“No.” She sniffed. “It’s the bread. I’ve ruined it.”
He cast a glance at the sunken, miserable loaves, then turned and pulled her up and into his arms. “Then we’ll do without bread and content ourselves with whatever we’ve available. Don’t berate yourself so, lass, ’tisn’t the end of the world.”
She sniffed again and let him pull out his handkerchief to dry her eyes and wipe her nose. That done, he kissed her, brushing his lips, soft and gentle as a breeze, over her closed eyelids and her cheeks and chin. Then he claimed her mouth with a sweet pressure that made her sigh in delight as he coaxed her back to lie across the kitchen table. Flour skirred into the air, dancing around them in a fine white cloud, as Darragh made slow, exquisite love to her—all thoughts of bread baking fading fast from her mind.
Much later that evening, he presented her with a cookbook that he’d purchased for her while he’d been out earlier that day. By rights she ought to have been offended by his gift, but once she put aside what remained of her battered pride, she realized what a godsend the book truly was.
Emboldened, she began to experiment and expand her repertoire from plain, simplistic dishes to something she might have found served at her parents’ home. Without quite realizing when or how, she began to enjoy her newfound culinary abilities, skills that brought her a surprising amount of pleasure and satisfaction. Demonstrated the evening she poached her first salmon and served it with a creamy dill sauce that made Darragh grunt in delight and ask for seconds and thirds.
She had never considered herself a helpless sort of woman, but neither had she realized before just how capable she could be. Learning to create all manner of things with her own two hands and doing a fine job of it too.
She also learned she could do without her elegant clothes—at least during the day, since she still insisted upon dressing for dinner as good manners prescribed. But her London gowns, she conceded, were far too lovely to risk ruin in menial tasks. So with Aine’s assistance, and several yards of soft woolen cloth, she sewed four serviceable dresses to wear while she worked.
But of the myriad things she learned, her most surprising discovery came from the fact that she wasn’t bored.
Perhaps it was simply a case of being too busy keeping house, too busy being a wife and striving to make her new life with Darragh a pleasant one, but she rarely gave much thought to her old routines and pastimes. She rose each morning eager to tackle a new day. And fell asleep each night satisfied by her day’s achievements, her body usually humming from the splendid loving she’d just enjoyed with Darragh as she drifted off in his arms.
Yet as busy as her domestic chores kept her, she didn’t spend all her time inside the house. She took a mid-morning stroll nearly every day, enjoying the fresh air and country sunshine far more than she had ever done in the past.
Often Darragh went with her. Strolling arm in arm, they would talk on all sorts of subjects, some serious, some silly, while Vitruvius loped happily behind, sniffing for rabbits and vermin, ever eager to give chase.
On one particularly bright afternoon, she packed them a meal of cold chicken, dried fruit, biscuits and wine, then gathered her watercolour paints, brushes and paper. Darragh hitched one of the horses to a small gig, stowed the food and her painting supplies in the rear and helped her into the seat next to him.
“You’ll like the Shannon here in these parts,” Darragh told her, “where the river meets up with the sea. Not long now and you’ll catch the scent of brine coming up sweet in your nose. ’Tis a beautiful place for passing an afternoon.”
And he was right, the grassy shoreline creating a lovely display. Seated on a large blanket, they dined to the accompaniment of birdsongs, the pair of them waving carefree as children at an occasional boat as it sailed by.
“Have you room for dessert?” she asked, pulling a current cake from the basket.
“I do if you made it.” Darragh leaned on his elbow and tossed her a lazy smile. “Why don’t you feed me a piece?”
She cut a wedge and did as he suggested, holding out small bites for his delectation, letting him lick her fingers and scatter kisses across her palm in between helpings. She cut a small piece for herself and ate it, giggling as he pressed increasingly ravenous kisses to her lips.
Soon they tumbled backward, limbs and lips entwined as Darragh satisfied her every urge, loving her most thoroughly beneath the protection of an extra blanket.
Some while later, she took out her pencils and paints to sketch the water. Darragh pulled a small traveling folio out of his coat pocket, borrowed one of her pencils and did the same. Until she saw the book, she hadn’t realized he possessed any marked artistic skills, though considering he was an architect, she supposed she ought to have known better.
At length, he set the folio aside and closed his eyes, sleepy from the meal and the lovemaking. Waiting until she could tell he truly slumbered, she picked up the book and began to leaf through it, amazed by what she found.
In drawing after superb drawing, she traveled the world. Rome and Venice and London, of course. Paris, she surmised, given the street names he’d written in small flowing script beneath the renderings. And Greece, looking hot and sunny and ancient beyond her imaginings, exactly as he’d once described.
And then on a pair of the last pages, she discovered herself. Her heart leapt in wonder. In one drawing she stood with Wilda in the garden, a distant expression on her face as she observed the older woman pruning her roses. In the other, she sat painting in the field near her cousins’ estate, gazing toward the old Celtic cross. The drawing was rough and hastily completed, except for her. Her, he’d sketched completely, leaving no detail unfinished, leaving her the unmistakable focal point of the piece.
When had he done the drawings? she wondered. How had he done them without her knowledge? Hastily, before he awakened, she set the folio aside.
But the questions lingered on long after the pair of them returned to the cottage.
Could he possibly love her?
She trembled at the thought, the idea both glorious and terrifying all at the same time.
And how did she feel about him?
Truth to tell, she didn’t know anymore, her wishes and needs all jumbled up inside. The only thing she knew for certain was the contentment she felt in his arms and the dawning knowledge that she never wanted that feeling to end.
Several afternoons later, as Jeannette placed a leg of lamb into a large copper roasting pan for dinner, a knock sounded at the front door. Isolated as the cottage was from any immediate neighbors, the interruption came as a mild surprise.
The only people she saw with any regularity were Aine and an older man named Redde, who couldn’t speak a word of English from what she could tell. He came twice daily to care for the horses, milk the cow, feed the chickens and collect the eggs. A tradesman also stopped by once a week or so to deliver a fresh supply of peat bricks for the stove and fireplaces.
Thinking it must be one of the men, she dried her hands on a kitchen towel and went to the door. Pulling it open, she discovered a stranger waiting on the other side.
Tall and sturdy, the man looked to be in his late twenties, with thin, almost delicate features and a head of thick, short-cut wavy brown hair. Dressed for riding, he wore a tweed coat, simple linen shirt, breeches and boots. He looked her over with blatant interest, an oddly familiar gleam in his silvery blue eyes.
Her hand tightened against the door frame. “Yes, may I help you?”
A corner of his lips tilted as he craned his neck to get a better look inside the cottage. “Aye, perhaps you can. Might there be a Darragh O’Brien in residence, by chance?”
“There is. What business do you have with my husband, if I might inquire?”
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. “We
ll, 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. “Wh
at 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.”
The Wife Trap Page 27