TheWifeTrap (32 page)

She set it down, then took up a dinner plate to serve. “Feeling
better?”

“Aye. Nothing like a warm, dry set of clothes to put the world
right.”

She’d poured glasses of red wine for them both. He reached out,
lifted his glass to his lips as she placed his meal before him.

“I worked all day preparing this,” she said. “I hope you like it.”

He smiled. “Your cooking is always delectable these days, and this
smells like heaven. ’Tis certain I’m going to love it.” Hungry, he waited
politely for her to serve herself before picking up his fork and knife. He
sliced a piece of pork, put it inside his mouth.

Heat erupted like an inferno, blazing across his tongue, scorching
the tender lining of his mouth. He coughed and blinked, moisture dampening his
eyes, his nose stinging and running. An overwhelming urge to spit out the chunk
came over him but he resisted, knowing he couldn’t do it, not with her looking
on in expectant anticipation. Instead, he swallowed, immediately regretting the
action as the sensitive membranes inside his throat burned like tinder set to
flint.

What has she put in this?
he boggled. Not black pepper.
Something else, then, something deadlier. Almost like…cayenne.

His jaw nearly dropped as she took a bite of the pork roast,
chewed and swallowed without so much as an extra blink.
Was her mouth lined
with tin that she didn’t notice the heat?

Deciding he’d better move on to safer territory, he speared a big
mouthful of cabbage. But instead of the buttery, melting, caraway-flavored
softness he expected, the steamed leaves crunched in a horrific scrape between
his teeth. And kept crunching, over and over again as his jaw worked,
nauseating grit reverberating in a grating crescendo inside his ears.

He gulped, watching as she ate her food in apparent contentment.
Surely she couldn’t be enjoying this? It was the worst meal she’d made since
that very first disaster. Over the past few weeks she’d become a fine cook,
impressing him with her deft skill and quick ability to learn.

How could she have prepared so many dishes so badly? Unless she’d
done it on purpose. He squinted at the carrots, studying them as though they
were deadly explosives, ready to detonate. What sinister act, he mused, had she
perpetrated upon these small golden disks? And more to the point, why? What had
occurred between this morning when he’d left the cottage and his return home
tonight?

She met his gaze, outwardly angelic. “How is your meal?”

“It’s…interesting.” He set down his fork. “I’m not as hungry as I
imagined, though.”

“Well now, surely you have room for dessert? Apple cobbler, your
favorite.”

And what had she done to ruin that?
His stomach growled,
protesting his hunger and the terrible fare he’d swallowed so far. As tempting
as apple cobbler sounded, he decided he ought not risk it. “Uh, thank you, but
no.”

“What a shame. Perhaps that’s best, though,” she said in a sweet
tone, “since I let Vitruvius try it first.”

“You what?”

“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 stopping 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.

He informed her his own quarters lay one story below, connected to
her own through a small spiral staircase that wound up and down inside one
corner of the room. He offered to lead her below to give her a tour.

“Thank you, no,” she replied in a quiet voice, quickly pocketing
the key she discovered in the stairway door, before he had a chance to do the
same.

He merely smiled and shook his head. “A little key won’t keep me
out, lass, if I’m of a mind to get in.”

“Then you’d best not be of that mind, because you are not welcome
in my rooms. Go visit your siblings, one of them may be pleased at your
company.”

“Jeannette, let me—”

“Send Betsy to attend me, please. Unless you have decided to
dismiss her again for
lack of funds.
” Turning her back, she strolled
toward one of the windows and gazed out. But she saw nothing of the landscape
beyond, her heart clenched tight.