She shivered at his words, drew in a shaky breath, as he stroked a thumb across her lower lip.
“Aye,” he said, “you feel it.”
“And what if I do? It’s nothing but lust,” she charged, wanting to convince herself as much as him.
“Lust, is it? I’m not so certain. What if it’s more? What if it goes deeper, lasts longer, has more meaning than a few heated weeks tussling amid the sheets?”
Her stomach did a queer little roll at the notion and the imagery as well. He was speaking of love. But she didn’t want to love him, did she? She didn’t want to be vulnerable and weak, open to giving her heart then later having it ripped in two.
She shook her head. “We wed for propriety’s sake, no more, no less. In a few weeks, the passion will die down and we’ll wonder what on earth we’ve gotten ourselves into.” She shrugged. “But until then, you are right that we must make the best of an impossible situation.”
“Then you’ll give it a genuine try, our marriage?”
She could always refuse. Still, Darragh was her husband now, their marriage sanctified in the eyes of the church and the law. Given that, didn’t she owe him an attempt at making something viable out of their union?
She sighed. “All right, I shall try. After all, we are married, whether we choose to embrace it or not.”
He studied her for another moment, then smiled. “Speaking of embraces, you’re much too far away, wife.”
“But I’m sitting right next to you.”
“Aye, but next to me isn’t what I had in mind.” Kicking off the sheet, he exposed his beautiful naked body and the rampant arousal protruding from between his legs. “Come closer, lass, and have a seat.”
She eyed him, felt her eyes widen as he appeared to grow even larger and stiffer beneath her gaze. Blood warmed her cheeks. Quickly she glanced up.
He winked, a wicked grin on his lips. Then he patted one muscled thigh.
Gasping out a shocked laugh, she crawled toward him and climbed aboard.
A painless whap across her quilt-covered bottom brought her awake the next morning.
Groaning, she cracked her eyelids open a faint slit and squinted against the early-morning light that shone in a cheery rectangle from around the window curtains. Cringing, she rolled onto her stomach and snuggled deeper into her pillow to resume her dream.
A large male hand curved over her shoulder and gave her a shake. “None of that, now. We need to get up and out and on the road. Arise, Lady Jeannette.”
“Darragh?” she questioned in a groggy moan.
“Aye, and what other man would it be standing next to your bed?”
The scent of shaving soap and warm male skin teased her nostrils as he leaned close to press a kiss upon her cheek.
“Leave me ’lone. I’m tired.” She raised a weak hand to push him away.
He chuckled in good-natured amusement, then captured her hand and kissed the center of her palm. “I am sorry not to leave you abed but we can’t afford the delay. We’ve hours of travel inside the coach. You can sleep there.”
Listening with only half an ear, and a sleepy one at that, she let her eyes drift closed again. But Darragh was relentless, using his hold upon her to tug her into a sitting position. The covers fell away, exposing her naked body to the cool morning air. Shivering, she huddled in a weary heap, covered by nothing but her long hair.
“Now, stay awake,” he admonished. “I’ll send Betsy in to help you wash and dress.”
She listened to the faint thump of his boot heels striking the floorboards as he crossed to the door, the sound of the lock clicking as he let himself out. Alone once more, she flopped onto her back and yanked the counterpane over herself, head and all.
She was exhausted and it was all Darragh’s fault. He certainly had a knack for keeping her from her rest. When he’d boasted last evening that he planned to wear her out, he had not been exaggerating. The man had stamina and more to spare, the night having been one round of energetic lovemaking after another interspersed with occasional minutes of sleep.
He would have taken her again just before dawn, she knew, but had restrained himself with a single kiss, realizing she was far too sore to accommodate him again. Tonight, he’d murmured, would be soon enough. Tucking her close, he’d let her drift into a deep sleep. So deep she hadn’t even felt him leave the bed, nor heard him moving around the room as he shaved and dressed.
She’d just started another dream when the window curtains were yanked back to let in a stream of sunlight. The aroma of scrambled eggs and bacon wafted through the room. She roused enough to sniff, heard her stomach growl in response.
“Good day, my lady,” her maid greeted in a happy tone. “I’ve brought you breakfast. Mr. O’Brien said he felt sure you would be hungry and in need of something more substantial than toast this morning. If you’ll just sit up, I’ll position the tray.”
“Leave it, Betsy,” she mumbled from under the covers. “I’ll eat later.”
“Mr. O’Brien said you might say that. I am to remind you that you need to be up and dressed and in the coach no later than eight. If you aren’t ready by then, he said…well, you really ought to have your breakfast, my lady.”
Jeannette flipped the coverlet off her face, squinted a look at her maid. “Why? What did he say?”
“Nothing, my lady. Now, I’ve brought you a lovely pot of hot chocolate, all rich and creamy just the way you like it. Let me pour you a cup.”
“Not until you tell me what he said.”
Betsy tucked her hands against her plain skirt. “Very well. He told me to tell you that if you aren’t dressed and ready on time, he’ll come up here and carry you out to the coach wearing whatever it is you have on.”
Jeannette’s lips firmed. Why, the barbarian. He knew full well what she had on, which was absolutely nothing, since he’d removed every last stitch of clothing from her body last night.
Carry her out to the coach naked, would he? Well, she’d like to see him try.
Then again, knowing Darragh, he would make good on his statement simply to get his own way, and devil take the consequences. Dratted man.
Sitting up, she beat at the covers in irritation at her defeat. “Very well. I will have my breakfast now.”
Betsy turned, a relieved smile on her face.
“And extra jam for the toast. Lord knows after the last twenty-four hours, I deserve the indulgence.”
A good meal and a warm bath went a long way to improving her mood and restoring her diminished energy levels. Allowing Betsy to assist her into a sprightly yellow-and-white-striped traveling dress helped even more. At her direction, her maid completed the ensemble by fitting fawn-coloured half boots onto Jeannette’s feet and perching an adorable, short-brimmed jockey hat with matching striped ribbons atop her curls.
Jeannette felt almost herself again by the time she descended the main staircase at thirty-one past eight. She was late and not the least bit repentant about it, having blithely ignored Darragh the two times he’d thumped up the stairs to “check” on her.
When she’d heard him come to the foot of the stairs and bellow up something about “getting her blasted little backside moving,” she decided she’d pushed him as far as he would go.
She expected to find him awaiting her in the front entryway. Instead he stood outside, conversing with the coachman. Arranged in a mountain-sized lump at his feet sat Vitruvius.
The dog’s ears perked, coming to attention the instant she exited the house, his lolling tongue retracting into his mouth on a slurping lick.
She came to attention as well. Zounds, amidst all the recent upheaval, she had completely forgotten about the beast.
But he obviously had not forgotten about her, dark doggy eyes gleaming with pent-up excitement. Tail wagging, he jumped to his great hairy paws and started toward her at a lope.
A sharp whistle brought him to a halt. “Vitruvius, heel.”
The dog stopped, whipped his head
back and up in surprise. His shaggy body quivered in thwarted desire as he gazed expectantly up at Darragh, clearly hoping his master had spoken in error and would rescind the command.
Darragh patted his leg. “Come.”
Vitruvius whined, gaze pleading.
“Come.”
Seconds ticked by before the dog gave in. Head down, he padded back to Darragh’s side. Obedient, he sat and accepted Darragh’s words of praise, all the while raising sorrowful brown eyes her way.
She met those eyes, her heart softening in sympathy. Silly lunkhead. One would almost suspect he was pining for her.
She started forward, intending to pat him on the head, then let her hand fall to her side as she thought better of the action. After all, this was the same dog who had once knocked her to the ground, smothered her face with slobbery kisses and ruined one of her nicest gowns. A gown she could now ill afford to lose, considering her less than pecunious marriage. Heaven only knows how many weeks or months it would be before she set foot over the threshold of a suitable mantua-maker again. Until then, her present wardrobe would have to suffice.
Spirits dampened by the thought, she turned her sights back to the dog. “What,” she stated in a dour tone, “is that big lollylob doing here?”
“You hear that, boy-o?” Darragh reached down, scrubbed a hand over the animal’s wiry coat. “She thinks you’re a big lollylob, and after all the hard work you’ve put in lately correcting your manners.”
Vitruvius thumped his tail.
She walked closer, boots crunching on the pea-gravel drive. Stopping, she gazed pointedly at both man and dog.
The coachman murmured a greeting, then moved away to attend to his duties.
“Well?” she said to her new husband.
“Well what? If you’re talking about the dog, Vitruvius is coming with us. You didn’t think I’d leave him behind, did you?”
“No, of course not, but I had imagined by now that one of the servants would have taken him in hand for the trip.” She tugged on her silk traveling gloves. “I assume he will be riding in the luggage coach. Unless you’re planning to let him run alongside.”
“I’d thought he would ride with us, seeing the luggage coach is nearly full, packed high and wide with your belongings.”
Her brows shot upward. “Oh, no, he can’t ride with us.”
Only imagine all the dog hair, she thought, with a delicate shudder of distress.
“But your maid has the only empty seat. There won’t be room for them both in there.”
“Then he can ride up with John Coachman.” She nodded, the discussion concluded as far as she was concerned. “Now, since you have done nothing but complain about the need to depart ere these many minutes past, I assume you would like to be off.”
He looked as if he would like to argue further about his dog, but decided to keep his comments to himself.
She moved toward the carriage, only then noticing a crest painted on the side that depicted a stylized Celtic bull and lion. “Whose coach is this? I had assumed we would borrow one of my cousins’ coaches for the journey.”
Darragh stilled, stared for a moment. “What? No. The only vehicle the Merriweathers own isn’t suitable for long trips.”
“So where did this one come from?”
“This one?” He rubbed a finger along the side of his face. “Well now, this one belongs to…a…um…local landowner near home. He heard about our marriage and had it sent.”
She folded her hands at her waist. “How very generous of him. Who is this man? He must be more than a landowner to have such excellent transportation as this, and to send it so quickly as well. Is he one of your patrons?”
An odd expression flickered through Darragh’s eyes. “In a manner of speaking, you might say that he is.”
“What is his name, this benefactor?”
“His name?”
“Yes, surely the man has a name, and a noble one at that, judging by his crest.”
“What do you need with his name?”
She stared, puzzling at his peculiar manner. Why was he behaving in such a curious way all of a sudden? Mayhap, like all men, he had too much pride and chaffed to accept the charity of others, even when offered as a wedding gift.
“I thought when we arrive I might call upon him to express my appreciation,” she explained.
He looked alarmed. “Call upon him? Oh, no, you can’t call on him because…because he’ll be away. By the time we arrive, he’ll have left again. Spends a great deal of time on the Continent.”
“Oh. I suppose, then, I shall simply have to write.”
“Hmm, you do that. In the meantime, we’d best be off. We’ve some miles to travel today.”
A footman stepped forward, opened the coach door and let down the step. He assisted her inside.
She arranged her skirts around her hips, then leaned back against the comfortable silk upholstered seat.
Darragh joined her in the vehicle.
“So, what is his name?”
He scowled. “Whose name? Oh, that.” He paused. “Mulholland. The Earl of Mulholland.”
“Thank you. Now, was that so dreadful?”
“No, and neither will this be.” Leaning out the open door, he whistled.
Seconds later, Vitruvius sprang inside the coach.
Chapter Seventeen
Four grueling, travel-weary days later, they arrived at their destination, the nights spent in Darragh’s arms the only thing that made the trip bearable. Her new husband, she had rapidly discovered, was a man possessed of deep passions and appetites. Some of them nearly insatiable, as he had taken to showing her, much to her nocturnal delight.
Speaking of appetites, Jeannette thought as she felt her stomach rumble, she was hungry again despite the satisfying midday meal of roasted game hen and new potatoes she and Darragh had shared at an inn in the town of Ennis. But that had been almost five hours since. Five long, tedious, teeth-rattling hours spent bouncing over rutted, uneven roads, watching mile after mile of endless green countryside pass by.
Green grass. Green trees. Flat green fields and gently sloping hills stretching as far as the eye could see. Then more green interspersed with rock-strewn patches of brown and gray, plus the occasional Celtic stone cross with its unique circular design that speared upward toward a cloud-filled blue sky.
A sky that looked glum and cheerless, threatening rain as evening swiftly approached. She peered out the window of the now stationary coach and felt a bewildered frown descend across her brow.
Obviously this could not be Darragh’s home, she reassured herself.
Not this single-story, thatched-roofed cottage, its stone exterior covered with a fresh coating of whitewash. Some sort of bushy plant reminiscent of ivy grew up in a quaint semicircle around the entrance, the wooden door painted an intense, jocular yellow. A pair of four-by-four windows were centered on either side to let in light and air. In the foreground yard lay a small flower bed and herb garden, divided by a stone walkway and a curving path that meandered around toward the rear. There, an empty clothesline stood, just barely visible around the corner.
Clearly she was mistaken about their arrival, the place quite obviously the home of a villager—a farmer or laborer or some such person to whom Darragh must needs speak.
Her husband alighted from the carriage, preceded by Vitruvius, who sprang down with a loud, exuberant bark. He barked a second time before loping off toward a nearby stand of trees. She sighed and picked a wad of dog hair off her peach-and-brown-printed gingham skirt, wondering how much longer and farther their journey would be.
But instead of striding toward the cottage, Darragh turned back to her and extended a hand.
“Oh, no, you go ahead,” she told him. “I shall wait here until you have concluded your business.”
“What business?”
“Your business,” she repeated with agreeable forbearance, “with whomever it is you have detoured here to see. Go in and I shal
l wait.”
“I fear you’re laboring under a confusion, lass. We haven’t stopped to visit anyone. We’re here. We’ve arrived.”
She stared out the window again, saw nothing but the small cottage and its surrounding yard. “What do you mean, arrived? Arrived where?”
“At our dwelling.” He gestured behind him with a hand. “Welcome to your new home.”
She stopped breathing. For a long moment, she felt exactly the way she had the time she’d fallen off a swing at age seven and had the air knocked completely out of her lungs.
A dizzy buzzing started in her head. She swayed slightly on the seat and grew faint from a lack of oxygen.
Looking alarmed, Darragh reached in and gave her a shake.
She sucked in a rasping breath and blinked twice. Exhaustion from the trip, she concluded. That’s what it must be. Or maybe her ears were clogged with wax and needed a thorough cleansing. Whatever the reason, she must have misheard him.
“W-what did you say?” she questioned, fighting to slow her thundering heart.
“I said welcome home. Now, I know it’s likely not quite what you were expecting, but if you’ll just come inside you’ll find it quite pleasant.”
She stared, stunned. So it wasn’t a mistake. This really was his house—his cottage! His whitewashed, thatched-roofed peasant’s cottage that was smaller than some of the homes her father rented out to his tenant farmers in Surrey. Darragh expected her to live here? Here in this…this pea-shell-sized hut?
“Oh, no,” she said, frantically shaking her head, “this will not do. This will not do at all.”
“Well, I’m sorry for your disappointment, but it’ll have to do. This is my home and all that I have to offer. Now, come down from there and take a look inside. You’ll soon see your imaginings are turning the place into something far worse than it really is.”
The Wife Trap Page 23