TheWifeTrap (30 page)

Ah, so he’d been right about that. If he could still recognize
what it was she’d cooked, then surely he could eat it. At least he prayed he
could.

He slapped his hands together, as if eager to begin the meal. “Let
me gather up a pair of plates and in we’ll dig.”

She stood back as he did exactly that, setting places for them at
the table in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. He left her to
scrape the charred mass onto a serving platter and carry it into the other
room.

She set the dish down with a
thump.

Helping her with her chair, he took a seat opposite. He forced an
enthusiastic smile, then spooned a hearty portion of blackened potatoes onto
his blue-and-white-patterned china plate.

Good thing he was hungry, starving actually. He hadn’t eaten a
satisfying meal since the night of their arrival. She had to be starving as
well, ravenous hunger clearly being what had driven her into the kitchen, just
the way he’d planned.

Still, he’d been worried, afraid she just might outlast him.
Sainted Mary, he was glad Jeannette had yielded, since it had been near killing
him not to go to Aine and beg her to cook them something, anything that didn’t
have to be eaten cold or raw.

But he’d resisted and had won the reward. Though, to be honest,
the food presently on his plate didn’t look much like a reward. But Jeannette
had made it and that was the point. He only prayed he’d be able to subsist on
her mistakes long enough for her to learn to cook.
If
she learned to
cook. Well, if worse came to worst he’d muddle through, a bit thinner for the
experience.

Wishing he’d thought to get himself a knife, he jammed his fork
into what looked like a dark, flattened brick and chipped off a corner. The
food crunched between his teeth, the taste of charcoal and something else,
something greasy and slightly revolting sliding over his tongue.

Half-raw bacon, he realized. And overly seasoned. Dear God, had
she poured an entire pot of salt into the skillet?

He chewed faster and gulped. “Delicious.”

She raised a dubious brow, studied him as he forced in another
mouthful. He got a huge wedge of onion this time, burned on one side, raw on
the other. Amazingly, despite their blackened surface, parts of the potatoes
were under-cooked and hard in the center. Without question, the dish was one of
the most revolting he’d ever consumed.

But consume it he did, working his way through at a rapid pace. In
between bites, he gulped swigs of the ale he’d poured himself, grateful for the
relief it gave his abused throat and tongue.

For Jeannette’s part, she poked at the congealing mass with the
tines of her fork. After a sniff, she ate a single bite, her nose crinkling in
disgust before she set her utensil aside.

Vitruvius ambled in, canine eyes pleading in the hopes of earning
a treat. Instead of shooing the dog out of the room, she set her plate on the
floor. Tail wagging, Vitruvius raced up and wolfed down a huge mouthful.
Seconds later, his tail drooped and he gagged, hacking the food back out onto
the plate with a retching cough.

For a long moment she and Darragh stared at the dog, looking on in
silence as he whimpered and retreated from the room, as though stung.

“Well, I guess that told me,” Jeannette declared. Suddenly the
humor of the situation caught her and she began to snicker, then laugh
full-out.

Darragh joined her, a huge grin on his face. “He’s a rude lad, he
is.”

“But an honest one. Poor thing, I feel like an axe murderer.”

“Animal has no taste.”

Downing a reinforcing gulp of ale, Darragh stabbed another forkful
of the food on his plate and raised it to his mouth.

Jeannette’s lips parted in horror. “For mercy sakes, Darragh,
stop. Even the dog can’t bear to eat it.” She reached out a hand, laid it on
his forearm to keep him from taking another bite.

His skin unusually pale, he wavered. “It’s not so bad.”

“Of course it’s not, it’s worse than bad. So dreadful that if
anyone dared to serve me such slop I would have them hauled off to the gaol for
committing a crime. Put your fork down.”

Looking relieved, he did as she instructed.

“I don’t know how you ate as much as you did,” she said after a
long moment.

He planted a fist against his chest, his stomach roiling aloud in
protest. “I’m starting to wonder about that myself.”

“You should just have said the meal was terrible.”

“How could I now? Not after the grand try you gave.”

“But it wasn’t grand,” she cried. “It was a disaster.”

He lifted her hand, pressed a kiss onto the top. “Aye, a grand
disaster that makes me proud.”

“How can you be proud of being served such a disgusting, revolting
mess?”

“Because you made it and that’s enough.”

Something in the region of her heart melted at his words. She’d
failed, she thought, and failed miserably. She couldn’t even cook a meal a
novice should be able to make. Yet still he claimed to be proud. To her
recollection, no one had ever been proud of her before. Admiring, perhaps.
Dazzled and envious, even in awe, but never proud.

In her life, the attainment of perfection was the ultimate goal.
To be more beautiful, more popular, more desirable and refined than any other.
To use the trappings of privilege and wealth to achieve heights in status and prestige.

But Darragh cared nothing for such matters. To him an attempt was
still worthy of praise, a failure something for which he could inexplicably
still express pride.

He puzzled and warmed her all at the same time.

“Nonetheless,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable with the emotions
churning inside her breast, “I am hopeless in the kitchen, and if you persist
in this plan of yours to have me cook, the both of us shall soon wither away to
skin and bones.”

“We’ll be fine. I told you before, you’ll learn, and this was only
your first attempt. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m not. It’s my stomach that’s doing the scolding for me.”

“Well, if yours is scolding, then I suppose you might say mine is
screaming.” He grimaced. “Have a care with the salt next time.”

“I was trying to give it some flavor.”

“Flavor, was it now? More like swallowing down the ocean.”

Her lips twitched.

His lips twitched back.

Both of them broke into smiles, then laughter.

When their mirth subsided, he laid a hand over his belly. “Oh, I think
you’ve done me in, lass. Is there any buttermilk? A glass might prove
soothing.”

“In the springhouse, I believe. Shall I ask Aine to get some?”

“Aye. Then after, tell her I’d like a word. I’ll see if she can
stay a bit longer this evening and come again extra in the morning.”

“For what reason?”

“To show you a few things about fixing a meal, if you’re
agreeable.”

“I’d be more agreeable if you’d simply hire a proper cook. I was
not raised to perform common domestic chores, particularly in the kitchen.” She
paused, reading the stubborn resolve in his gaze. “But since you insist upon
perpetrating this insanity, very well, Aine’s assistance would be most
welcome.”

“Good,” he said on a pleased look. “I’ll see it done.”

She waited for the gloating grin to form on his countenance. He
had won this particular skirmish, asserted his male will over her own.

But no grin emerged and no gloating either. Just a comfortable
smile that emphasized the long square lines of his jaw, the blunt angles of his
forehead and chin and nose in a most thoroughly pleasing way. There were no two
ways around it, her husband was an extremely handsome man. Of that she could
have no complaint.

Rather than let him see the effect he had upon her, she stood.
“Well, I suppose I should go find Aine.”

“Aye. And Jeannette?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being my bride.”

With that, he gathered their plates, dropped a kiss onto her
surprised mouth, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Chapter Nineteen

That afternoon’s thank-you was just the first of many Jeannette
received from Darragh as the weeks passed, the last of September merging into
October as fall settled like a crisp, cool blanket over the land. Whatever she
cooked—good, bad or mediocre—her efforts were greeted with enthusiasm and
unstinting appreciation.

Despite Aine’s cheerful tutelage, learning to cook proved to be a
daunting and difficult task.

All her life Jeannette had taken meals for granted. Food was
something the servants prepared and served, something she and her family ate.
With the exception of menu planning in consultation with the chef and
housekeeper—one of her mother’s duties, as mistress of the house—Jeannette had
never spared more than a fleeting thought for where the ingredients were
derived and what happened to those foodstuffs while they were being turned into
dishes fit to be served at table.

But in quick order the blinders had been yanked from her eyes,
leaving her with a new sympathy and understanding for all the kitchen staff who
had ever dutifully prepared her a meal.

After the potato debacle, Aine started her out with something
easy—scrambled eggs. Aine helped her cook sausages too—careful to make certain
the meat didn’t burn—and aided her in brewing her very first pot of tea.

After the girl left for the evening, Jeannette sat across from
Darragh at the dining room table. Sighing in happy relief, the two of them
worked their way through the platter of simple food with pure, unabashed
delight.

Baking bread, simmering oatmeal, frying and roasting meat, boiling
vegetables were next on the list of essentials that needed to be learned—her
first attempts all colossal catastrophes. And though she wanted nothing more
than to give up and tell Darragh they would have to go back to eating apples
and cheese, she bit her lips and doggedly persevered.

As for Darragh, he worked during the day in his study, whistling
as he sketched his plans, occasionally muttering under his breath as he
researched various books and consulted previous designs. One morning a little
over a week after their arrival, he announced he had business and would be away
for a few hours.

At first, she’d been peeved. “Why aren’t you inviting me along?”
she asked, thrusting her lower lip out on an obvious pout. “Don’t you think I
would enjoy an excursion away from the house?”

“No,” he’d answered, pointing out that besides her having the
evening meal to prepare, his business would only bore her and make her regret
her decision to come along.

Of course, she could have ridden after him; there was a second
horse stabled in the barn. But she wouldn’t know her way around the area, and
frankly, from what she’d seen on a couple of the walks she’d taken, there
really wasn’t anything of interest to see.

Alone in the too quiet house, since it was one of Aine’s days off,
she set herself to baking bread. All went well until she opened the oven door
to check on the baking loaves and saw they were flat and hard as brick bats.

“Oh,” she cried, using a pair of steel tongs to pull the pans from
the oven, wisps of hair curling over her forehead from the heat.

Swiping a forearm across her perspiring skin, she stared at the
miserable results of her day’s baking, wondering where she had gone wrong. Her
eyes fell upon a small blue jar and she knew, nearly smacking her forehead for
her stupidity. The leavening! She’d forgotten to add the leavening.
Of all
the idiotic mistakes,
she admonished herself. Dejectedly, she sank onto a
kitchen chair and burst into tears.

Darragh found her still there half an hour later, her eyes red and
swollen from all the tears she had shed.

“Here now,” he said, crossing quickly to her, “what’s amiss? Have
you hurt yourself?”

“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 watercolor
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?”