darragh shot out a hand, grabbed his brother’s arm. “She doesn’t
know, all right? She doesn’t know who I am.”

Michael stared. “What do you mean she doesn’t know who you are? I
heard her say your name more than once, so I think she knows who you are.”

“But she doesn’t. It’s…complicated, and I haven’t time to explain
it all to you, but the short version is, she doesn’t know about my title. She
thinks I’m just Darragh O’Brien.
Mr.
Darragh O’Brien.”

“But I heard you call her Lady Jeannette.”

Darragh shook his head. “Aye. She’s an earl’s daughter and a lady
in her own right. She believes I’ve no title at all, and I’ve let her. She also
thinks this cottage is our home, our only home, and knows nothing about the
estate, the castle nor my lands. To her, I’m a middle-class architect, and a
rather impoverished one at that.”

Michael continued to stare, amazement burning in his silver gaze.
Suddenly he caught Darragh’s head in his hands, jerked him forward and began to
paw through his hair.

Darragh struggled, tried to yank away. “What in the hell are you
doing?”

“Looking for wounds, lad, from the knock you’ve obviously taken to
the head. Was it a horse that kicked you or did you take a tumble down the
staircase of one of those great mansions you build?”

“Leave off, you idiot.” Darragh wrenched away, rubbed his abused
scalp.

“No,
you’re
the idiot. Are you daft, man? Lying to your
bride? If I’m not mistaken you’ve got her out in the kitchen of this tiny
place, cooking, for Christ’s sake. Who ever heard of an earl’s daughter
cooking? And an English one at that. Whatever possessed you to hatch such a
demented scheme?”

“I have my reasons,” Darragh said defensively.

“Aye, and she’ll have your hide when she discovers the truth.
You’d best tell her yourself, while you still have the chance. If she finds out
on her own…well, you’ll be lucky if she doesn’t take a cleaver and lop off your
balls.”

At the suggestion, Darragh felt his testicles draw up tight in an
instinctual gesture of self-protection. Shaking off the reaction, he willed
himself to relax. “Don’t be an ass.”

“And don’t you continue to be a fool. Confess to her now, lad,
while you’ve still got a wink of hope she’ll forgive you.”

Guilt squeezed inside him like a nasty fist. He knew Michael had
the right of it, that Jeannette was bound to be angry when she found out he’d
been less than candid with her. But wouldn’t she also feel relieved, even
grateful to discover she wouldn’t to have to spend the rest of her life living
in a humble cottage, cooking meals and sewing her own clothes? Would she not be
delighted to discover she was actually a countess, their home a grand castle
with plenty of servants, and he possessed of enough wealth to keep her in
luxury for the rest of her days?

She’d fly off into a temper at first for sure. But afterward she’d
see reason, understand he’d done what he had for them, for their marriage and
future happiness.

At least he hoped she would.

“I’ll tell her when I’m ready,” Darragh declared, letting obduracy
brush aside any lingering doubts. “Until then you aren’t to say a word to her
on the subject.” Michael opened his mouth, but he cut him off. “Not a word.”

Michael raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Have it your
way, boy-o. I haven’t been to a good wake in a while, and your demise should
prove fine entertainment indeed. And if by some miracle your wife doesn’t flay
all the skin off your bones, you’ve got three sisters who’ll be ready to finish
the job. Mary Margaret in particular will be in a huff you didn’t include her
in the wedding nor tell her you’ve been married all these past weeks. Siobhan
and Moira will be hurt as well, not to have been flower girls.”

“They can enjoy that privilege at
your
wedding.”

Michael snorted. “They’re in for a long wait, then. I’m contented
with my veterinary practice, taking care of horses and dogs and the occasional
ailing feline. I’ve no need to be burdened with the care of a wife too.”

“When you love a woman, such care isn’t a burden at all.”

“Tell me that again once herself finds out what it is you’ve
done.” Michael brought the flat of one hand down across Darragh’s shoulder.
“You’re a brave man, Darragh O’Brien. An idiot, but a brave one all the same.”

A movement at the door caught their attention, as Jeannette
appeared in the doorway, tea tray in hand.

“Let me help you with that, dearest,” Darragh said, reverting to
English.

With a grateful smile, she let him assist her, then sat to pour
tea and pass plates of biscuits. “Now then, tell me everything I’ve missed.”

Chapter Twenty

Darragh’s brother stayed the night then went on his way the following
morning. Michael said he had a man to visit about a horse, a mare that would
make a fine addition to his bloodstock.

Once Jeannette had recovered from the unorthodox manner of his
greeting, she’d found Michael O’Brien to be a pleasant, interesting man with
the same wicked sense of humor running through his veins as his older brother.
He’d had them all laughing over tales of his and Darragh’s childhoods, coaxing
her to share a few wild stories of her own.

After he’d gone she realized how starved she’d been for company,
yet how oddly contented she was in her solitude with no one but Darragh to fill
her days. Lately, she puzzled even herself, not understanding the change.

That night Darragh took her breath away, loving her with an
intensity that made her pulses throb like hearts in her wrists, her body ache
with a need she knew no other man could satisfy. Or would ever satisfy.

Without him, she thought, she would be lost.

And that’s when she knew. She loved him.

How had it happened? she wondered. And when? The emotion had come
upon her so gradually she’d barely been aware, inching in like a slow addiction
that, now established, would be nigh impossible to break.

She nearly told Darragh, the words hovering on her lips. She
wanted to tell him, but the last time she’d told a man she loved him he’d
crushed her heart. As warm and attentive as Darragh was, he never spoke to her
of such tender emotions as love. What if she told him how she felt and watched
amusement rise in his eyes? Or worse, pity?

They’d married out of necessity, in scandal and haste, a poor
beginning for any marriage. Yet in spite of their less than enviable living
arrangements, they had formed a bond. Perhaps love was the next step. Perhaps
love would be the one thing that would make all the hardships worthwhile and
keep them together.

She mulled over her new emotions all the next week.

Now, as she straightened the sheets, wool blanket and quilt on
their bed, then gathered up one of her nightgowns and a pair of his shirts for
the laundry pile, she wondered again whether or not to tell him about her
newfound feelings.

After kissing her good-bye this morning, he’d ridden away on the
long journey to Ennis to purchase some drafting and other hard-to-obtain
supplies. He’d promised to post several letters she’d penned and check to see
if any had been received. So far she’d gotten only a single missive from
Violet, who wrote to say she and Adrian, Kit and Eliza had made it home safely
and that she would write again soon. From Mama and Papa she had heard nothing,
no doubt shamed by her notable fall from grace. But she was married now, and
they would simply have to accept that fact, and learn to accept her husband as
well.

So far Darragh had proven frustratingly reluctant to discuss their
future plans in any detail—odd, that—but she knew he was bound to receive
another architectural commission soon, here or on the Continent. Maybe even in
England.

With her family connections, who knew what manner of work he might
obtain. If Darragh earned enough they could leave this tiny cottage behind and
build a proper home in England. Once there she would be able to work to
reestablish a social presence—oh, not of the highest orders, to be sure, but
satisfactory enough. And she would be there to assist Darragh in furthering
himself and his ambitions.

But to begin, she would need to stop cowering behind her doubts
and silence. Tonight, she decided, she would tell him. When he returned, she
would open up her heart and let him know how much she loved him. If all went as
she hoped, he would tell her he felt the same.

She vowed not to let herself dwell on any other alternative.

As a treat, she would make a special meal, turn the evening into a
kind of celebration. Once the food was cooking, she would lay out the lace
tablecloth she’d found stored in the dining room cabinet and set the better
china with its pretty floral pattern.

Next, she would ask Aine to help her don one of her fashionable
gowns and arrange her hair in a glorious upsweep. She would dot lilac water
behind her ears and fasten a length of creamy pearls around her throat.

Wouldn’t Darragh be surprised? Wouldn’t he be delighted?

Humming a melody under her breath, she began preparing a meal that
would consist of chilled cucumber and mint soup, roast pork with cabbage,
buttered carrots, and for dessert, an apple cobbler.

She was up to her wrists in butter and flour when a knock sounded
at the door. Wiping her hands on a towel, she walked into the hallway,
wondering who could be calling this time. Surely not another of Darragh’s
siblings, not so soon.

Preparing herself for whatever she might find, she opened the
door, a pleasant smile decorating her lips. Even so, she couldn’t help but
stare at the quartet of refined older gentlemen waiting on her stoop. All of
them were resplendently dressed in well-tailored breeches and tailcoats, their
silk waistcoats intricately embroidered. Behind them in the drive stood a large
black traveling barouche with a team of four.

Sporting a head of thinning salt-and-pepper-colored hair and a Van
Dyke–style beard, reminiscent of more than a century before, the oldest of the
group stepped forward.

He swept off his hat and made her an elegant bow. “
Mi scusi,
signora,” he began, “I am Count Arnaldo Fiorello and these are my fellow
travelers, Signori Pio, Guglielmo and Ficuccio. We come seeking the Grand
Signore. Please to tell him we beg his most honored indulgence and would speak
with him, if he agrees.”

Her eyes widened. Clearly these gentlemen had lost their way and
arrived at the wrong house. “I am sorry, but you are mistaken. Whoever it is
you seek, he is not here.”

The older man’s brow beetled. “But that cannot be. We were told to
come. That the Signore, Lord Mulholland, he is here.”

This time she frowned. Lord Mulholland? The name tickled forth a
memory. Were these men looking for the aristocrat who had loaned his coach to
her and Darragh as a wedding present? She never had found out where the man’s
estate was located, though she had written him a letter the day after her and
Darragh’s arrival at the cottage to thank him for his gift. A letter Darragh
had posted on her behalf.

“Signori,” she said, switching to adequate, though far from
flawless Italian. “I recognize the name of the man you seek, but I am sorry to
say he is not in residence, and I do not know where to find him.”

The men relaxed at her use of their language. “You speak Italian?”

“A little, yes.”

“Then you understand we have come to talk to the great architect,
Lord Mulholland. We too are builders, and ardent admirers of his work. The four
of us have traveled all the way from Italy to consult his wise opinion. We were
told he is living here for a time instead of on his estate.”

She forced down a sigh of frustration. “Forgive me, but whoever
told you that is mistaken. This home belongs to my husband, Darragh O’Brien,
and myself.”

The gentleman beamed as if the sun had risen more brightly in the sky.
“
Sì,
Lord Mulholland, as I was told.”

Now she was the one who felt confused and a bit stupid. An odd
buzz tingled between her ears. “Maybe I didn’t understand you correctly. My
husband is Darragh O’Brien, not Lord Mulholland.” She repeated the words again,
this time in English.

The man gave her a puzzled look, replied in her language. “Yes.
Darragh O’Brien and Lord Mulholland, are they not one and the same man?”

Suddenly, startlingly, the world shifted on its axis beneath her
feet, as the truth clicked inside her head like a key opening a lock.

Early fall darkness was casting heavy shadows by the time Darragh
arrived home from his journey north. Quickly, he stabled his horse, then rubbed
the animal down before giving him water and feed. Gathering the supplies he’d
purchased, Darragh hurried toward the cottage.

The delicious aromas of roasting meat, boiling vegetables and
sweet pastry greeted him in a warm, fragrant cloud. He inhaled deeply, hunger
leaping in his belly, anticipation for the meal to come making his tongue
tingle. Letting his nose be his guide, he strolled into the kitchen.

Jeannette glanced up from her place near the stove, a voluminous
white apron tied around what looked to be one of her good dresses. Fastened
around her neck was a strand of pearls, her beautiful pale hair twisted up into
a soft, feminine knot, adorable wisps curling at her temples.

She looked as delectable as her meal smelled. Moving forward, he
bent to steal a kiss, but lithe and quick as a nymph, she danced out of reach.

“I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way,” she
commented as she stirred something in one of the pots. “Supper is nearly ready.
Go change and we’ll eat.”

He was about to try again for a kiss, when he noticed the dining
room table. Obviously she had taken care to set it. The table looked elegant
and pretty covered with a lace tablecloth. She’d used the good china and,
instead of the usual tallow ones, she’d lighted precious, sweetly scented
beeswax candles. “What’s all this, then?”

“Oh, nothing much. I just felt like making the evening a little
special.” She gave the long-handled wooden spoon a tap and set it aside. Coming
forward, she placed her hands on his shoulders and spun him around, adding a
firm little push. “Go on, now. Get out of those clothes so you don’t smell like
a horse.”

He ducked his head in apology. “Yes, dear.”

Then before she could elude him, he swooped in for the kiss he’d
been wanting, a quick touch of his lips to hers.

She didn’t kiss him back, easing away after a few brief moments.

He paid no attention, deciding he probably did smell like a stable
from a long day of travel. In the bedroom, he stripped, then poured chilly
water into the basin and washed. Taking a cue from Jeannette’s more formal
attire, he dressed in one of his better suits, a dark blue superfine that
complemented the vivid hue of his eyes. After brushing his hair, he used tooth
powder on his teeth, then returned to the hall to retrieve the present he’d
bought for her. A delicate gold locket with a spray of wild roses engraved on
the front. For the inside, he planned to have miniatures of them both
commissioned at a later date.

Sentimental, he supposed, but then, she made him feel that way.

A small tureen of soup was waiting on the table when he entered
the dining room. “Shall I serve?” he asked.

“No,” she said, bustling in from the kitchen. “Just have a seat
and I’ll do the rest.”

He took his chair.

She ladled out a bowl, the pale, creamy soup looking delightfully
appetizing. Chilled soups were a delicacy, so he knew she must have gone to
some trouble, including making a trip to the icehouse so she could retrieve
enough chips to cool the soup.

He waited expectantly. Bowl filled, she turned to place it before
him. Suddenly, her wrist bobbled and over it went, a great minty river of
pureed cucumbers splashing across his chest and down between his legs.

He bit out an oath and instinctively leapt to his feet, his chair
hitting the floor with a bang. But the action only made the mess worse, soup
seeping through the material of his trousers and shirt, while drops of it
rained upon his shoes and the carpeting beneath.

“Oh, mercy,” she cried, “are you all right? Lud, I don’t know what
happened. My hand must have slipped.” She cast a chagrined glance his way and
clucked her tongue. “You poor dear. I’m so sorry.”

“ ’Twas an accident,” he said, taking up his napkin to dab at the
wet stains. But his efforts did little good, the material chilling his skin, and
worse, his groin. He plucked at his waistband but found the action did nothing
to relieve his discomfort.

“Why don’t you go change out of those ruined things,” she
suggested, “while I clean this up and serve the next course.”

“What about the soup?”

“Oh, I only made enough for each of us to have a bowl. You can
have mine, if you like.”

“No, no, you enjoy your soup,” he said.

On a rueful sigh, he quashed the disappointment he felt at
wearing
his cucumber soup instead of getting to eat it as he’d been hoping. Tossing his
damp napkin onto the table, he began to turn away. As he did, he caught the
faintest hint of what looked like a smile playing at the corners of Jeannette’s
mouth. But when he looked closer, the expression was gone.

His imagination, he decided. Walking gingerly, he made his way to
the bedroom.

When he returned, everything was clean and tidy again except for a
large wet spot that remained on the floor under his chair. Easing into his
seat, he watched Jeannette emerge from the kitchen, a platter of sliced,
roasted pork, steamed cabbage and carrots in hand.