“He dug right in. I had no idea dogs were so fond of apples. I suppose there’s still a little left that I could scrape out of his bowl, if you don’t mind sharing.”
Having heard his name, Vitruvius wandered in and flopped onto the floor. He groaned, his hairy stomach bulging from the large serving of fruit and pastry he’d obviously consumed.
Mother Mary, Darragh hoped the animal didn’t get sick all over the floor.
Jeannette ate another bite of pork and cabbage and sipped her wine. “How was your day?” she continued after a moment. “I had a rather interesting one. Some gentlemen stopped by looking for you. A count and his friends, who traveled all the way from Italy.”
Dread plunged like a blade into his gut. “What did they want?”
“Why, to consult with the great architect Darragh O’Brien. Funny, though, they knew you by a different name.” She tapped a finger against her cheek, as if in thought. “Let me see, what was it again? Mulholland. The Earl of Mulholland.” She fixed a gaze upon him that blazed hot as the fiery spice she’d put in his meal. “Is that not right, my lord?”
Christ, she knows. “Now, Jeannette—”
“Don’t you now, Jeannette me.” She beat her hand against the table. “How dare you deceive me. How dare you hide who you are, when I am your wife.”
He strove for calm. “I realize you’re angry, but if you’d just let me explain—”
“Explain what? That you’re a consummate, contemptible liar?”
The memory of Michael’s words echoed in his ears. His brother had warned him that Jeannette might take a cleaver to his balls when she found out the truth. He eyed the cutlery and prayed his bride wasn’t quite that bloodthirsty.
“I had my reasons,” he said, climbing to his feet.
“What reasons could you have had? Didn’t you think I might want to know a little thing like the fact that you’re an earl? It’s not as if you haven’t had plenty of opportunities to tell me.”
His shoulders straightened defensively. “I tried to tell you, starting the very first time we met. But you cut me off, presuming to know everything you needed to know about who I am.”
“And afterward? What excuse do you have for that?”
“No excuse. I just didn’t see why it mattered whether or not I have a title, so I decided to let you believe what you wanted.”
“Even after we were married?” She waved an arm through the air. “And what of this cottage? The count tells me you own a castle! So why bring me here? Why tell me this is all we can afford? Which one of your tenants owns this quaint abode, by the way?”
“Not a tenant, but a friend.” A dull flush crept up his jaw. “I thought this would be a quiet place to honeymoon, as well as a good chance for us to get to know each other without other distractions.”
“What sort of distractions? Do you mean like servants and a chef?” She paused as a new thought occurred. “And you dismissed Betsy!”
“It’s not as bad as you—”
“No, it’s worse. You made me cook!”
Disturbed by the fight, Vitruvius sat up, let out a single nervous woof.
Darragh calmed the dog with a brief murmur, then returned his attention to Jeannette. “You like to cook. You told me so yourself only the other day.”
“Whether or not I derive any pleasure from the task is irrelevant. A lady does not labor, and as a titled gentleman, you ought to have known that. But then, you have never behaved as a gentleman ought, have you?”
“That’ll do, lass,” he warned in a soft voice.
“Will it? Or what? Do you have some new form of humiliation dreamed up with which to torment me?” Unshed tears of fury and anguish glistened in her eyes. “Why did you do it? Revenge? Was this your way of punishing me for being forced into a marriage you obviously did not want? You must despise me to have played such a cruel and calculated trick.”
Darragh cringed. This wasn’t going at all the way he’d hoped or planned. She was twisting everything, turning it into something vile, when that hadn’t been his intention at all.
He reached out a beseeching hand. “It isn’t like that. If you’d just let me explain.”
She brushed aside his hand, her lashes sweeping down as if she could no longer bear the sight of him. “I think you’ve explained more than enough. Whatever you say, how do I know it won’t be another lie?”
“Jeannette—”
“I’m tired and believe I shall retire.”
“All right. Go on and we’ll talk there.”
“No. You are not welcome.”
“Welcome or not, you’re still my wife.”
Her lower lip quavered. “To my everlasting regret.”
Even knowing she spoke in hurt and anger, her words stung. “Be that as it may, we are married. ’Til death us do part, just as the vows say.” He paused. “If you’d take a moment to consider, you’d see you ought to be pleased.”
Her mouth tightened. “For what, pray tell? Being turned into a scullery maid? Or being lied to?”
He wished he could retract his words, realizing by her severe expression that he was only making matters worse. Yet knowing himself damned either way, he plunged ahead.
“You wanted a title and you have one, you’re now the Countess of Mulholland.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You wanted a fine home and you’ll have that, a grand old castle known as Caisleán Muir. You wished for servants and money. Well, there’s plenty of both. All in all, I should think you’d be relieved.”
“Given that tally, I suppose I should. Or rather, I would be, were that all I wanted.”
“What else, then?” he demanded, frustration rising inside him like a surging tide. “What more could you want, unless it’s to be a duchess? And that, I’m afraid, I cannot provide.”
A startled look shone in her gaze before sorrow descended. “No, you can’t give me that either, can you?”
His brows crinkled in puzzlement as she spun and hurried from the room, a small, muffled sob trailing in her wake. Seconds later, the bedroom door closed, the lock clicking home echoing clearly after.
Finally found the key, had she? And already barred the windows as well, no doubt.
What a debacle.
Whirling, he kicked the corner cabinet and set the china rattling inside.
Vitruvius whined and thumped his tail, head bowed over his paws.
Darragh’s anger drained suddenly. Bending, he beckoned the dog forward, then stroked the big, sleek canine head, giving comfort to them both.
“Well, lad, looks like we’ll be bunking in together. I only hope it won’t be for the rest of our natural lives.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning she awakened, tired and unrefreshed after a night spent crying quietly to herself so as not to let him hear. She’d slept little, the awful events of the day repeating themselves over and over again in her head.
Just past dawn, when she could stand it no more, she washed and dressed, then went into the kitchen to fix herself a pot of tea. She expected to find the room a disaster, the remains of last night’s supper stuck to the plates, clinging to the unwashed pots and pans. But Darragh had done most of the cleaning for her, tidying and straightening, storing what food had been suitable to save. If he’d thought such minor acts would patch her wounds, he was very much mistaken.
After what he’d done, how could she ever trust him again? Believe him again? Love him? He’d stripped her down to the core, leaving nothing behind but hard, bare bones.
Just the reminder of his deception made her emotions rattle like the water steaming in the teakettle. She toasted a slice of bread, banging the metal range lids and the arched hearth-toaster as loudly as she pleased. So what if she awakened him? She hoped she did. Hoped she made him as miserable as he’d made her.
What a pitiable fool she was to have imagined he might love her.
Darragh came to the doorway not long after, and stood watching her, his face drawn and haggard-
looking. She pretended not to see.
Vitruvius padded in and sat patiently waiting for his morning meal, as had become their recent custom. Having no quarrel with the dog, only his master, she prepared a bowl of cut-up pork from last night’s supper—careful to make sure it was free of the cayenne pepper she’d liberally sprinkled on Darragh’s portion.
The dog seen to, she put her tea and toast on a copper tray and returned to their bedroom, all without ever acknowledging Darragh’s existence. She remained in her room the rest of the day.
The coach did not arrive until early the following morning. To her chagrin, she discovered that the vehicle was the same one she’d traveled west in, the Mulholland crest emblazoned upon the door like an insolent slap. If she’d had any lingering doubts about his identity, they vanished the moment the vehicle arrived, the coachman jumping down, quietly greeting him as “my lord.”
Her trunks were repacked and loaded into a wagon. Aine arrived, dismayed by their abrupt departure. The girl promised to clean and tidy everything, wash the sheets and see the furniture covered with protective cloths.
Jeannette gave all the perishable food to her and Redde, the old man smiling for the first time since she’d known him. The livestock belonged to Darragh’s friend, who’d loaned him the cottage, and would be well looked after.
With Aine playing lady’s maid, Jeannette dressed in one of her elegant traveling gowns, feeling almost herself again for the first time in weeks. Yet as she looked at the girl who’d been such a help to her, Jeannette knew she wasn’t the same person she had been when she’d arrived. Without letting herself think through the action, she pulled Aine into her arms for a hug, then thanked her for her kindness. She promised the girl a job as well, should she ever find herself in need. Just come to Caisleán Muir, Jeannette told her, and she would be well looked after.
Then it was time to depart. She ignored Darragh and he wisely let her be, having decided to ride his horse instead of travel with her inside the coach.
She knew she should be glad to dust her feet of the place, yet as she looked upon the cottage one last time, all she felt was grief and regret.
The sun had reached its zenith and was descending into evening by the time they arrived at their new home. Towering in a massive sprawl of ancient gray stone that dominated the surrounding fields of verdant green, the castle was everything Darragh had said it would be, a fact that only increased her misery.
By no means the largest castle she’d ever seen, the structure remained formidable even so; three stories high with rectangular lines and narrow windows, each stacked one upon the other from ground to top. On the far east side stood an immense tower house, clearly added during a later period, lush emerald ivy clinging to the walls and creeping up to the parapets.
And in the near distance, next to a small cemetery and the ruins of what must once have been a church, rose a conical-shaped round tower. Spearing upward in a kind of austere glory, the structure announced, without explanation, its ancient purpose of protection in the face of an unwavering enemy.
Half numb from her unhappiness, she barely had time to take everything in, as the coach-and-four drew to a halt. With the assistance of a footman, she descended the carriage steps. Suddenly, she recognized a familiar face waiting among the servants, who had assembled near the stairs, and nearly cried out her pleasure.
“Betsy,” she exclaimed, hurrying toward her maid. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I thought…” she paused, having to force the words past her lips, “my husband…had sent you back to England.”
“Oh, he did, my lady, for a splendid visit with my family. A month entire in Cornwall. Then it was back here to Ireland to wait for you.” Betsy lowered her voice, leaning in on a whisper. “Though I didn’t realize until after I arrived at Caisleán Muir that Mr. O’Brien isn’t a mister at all, but a titled gentleman. An earl, and you now a countess. You never said, my lady.”
“No, I did not,” she murmured, failing to add that her omission was because she’d learned the truth herself only two days ago.
So he’d lied about dismissing Betsy as well, she thought, adding another falsehood to his growing list of deceptions. Plus, he’d sent her maid on an extravagant holiday that she would likely cherish for the rest of her days. By now Betsy probably imagined him a saint.
Hmmph, Jeannette scoffed, patron saint of tricksters.
But had she once been any better? Trading places with Violet, pretending to the world that she was her sister while she lied to her family and friends. Darragh’s lies seemed a kind of poetic retribution seen in that light. The ultimate irony of the deceiver being deceived.
Still, her past misdeeds didn’t make Darragh any less wrong for his own. Did they?
She wondered if this was how Adrian must have felt when he had learned the truth. Had his heart been crushed? His dignity shattered? His trust in his spouse—the one person he ought to be able to trust above all others—abused and betrayed?
If so, she owed him a profound apology.
“And how was your honeymoon?” Betsy inquired in a happy voice. “Was it grandly romantic?”
Is that what Darragh had led the girl to believe? That he’d whisked her away to some intimate, romantic locale where they’d spent an idyllic time alone? A month ago she would have blurted out the details of her ordeal and openly wept on Betsy’s shoulder. Instead she held her emotions inside and said nothing. The less known about the humiliation and hardship she’d suffered, the better.
“It was…secluded,” she said.
A girlish squeal rang out as a willowy figure rushed out of the castle doors. A single black braid flying behind, the child launched herself at Darragh, ankle-length skirts swaying as she leapt into his arms. “Darragh, you’re home!” the girl exclaimed before lapsing into an incomprehensible torrent of Gaelic.
Darragh laughed, swung the girl in an exuberant circle. Kissing her on the cheek, he replied in the same strange tongue, finally setting the girl onto her feet.
She laughed, then turned to cast a curious glance at Jeannette, giggling as she murmured something more in Darragh’s ear. Young, eleven at most, she had a heart-shaped face and large, lovely green eyes. Cat’s eyes. Bold and inquisitive.
As Jeannette watched, Darragh tucked the girl’s hand inside his and led her forward.
“Jeannette, if you haven’t guessed already, this impetuous scamp is my sister Siobhan.”
“Lady Siobhan,” Jeannette greeted.
The girl giggled again, then grinned. “You’ve a pretty speaking voice for an English.”
Jeannette raised a brow, but before she could marshal a suitable reply, three more O’Briens joined them on the drive.
Moira, not quite fifteen, Jeannette guessed, was an auburn-haired beauty on the cusp of womanhood, her eyes the same shade and shape as Darragh’s, her face a slim, feminine version of her eldest brother’s. More reserved, and with better manners than her youngest sibling, she made Jeannette a respectful curtsey and greeting.
Finn was next. Brawnier than any of his brothers, he looked like he could easily fell a tree—probably with his bare hands—and at only nineteen or so, he was still coming into his full height, she assumed. Presently, he stood just an inch shorter than Darragh. Despite herself, she liked his kind green eyes and the careful way he bowed over her hand.
And then came Michael, whom she knew already.
He gave her a wink and a kiss. “Welcome to Caisleán Muir, though I didn’t expect to see you again quite so soon.”
“No, I expect you did not, nor Lord Mulholland,” she replied in an arch tone.
He had the grace to look sheepish, then relieved, as she murmured for his ears alone, “Just be glad it’s only him I hold responsible.”
“Of that you may rest assured, my lady.”
The two other O’Brien siblings, Hoyt and Mary Margaret, were absent, so she was told. Married, with homes and families of their own, they no longer lived on the estate, but would be sto
pping by for a visit soon.
Remembering apparently that he had yet to introduce her to the servants, Darragh came forward, wrapped her hand in his. She wanted nothing more than to wrench herself free, but instead let him thread her palm over his bent elbow, aware of their large and interested audience.
Seeing the two dozen servants he employed—including the bona fide French chef he had on staff—hit her with the impact of a flaming match tossed into a saucepan of brandy. She endured the introductions, which thankfully did not last long, then moved inside the castle with the family.
Expecting dark, cold and antiquated, she was astonished by the cheerful, modern interior. The crisp cream entrance hall boasted glorious swags, and spirals of intricate stuccowork that graced the walls and complemented the beautifully turned balusters on the grand staircase. Escorted by the whole O’Brien clan, she was led through the castle. Room after elegant room was revealed, including a great gilded ballroom and a long portrait gallery that contained paintings and tapestries, broadswords, armor and artifacts of O’Brien ancestors.
She learned that many of the family antiquities had been saved by their late mother, who had hidden them away years before rather than see them go to pay debts and taxes.
Darragh’s brothers and sisters regaled her with one story after another, pride ringing in their every word and gesture as they told her how Darragh had worked to restore the castle from near ruin to the grand, stately home it now was.
Finally, they departed, leaving their eldest brother to show her to the master suites located in the old tower house. The moment she and Darragh were alone, she slipped her hand off his arm and took a step away.
He gave her a penetrating look, but didn’t push the matter, turning his back to let her follow on her own.
The countess’s quarters, she discovered, consisted of three spacious rooms—bedchamber, dressing room and bath—that took up the entire top floor. Airy and feminine, the suite was done in pale shades of pink and cream with occasional dashes of crisp green thrown in for accent. Rich-hued walnut furniture made the rooms warm and inviting. And though she wasn’t about to let Darragh suspect she in any way approved, she immediately fell in love with the beautiful decor.
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