TheWifeTrap (10 page)

Stubborn minx.

By rights, she deserved a sound smack on that attractive backside
of hers for her childish behavior. Her antics had cost him a half day’s work.
But the loss hadn’t been too damaging. He’d found the spare plans here at the
house, and set the men to work through the long afternoon.

He’d half expected her to fly out of the house in surprise at resumption
of the construction noise, until he’d learned from one of the Merriweathers’
servants that the ladies had taken the carriage and driven into Inistioge. When
they still hadn’t returned by early evening, he decided to let the lads leave a
little beforetimes, an idea percolating in his mind.

Tossing back the last of his whiskey, he grinned and set down his
glass. He’d best get to bed, he told himself, for tomorrow promised to be a
very interesting day.

Chapter Seven

Jeannette’s eyes shot open to squint into the first frail rays
of dawn’s light. Groggy and disoriented, she didn’t initially understand what
had disturbed her. A crash reverberated outside, followed by a pair of bangs.
Abruptly, her momentary confusion cleared.

Workers.

Sitting upright in bed, she peered through the gray shadows toward
the mantel clock, barely able to make out the hands. One seemed to be pointed
straight up, the other straight down. She stared harder.

Six o’clock!

On a weary grumble, she flung back the covers and leapt out of
bed, her bare feet moving quickly across the cool, soft wool carpeting. She
stared again at the clock, close enough this time to see there was no mistake.

It
was
six o’clock—or six-o-one, to be precise—and
O’Brien and his crew were out there making enough racket to rouse the dead. But
how could they be, when she hadn’t returned the building plans? Yesterday, the
workers had been unable to proceed without them, so how were they managing
without the plans this morning? Had O’Brien somehow managed to gain access to
her bedchamber and locate his architectural drawings? Surely not. The servants
would have noticed if her cousins’ architect had barged into the house and
conducted a search of her room.

Rushing to the wardrobe just in case the impossible had occurred,
she dropped down onto her hands and knees to check beneath the massive piece of
furniture. But there they were, the thick roll of papers, exactly where she had
left them.

Flummoxed, she sat back on her haunches, flinching as some heavy
object crashed to the ground outside. Seconds later, a yawn caught her,
moisture welling in her eyes.

Knowing she had to put an end to her misery, she reached an arm
under the armoire and dragged out the plans. Climbing to her feet, she took a
moment to slip into her dressing gown and silk bedroom slippers before running
a brush quickly through her hair and tying her tresses back with a ribbon at
her nape.

Acting purely on impulse, she retrieved the plans, opened the door
and moved out into the hallway.

“…once we’re finished here we’ll be able to move the scaffolding
and start on the last section at the north end,” Darragh said, gesturing a hand
toward the skeleton of the growing building and the workmen who climbed and
clamored over it with the speed and agility of a troop of acrobats.

“The window glass is due to arrive by late week,” Rory
volunteered. “Had word that the cargo’s loaded and on its way.”

Darragh nodded. “Good. If the schedule holds, it won’t be long
before we have need of that glass.”

They talked for another couple of minutes before his foreman gave
a friendly nod and strode away. Once the other man had gone, Darragh located
his mug of strong black Irish tea and raised it to his lips.

“
Psst,
Mr. O’Brien.”

Lady Jeannette.

Pausing, he glanced around to locate her, hastily swallowing the
hot tea in his mouth to keep it from scalding his tongue.

“Up here,” she said in a loud whisper.

Following her voice, he peered through the early-dawn light just
breaking over the horizon. His eyes widened when he located her, balanced on
her elbows as she leaned out of an open upstairs window. Dressed in some muted
color, she appeared as pale and ethereal as a ghost. Only, Jeannette Brantford
was much too lovely to be a ghost, and much too alive.

A quick glance over his shoulder verified that none of the other
men had noticed her—at least not yet. Setting down his mug, he strode forward.

“What are you about, lass?” he called softly once he stood beneath
her window.

She met his gaze. “You know exactly what I’m about. Just as you
know what time it is.”

He couldn’t help but grin. When he’d told the men to start work early
this morning, he’d anticipated rousing a reaction from Lady Jeannette. He just
hadn’t thought he’d spark one quite this quickly. “Wake you up, did we?”

She flicked a look into the distance, toward his crew, failing to
answer his rhetorical question. “We can’t talk here. Do you know the east
garden door?”

“I believe I know the one you’re meaning.”

“Meet me there in five minutes.” Her head disappeared from view,
runners above squeaking faintly as she yanked the window closed.

He stood for a moment staring up at the spot where she’d been, a
fresh smile playing around his lips. After a quick check to make certain the
men were fully occupied, he turned to stroll around the house.

Jeannette was waiting for him when he arrived, the door unlocked
and eased open a few inches to give him access to a narrow hallway that ran
between one of the servants’ staircases and the side garden.

He moved forward to enter. Only as he slid past did he notice her
attire. Or rather, her lack of attire. Not that she wasn’t properly covered—her
flesh concealed from throat to ankle—but she was dressed in nightclothes.

Thin, pink, silky nightclothes that conformed to the luscious
shape of her hips and breasts, leaving his imagination to run riot over what
delights must lay beneath. Flowing like spun corn silk, her waist-long hair was
gathered back, vibrant skeins of pale gold restrained by nothing more than a
simple white ribbon.

A quick tug, he mused, and all that glory would spill free,
strands cascading into his waiting hands. He could imagine touching her hair,
threading his fingers through the tresses to satisfy himself that they were
every bit as satiny soft as they appeared. Then he would lean near, breathe in
the spring-sweet fragrance he knew would lie there, before turning his
attentions to her skin, her lips.

He wouldn’t mind enjoying another kiss from her perfect mouth, he
thought. Or pulling her into his embrace, pleasuring her until she quivered and
sighed and forgot all about the reason she had asked him here.

Instead of doing any of those things, he crossed his arms, tucked
his hands tight and took a single, prudent step away.

Plainly unaware of his mental wanderings, Jeannette turned to
close the door, then spun back to face him.

He waited while she gathered herself to speak.

On an inhale, she began. “There is no use circling around the
subject, since we both know why I asked you here. I concede the point to you
this morning, Mr. O’Brien. By awakening me—and everyone else in the household,
I might add—you have made your revenge quite apparent.”

“ ’Twasn’t revenge. Just following through on my promise, since
you failed to return what you stole from me.”

“I stole nothing.”

He raised a chastening eyebrow.

“I merely
borrowed
your plans.” She reached around and
held out a familiar roll of parchment. “I would have returned them to you later
this morning, you know, but since you were callous enough to awaken me at this
unholy hour, I decided to give them back now.”

Restraining his surprise, he accepted the offering.

“Apparently you must not really have needed them,” she observed.

“Oh, I have need of them.”

A slight frown creased her delicate forehead. “But your men are
already working—”

“I had a second set. My thanks for the return of this set, though,
since the other plans aren’t nearly as detailed.”

Her lips parted, ocean-hued eyes enlarging slightly as if she
hadn’t considered such a possibility. Seconds later, her mouth snapped shut in
obvious consternation. He nearly laughed, watching the byplay of emotions
flicker like a pantomime across her face. She recovered her composure soon
enough, regal as a queen in spite of the intimate nature of her garments.

“Well then,” she said, “now that you are once more in possession
of your property, I assume you won’t mind telling your workers to cease their
labors for an hour or two.”

“Want to go back to your bed, do you?”

She nodded, raising a hand to hide a yawn. “It’s barely light
outside. Were it quiet, I’m sure I could drift off again.”

He imagined her upstairs in her bedchamber, pausing to shrug out
of her dressing gown and ease between the sheets. How beautiful she would look
lying there. Her golden hair spread like honey across the pillows. A
sleep-warmed flush rouging her skin, her breasts rising and falling beneath a
gossamer drape of thin, pink silk.

Desire curled through him and settled low, a warmth he ought not
indulge, heating his bone and blood. Giving himself a hard mental slap, he
banished the fantasy.

“The men are working,” he stated in a crisp tone that came out
rougher than he’d intended. “I can’t send them home now.”

“Let them have a break, then. I am sure they would enjoy eating a
morning meal.”

“They’ve already eaten breakfast, and none of them needs another.
They’ll stay.”

She crossed her arms at her waist and tapped a slippered foot,
looking for a moment as if she was going to argue. “Very well. I suppose
getting any more rest this morning is a hopeless cause at best. But tomorrow
you will begin at the regular time, correct?”

“Half-six, that’s right.”

Her arms dropped to her sides. “
Half-six?
But that is the
old hour, not the one we settled upon. You said seven o’clock, which I might
remind you, sir, is still much too early in the day. We had an agreement.”

“You dishonored our agreement with your fine bit of thievery. So
half-six it’ll be.”

Darragh didn’t know what devil prompted him to tease her. But he
had to confess he enjoyed watching her eyes flash, her skin grow flush as she
ruffled up in indignation. Besides, she deserved a few minutes’ discomfort for
all the trouble she’d caused, he decided. Let her stew for a tad, then he would
once again agree to their negotiated hour and leave her grateful for the
gesture.

“Ooh,”
she exclaimed, her lower lip protruding in an
attractive pout. “That’s not fair.”

“I can have the men arrive again at six, if half after won’t do.”

“Don’t you dare, you…you Irish bully.”

He tossed back his head on a laugh. “Seems if you really wanted
your sleep, you’d do better trying to persuade me.”

“Persuade you? Persuade you how?”

He shrugged. “You tell me. You strike me as the kind of lass who
knows how to cajole a lad.”

She paused, tipping her head at a slight angle. “I might know how
to charm a gentleman on occasion. But then, you, sir, are no gentleman.”

“As you take great pains to remind me. Still, any man likes being
pleased. If you’ll recall, there’s an old saying about drawing more flies with
sweet than sour.”

“So you’re craving something sweet, are you?”

Aye, he was, he mused as he swept his eyes over her lush, feminine
form, unconsciously letting his gaze linger far longer than he ought. On the
next blink, he forced his eyes aside, knowing he needed to call a halt to this
dangerous conversation before things spiraled out of hand, much as he was
enjoying the game.

Before he opened his mouth, she spoke.

“Very well,” she said in a gentle purr that glided over him like a
lover’s caress. “Mr. O’Brien, would you be a darling and
please
have
your men begin work later in the morning? Eight-thirty, shall we say?”

Displaying a set of beautiful, pearly white teeth, she graced him
with a smile that could have melted a glacier. It certainly melted him, his
heart pumping double time, his loins aching, breath catching like a fist at the
base of his throat. He swallowed down the lump and listened to the single word
whispering inside his head.

Yes.

Yes? he wondered. Yes to what?

To Jeannette Brantford, that’s what.

Gazing at that smile, that voice, those jewel-toned eyes, a man
might quickly find himself agreeing to almost anything. ’Twas easy to
understand why she led a charmed existence, since he was sure she rarely failed
to get her way. All she need do was crook her little finger and flutter those
long, pale gold lashes.

But he’d never been a man given to losing his head over a
beautiful face, and he wasn’t about to succumb now, no matter how agreeable her
reception might be.

Smiling back, he leaned nearer, gratified to notice her eyes
soften beneath the attention of his gaze. “Prettily done, lass,” he said, “and
a fair temptation it is to do as you’d like. But the work won’t get done by
keeping late hours. As I told you before, seven of the clock is the best I can
do.”

Her smile faded as his meaning sank in, all traces of pleasure
wiped clean. “But you haven’t budged at all.”

“I’m granting you an hour. What more do you want?”

“What I want I will not stoop to say. Why, you conniving toad,
convincing me to beg.”

He linked his hands behind his back. “I don’t believe toads know
how to connive. And as I recall, I didn’t hear any begging. A little cajoling
perhaps, but no begging.”