The Wife Trap

by Tracy Anne Warren

  He moved forward to enter. Only as he slid past did he notice her attire. Or rather, her lack of attire. Not that she wasn’t properly covered—her flesh concealed from throat to ankle—but she was dressed in nightclothes.

  Thin, pink, silky nightclothes that conformed to the luscious shape of her hips and breasts, leaving his imagination to run riot over what delights must lay beneath. Flowing like spun corn silk, her waist-long hair was gathered back, vibrant skeins of pale gold restrained by nothing more than a simple white ribbon.

  A quick tug, he mused, and all that glory would spill free, strands cascading into his waiting hands. He could imagine touching her hair, threading his fingers through the tresses to satisfy himself that they were every bit as satiny soft as they appeared. Then he would lean near, breathe in the spring-sweet fragrance he knew would lie there, before turning his attentions to her skin, her lips.

  He wouldn’t mind enjoying another kiss from her perfect mouth, he thought. Or pulling her into his embrace, pleasuring her until she quivered and sighed and forgot all about the reason she had asked him here.

  Instead of doing any of those things, he crossed his arms, tucked his hands tight and took a single, prudent step away.

  Plainly unaware of his mental wanderings, Jeannette turned to close the door, then spun back to face him.

  He waited while she gathered herself to speak.

  On an inhale, she began. “There is no use circling around the subject, since we both know why I asked you here. I concede the point to you this morning, Mr. O’Brien. By awakening me—and everyone else in the household, I might add—you have made your revenge quite apparent.”

  “ ’Twasn’t revenge. Just following through on my promise, since you failed to return what you stole from me.”

  “I stole nothing.”

  He raised a chastening eyebrow.

  “I merely borrowed your plans.” She reached around and held out a familiar roll of parchment. “I would have returned them to you later this morning, you know, but since you were callous enough to awaken me at this unholy hour, I decided to give them back now.”

  Restraining his surprise, he accepted the offering.

  “Apparently you must not really have needed them,” she observed.

  “Oh, I have need of them.”

  A slight frown creased her delicate forehead. “But your men are already working—”

  “I had a second set. My thanks for the return of this set, though, since the other plans aren’t nearly as detailed.”

  Her lips parted, ocean-hued eyes enlarging slightly as if she hadn’t considered such a possibility. Seconds later, her mouth snapped shut in obvious consternation. He nearly laughed, watching the byplay of emotions flicker like a pantomime across her face. She recovered her composure soon enough, regal as a queen in spite of the intimate nature of her garments.

  “Well then,” she said, “now that you are once more in possession of your property, I assume you won’t mind telling your workers to cease their labors for an hour or two.”

  “Want to go back to your bed, do you?”

  She nodded, raising a hand to hide a yawn. “It’s barely light outside. Were it quiet, I’m sure I could drift off again.”

  He imagined her upstairs in her bedchamber, pausing to shrug out of her dressing gown and ease between the sheets. How beautiful she would look lying there. Her golden hair spread like honey across the pillows. A sleep-warmed flush rouging her skin, her breasts rising and falling beneath a gossamer drape of thin, pink silk.

  Desire curled through him and settled low, a warmth he ought not indulge, heating his bone and blood. Giving himself a hard mental slap, he banished the fantasy.

  “The men are working,” he stated in a crisp tone that came out rougher than he’d intended. “I can’t send them home now.”

  “Let them have a break, then. I am sure they would enjoy eating a morning meal.”

  “They’ve already eaten breakfast, and none of them needs another. They’ll stay.”

  She crossed her arms at her waist and tapped a slippered foot, looking for a moment as if she was going to argue. “Very well. I suppose getting any more rest this morning is a hopeless cause at best. But tomorrow you will begin at the regular time, correct?”

  “Half-six, that’s right.”

  Her arms dropped to her sides. “Half-six? But that is the old hour, not the one we settled upon. You said seven o’clock, which I might remind you, sir, is still much too early in the day. We had an agreement.”

  “You dishonored our agreement with your fine bit of thievery. So half-six it’ll be.”

  Darragh didn’t know what devil prompted him to tease her. But he had to confess he enjoyed watching her eyes flash, her skin grow flush as she ruffled up in indignation. Besides, she deserved a few minutes’ discomfort for all the trouble she’d caused, he decided. Let her stew for a tad, then he would once again agree to their negotiated hour and leave her grateful for the gesture.

  “Ooh,” she exclaimed, her lower lip protruding in an attractive pout. “That’s not fair.”

  “I can have the men arrive again at six, if half after won’t do.”

  “Don’t you dare, you…you Irish bully.”

  He tossed back his head on a laugh. “Seems if you really wanted your sleep, you’d do better trying to persuade me.”

  “Persuade you? Persuade you how?”

  He shrugged. “You tell me. You strike me as the kind of lass who knows how to cajole a lad.”

  She paused, tipping her head at a slight angle. “I might know how to charm a gentleman on occasion. But then, you, sir, are no gentleman.”

  “As you take great pains to remind me. Still, any man likes being pleased. If you’ll recall, there’s an old saying about drawing more flies with sweet than sour.”

  “So you’re craving something sweet, are you?”

  Aye, he was, he mused as he swept his eyes over her lush, feminine form, unconsciously letting his gaze linger far longer than he ought. On the next blink, he forced his eyes aside, knowing he needed to call a halt to this dangerous conversation before things spiraled out of hand, much as he was enjoying the game.

  Before he opened his mouth, she spoke.

  “Very well,” she said in a gentle purr that glided over him like a lover’s caress. “Mr. O’Brien, would you be a darling and please have your men begin work later in the morning? Eight-thirty, shall we say?”

  Displaying a set of beautiful, pearly white teeth, she graced him with a smile that could have melted a glacier. It certainly melted him, his heart pumping double time, his loins aching, breath catching like a fist at the base of his throat. He swallowed down the lump and listened to the single word whispering inside his head.

  Yes.

  Yes? he wondered. Yes to what?

  To Jeannette Brantford, that’s what.

  Gazing at that smile, that voice, those jewel-toned eyes, a man might quickly find himself agreeing to almost anything. ’Twas easy to understand why she led a charmed existence, since he was sure she rarely failed to get her way. All she need do was crook her little finger and flutter those long, pale gold lashes.

  But he’d never been a man given to losing his head over a beautiful face, and he wasn’t about to succumb now, no matter how agreeable her reception might be.

  Smiling back, he leaned nearer, gratified to notice her eyes soften beneath the attention of his gaze. “Prettily done, lass,” he said, “and a fair temptation it is to do as you’d like. But the work won’t get done by keeping late hours. As I told you before, seven of the clock is the best I can do.”

  Her smile faded as his meaning sank in, all traces of pleasure wiped clean. “But you haven’t budged at all.”

  “I’m granting you an hour. What more do you want?”

  “What I want I will not stoop to say. Why, you conniving toad, convincing me to beg.”

  He linked his hands behind his back. “I don’t believe toads know how to conn
ive. And as I recall, I didn’t hear any begging. A little cajoling perhaps, but no begging.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “Not a bit, lass. All I said was that a man likes to be asked nicely. I never said if you did it I’d agree to your wishes.”

  “Why, you…and to think I returned your plans. I should have burned them instead.”

  His jovial humor dropped away. “You ought to be glad you didn’t, or there would be a heavy reckoning to pay.”

  “You don’t scare me,” she declared, tilting her chin upward in defiance.

  “Be careful, or I might.”

  “By doing what, pray tell?”

  “Oh, I can think of a few choice things. Such as having the men begin laboring at five.”

  “But it’s dark then. They wouldn’t be able to see.”

  “They’ll light lanterns.” And complain and moan and grumble about the predawn hour, but he wouldn’t tell her that.

  “Even my cousins wouldn’t like being awakened, not that early.”

  “I’ll explain that it can’t be helped if we’re to finish on time. The Merriweathers are amiable folk, I’m certain they’ll make allowances.”

  A flood of emotions raced across her expressive features, chief among them annoyance and frustration. To his own annoyance, fresh arousal stirred inside him. He found her more appealing than ever, anger only heightening her vibrant beauty. Prudence made him tighten his hands behind his back, knowing so much as a light touch would be all the impetus he required to reach out and take her in his arms.

  “Shall it be seven again, then, lass?” he prodded.

  An unladylike growl rumbled in her throat as she came forward and swept past him, the skirts of her dressing gown swirling in a tempest around her ankles.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he called toward her retreating back.

  Moments later a door slammed, echoing through the house.

  In relief, Darragh loosened his hands and smiled.

  Upstairs in her room, Jeannette flopped onto her bed and gave vent to the hurt and anger pouring through her.

  O’Brien had played her, and played her well, she thought.

  Beast.

  Imagine manipulating her that way. Luring her with his charming smile, rakish good looks and clever words. For a minute, she’d actually found herself liking him, enjoying their light flirtation no matter how imprudent it might be. But then he’d shown his true stripes, and made mock of her needs and wishes.

  The man had no heart. No compassion.

  Couldn’t he see she was exhausted? She didn’t want much. Just the simple right to slumber a few hours past dawn, as any respectable lady might expect to do. Was that so great a thing to ask?

  It wasn’t as though she had not made concessions. Before arriving in Ireland, she couldn’t remember the last time she had awakened earlier than ten o’clock, and even that hour had proven a hardship some mornings when she had lived in London. Late-night parties, dancing until the wee hours, those were the only times she had come close to seeing the sun rise—when she was climbing into bed, not crawling out.

  Inurned here in the country as she was, though, she supposed she could try retiring earlier. Her cousins certainly dozed off betimes, sometimes while sitting in their chairs in the drawing room after dinner—Wilda nodding off over her sewing, Cuthbert rousing at infrequent intervals to the sound of his own snuffling snores as he attempted to read one of his botany books. If she hadn’t found being trapped with them so upsetting, their antics would be funny.

  But her cousins were old and couldn’t help their frail nature. She was young and vibrant and enjoyed late evenings, even if there were no parties and scarcely anything entertaining to do. Besides, she didn’t want to give up her Town hours, since it would be the final capitulation to her fate.

  Weariness crashed over her, a jaw-popping yawn catching her unawares. Moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes. O’Brien’s fault, she grumbled to herself, pulling the pillow over her head. Closing her eyes, she tried to sleep.

  But the effort proved futile, the incessant buzz of voices and thuds and thumps raking across her nerves like the pricking of a thousand needles. Uttering an oath that would have made her brother grin in admiration, she flung herself out of bed and across to the bellpull.

  Tired and out-of-sorts, she rang for Betsy.

  A warm bath and breakfast helped a bit—eggs, ham and a large pot of hot chocolate going a long way toward improving her mood. Afterward, she sat down at a small, satinwood writing desk to pen a letter to her mother. But even as she watched the ink dry on the page, she tore it up, realizing how desperate and lonely she sounded. She would not plead, she vowed. Her parents had banished her here, and they should be the ones to ask her to come home.

  Near noon, the house filled with a different sort of noise as Wilda’s gray-haired female friends arrived for their bimonthly card party.

  “Would you care to join us, dear?” Wilda inquired, raising her voice to be heard over her friends’ endless chatter.

  “No, thank you, cousin. I believe I shall go outside to take some air.”

  “All right, dear. Have a nice time.”

  After exchanging a few pleasantries with the ladies, Jeannette returned upstairs and had Betsy help her change into one of her sturdiest gowns, made of Devonshire brown checkered gingham. Onto her feet, she slipped comfortable dark leather half boots, then perched a pretty but practical straw bonnet on her head.

  Deciding she might enjoy more than an ordinary walk, she located her watercolour paper, paints and paintbrushes, and set out for the low, gently rolling hills that lay beyond the house. Once she located the perfect spot, she spread out a lawn blanket, set up her equipment and began to paint.

  None of her London friends would have believed their eyes had they seen her. Nor would they have countenanced the fact that she could enjoy a day spent alone, painting the rugged Irish landscape. She could scarcely believe it herself, but by the end of the afternoon she realized she’d passed the first truly happy hours she’d known since arriving in this wild new land.

  And she couldn’t deny that she was pleased with her painting of a weathered Celtic stone cross standing ancient and lonely in a field. Magenta and purple heather and golden bog grass grew up in clumps around the old gray stone, patches of vibrant green scattered as they ranged off into the distance.

  So pleased was she, in fact, that she decided to paint the next afternoon as well, carrying along a light nuncheon she had asked Cook to pack for her.

  She was stippling grass-green paint onto her canvas when a movement off to one side caught her attention. Her lips thinned as she recognized the vigorous man striding a few yards distant.

  O’Brien.

  What was he doing here?

  True to his word, he’d begun work this morning at precisely seven o’clock, but the extra few minutes’ sleep had done nothing to mollify her wounded feelings. On a silent sniff, she pretended not to see him.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slow, then pause as if deciding whether or not he ought to approach her. Mentally, she gave him a push to send him on his way. But he ignored the invisible suggestion and strolled in her direction. Studiously, she applied her paintbrush to the watercolour paper.

  When he drew to a halt, his tall form loomed over her in a way that made her breath hitch beneath her breasts despite the respectful distance he’d left between them.

  “A fine good day to you, Lady Jeannette,” he greeted in a deep cheerful voice, his Irish accent playing a seductive melody.

  Determinedly, she continued to paint.

  “Don’t mind me. I’ll just stand here all quiet-like and watch you for a while.”

  She swished out her sable brush in a jar of water before twirling the ends of it across a small block of brown paint on her palette. “You are in my light.”

  He took a pair of large sideways steps that brought him closer. “Better?”

  “No.” Hea
rt beating fast, she steadied her hand, worried she might bobble the next stroke if she was not careful.

  “ ’Tis a fetching scene you’ve chosen,” he remarked, making no effort to move. “The land hereabouts is enchanting, all fertile and green. Not like my home county in the West, where things are a bit more wild and rough. You’d have a fine time painting there, though, with the scent of the Shannon in your nose and the wind whipping at your skirts.”

  The pride in his home rang out, along with a faint hint of longing for the land he obviously missed. For a second she wondered what it must look like, his home. But why did she care? she wondered, shaking off her curiosity. After all, it wasn’t as though she would ever have an opportunity to see the place.

  She shot him a look. “Have you sought me out for a reason, Mr. O’Brien, or are you merely here to gloat?”

  “Now, lass, don’t take on so about yesterday. I’ve forgotten all about it.”

  As well he might, since events had turned so neatly in his favor.

  “I was walking,” he continued, “as I sometimes do when I’ve issues to think through, and there you were. I couldn’t help but stop, not after seeing you with your bright blue skirts spread all around, your hair shining golden and pretty as a flower. I’m surprised the bees and butterflies haven’t been whizzing about, trying to steal a sip of nectar.”

  A warm bubble rose in the vicinity of her heart before she could prevent the reaction, her paintbrush drooping in her hand. She caught herself quickly and issued a stern internal rebuke.

  It wouldn’t do, she warned, to let O’Brien beguile her, not again. She must be careful to guard against him, against any man who might mesmerize her with a debonair smile or the music of a well-turned phrase. Toddy had been such a man, luring her with honeyed words and false promises. Seducing her into believing in a love whose core had been hollow, whose happiness had been built from a lie.

  Not that O’Brien was actually trying to seduce her. She knew he was only teasing and playing, like a cat who’d found a lively mouse. Well, she was done being the mouse. From now on, she planned to be the cat.