“I stopped to offer my help as I tried to tell you before,” he explained. “I was riding past when I noticed the sorry state of your vehicle. Thought you and your men could do with an extra hand.”
His words reminded her of her servants’ conspicuous absence, some of her earlier suspicions returning. “And where exactly are my men?”
“Right there.” He gestured with a hand. “Where they’ve been all this while.”
She leaned forward and shifted on the seat, then looked over her shoulder through the window. And there they were, all four of them—coachman, two footmen, and her maid—grouped around her luggage on a patch of dry road. She thought they resembled castaways on a small, deserted island, looking hot, bored, and in absolutely no fear for their lives.
“Satisfied?” he questioned.
Clicking her tongue with a barely audible tisk, she settled back into her seat.
“Now then, I’ve shared my name. What might yours be, lass?” He leaned in again, resting both muscled forearms along the windowsill.
“My name is Jeannette Rose Brantford. Lady Jeannette Rose Brantford, not lass. I would prefer you do not refer to me in such familiar terms again.”
His smile broadened at her lofty reply, his vivid eyes twinkling with a boldness that made her heart squeeze out an extra beat.
“Lady Brantford, is it?” he drawled. “And where would your lord be then, this husband of yours? Has he sent you out traveling on your own?”
“I am presently on my way to my cousins’ estate north of Waterford, near some village called Inis…Inis…” She broke off, racking her mind and drawing a complete blank. “Oh, fiddlesticks, I can’t remember now. It’s Inis-something-or-other.”
“Inistioge, do you mean?” he suggested.
“Yes, I believe that is it. Do you know the place?”
“Aye, I know it well.”
Assuming he was not a rogue—though she still had her doubts on that subject—she supposed he might be a decent sort. A local farmer or some such, a freeholder mayhap or possibly a merchant. Although she couldn’t imagine Darragh O’Brien serving anyone, not with that brash, ungoverned attitude of his.
If he knew the village near her cousins’ home, though, perhaps she hadn’t too much farther to travel. Heaven knows she longed to arrive at her destination so she could climb down from this coach and shake out her skirts.
“I am to stay with my cousins there,” she said. “And though it isn’t actually any of your concern, my title is one of birth, not marriage. I am presently unwed.”
The gleam in his expressive eyes deepened. “Are you not, lass? I always knew Englishmen were fools, but I didn’t know they were blind into the bargain.”
A renewed ripple of awareness quivered in her middle. She buried it with a stern inner rebuke, reminding herself that no matter how attractive he might be, O’Brien was not the kind of man with whom a lady of her rank would consort.
“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 make no mistake. 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 coach. 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 be fretting yourself. 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 vacate 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 being waged. Opening the barouche door, he stepped forward. “Come along with you 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’s be going.”
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 separa
ting 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 of her breast, 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 among 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?” she 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, made a show of scanning the area, then he locked his gaze with hers. “It’s sorry I am to tell you, 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 have a sit-down 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 back. Feeling slightly better for her childish act of retaliation, she turned to find a seat.
∗ ∗ ∗
∗ ∗ ∗
∗ ∗ ∗
The Husband Trap is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Ivy Books Mass Market Original
Excerpt from The Wife Trap by Tracy Anne Warren © 2006 by Tracy Anne Warren
Copyright © 2006 by Tracy Anne Warren
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ivy Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
IVY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Wife Trap by Tracy Anne Warren. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49079-7
eISBN-10: 0-345-49079-7
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The Husband Trap Page 34