The Wife Trap Read online

“I believe I told you not to address me by the term lass,” she said, her tone too breathless to sound much like a scold.

  “Aye, and so you did.” He grinned at her, visibly unrepentant. “Lass.”

  Then he did the most astonishing thing—he winked at her. An audacious, irreverent wink that sent a flood of warmth rushing through her veins like the unleashing of a rain-swollen dam after a heavy storm.

  If she’d been given to blushing, the way her identical twin sister was, she’d be stained scarlet as a poppy now. But thankfully, blushing at every passing remark was one of the rare physical traits she and her sister, Violet, did not share.

  The summer heat, she concluded, that was the cause for her untoward reaction. The steamy, unseasonable weather must be affecting her already overburdened senses. If she were back in London, she wouldn’t have given him so much as a second look. Well, maybe a second, but not a third.

  “Come along with you, then,” O’Brien declared in a no-nonsense tone. “We’ve talked long enough and I need to get you out of this coach.”

  “Oh, I’m not getting out. Perhaps my coachman didn’t mention it, but I have already had this discussion with him. We agreed that I would remain precisely where I am until the barouche can be set on its way.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to step out, unless you’ve a wish to start living inside this vehicle. In case you didn’t know, the coach is muck-mired up to its wheels and your men can’t push it properly with you inside.”

  “If it’s my safety you are concerned about, do not be. I shall be fine.”

  A bit queasy mayhap, but fine.

  “It’s more than your safety, though that is a concern. There’s the matter of your weight.”

  “What about my weight!” Her eyebrows jerked high.

  With a bold, assessing gaze, he scanned the length of her body, from the brim of her hat to the tips of her half boots. “I’m not implying you’re fat or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. You’ve a fine womanly figure, but even a few stone can make the difference between lifting this coach out of its hole or sinking it deeper.”

  She sat, momentarily speechless, his rudeness beyond measure. Imagine discussing her weight and her figure in nearly the same breath! Why, a gentleman would never dare. But then, this man was no gentleman. He was a barbarian. From his tone he might have been discussing farm animals that needed to be shifted from one pen to another.

  A long moment passed before he continued. “Of course, if you’d rather, you can stay here while I ride on. I’ll carry word to your cousins to let them know you’re in need of help. I don’t expect it’ll take above four or five hours to set you on your way again.”

  Four or five hours! She couldn’t stay in this coach that long. Maybe he was exaggerating, using subterfuge to lure her out of the vehicle. But what if he wasn’t? What if her insistence upon remaining inside the barouche did make the difference between traveling onward or remaining stranded? Why, in four or five hours it would be dark!

  She shivered at the thought. God only knows what sort of dreadful creatures might lurk in the vicinity, ready to creep from their hiding places after nightfall. There could be wolves—did Ireland have wolves?—or some other equally dangerous beasts. Hungry beasts who might not mind nibbling on a young lady.

  Deliberately she kept her voice from quavering, trying one last argument. “If all this is true, why are you here telling me and not my coachman? I should think if things were so dire, he would be delivering the news himself.”

  “He was gathering up the nerve to tell you, as I understand it, when I happened along. He didn’t like bearing the bad news, so I offered to deliver it myself.”

  She peered again at the surrounding ocean of mud. “But where would I wait? Surely you can’t expect me to sit atop my luggage in the middle of this bog while the sun toasts me to a crisp.”

  The humorous gleam returned to his gaze. “Don’t fret. There must be a spot of shade somewhere hereabouts. I’m sure we’ll find one that suits.”

  She sincerely doubted it, but what choice did she have? Either she vacated the coach or risk still being here, virtually alone and unprotected, come eventide.

  O’Brien shot her a sympathetic look, clearly aware of her dilemma and the internal war she waged. Opening the barouche door, he stepped forward. “Come along and save your stubbornness for another day. You and I both know the quicker we get you out of this coach, the quicker you’ll be on your way.”

  “Has anyone ever informed you that you are impertinent?” Grudgingly, she climbed to her feet.

  He chuckled. “A time or two, lass. A time or two. Now gather whatever it is you need and let us go.”

  She hesitated for a long, indecisive moment, then bent to retrieve her reticule where it lay on the coach seat. With it barely in hand, he reached inside and whisked her up into his arms. Shrieking, she almost dropped her purse as he swung her clear of the coach, his strength and balance the only things separating her from harm’s way.

  He cradled her against his solid chest, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a feather, despite his earlier remarks to the contrary. His nearness washed over her, engulfing her, surrounding her, the scent of fresh air and horses teasing her nostrils, along with something else, something indescribably, deliciously male.

  Surreptitiously she tilted her head to catch a deeper whiff, the illusive fragrance uniquely his own, she realized. She closed her eyes and for the briefest second considered pressing her nose against his neck. Instead she held herself rigid in his arms, distressingly aware of the thick brown ooze that encircled them like a slick, squishy sea.

  “Don’t you dare drop me,” she admonished, catching up the edges of her skirts to keep them from falling into the mire.

  Methodically he slogged forward, mud slurping in noisy protest against his tall boots as nature fought to maintain its tenacious grip upon him. They were halfway across to the oasis where the servants anxiously waited and watched, when O’Brien teetered, his knees dipping precipitously downward for a sudden heart-stopping instant. She screamed and wrapped her arms around his neck, unprepared for the plunge into the tepid muck below.

  But just as quickly as O’Brien faltered, he recovered, his feet as steady as if he’d never wavered at all.

  Her heart threatened to thunder out her breast, her throat dry and tight. An instant passed as the truth slowly dawned. A glance at the wide, wicked, totally unapologetic grin on his face confirmed her conclusion.

  “You beast.” She cuffed him on the shoulder. “You did that deliberately.”

  “Oh, aye. I thought you could use a bit of jollying. You scream all high and funny like a girl, did you know that?”

  “I am a girl, and that was not funny.” Or it wouldn’t have been if he’d miscalculated and actually dropped her. She tightened her hold.

  He laughed again.

  If only he knew who she was, he wouldn’t laugh or taunt her. Back in England, before the scandal, she’d been used to gentlemen hurrying to do her bidding. Wealthy, refined men, who catered to her slightest wish, who fought one another for a chance to satisfy her most fleeting desire. She’d been the Ton’s Incomparable for the past two Seasons. And she would be again, she vowed, once her parents came to their senses. It wouldn’t be long before Mama missed her and Papa’s temper cooled. Soon the pair of them would realize what a horrible mistake they’d made sending their beloved daughter away to this rustic frontier.

  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?” J
eannette 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 re-joined 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.