Dipping her brush into the water and paint, she touched the bristles to the paper.
O’Brien made no comment about her lack of a reply, standing for another long moment before taking a step forward. “I think I’ll have a seat, if you don’t mind.”
Before she could tell him she did mind, he was sinking down into the grass at the edge of the tan blanket she had spread beneath her, lowering his powerful body with a grace uncommon for a man of his height. Relaxing onto an elbow, he reached out and broke off a long green blade.
Casually, he twirled the sliver of grass between his fingers. Elegant fingers, she noticed. Elegant hands. Well shaped and patrician despite the calluses riding their tips.
“You’ve a gifted touch with the paints,” he observed after a time, gesturing toward her watercolour with the grass blade. “Have you done many others?”
“Paintings, you mean?”
“Aye.”
“Of course. Painting is a skill all accomplished young ladies must master.”
“Well, it strikes me you’re better than most. You have a grand talent, a grand talent indeed.”
A fresh bubble of warmth rose inside her chest. “Do you really think so?”
“Aye, I most sincerely do.” He smiled then and made her heart spring like a lemming flinging itself into the sea.
More unsettled than she wished, Jeannette swished her brush clean, then dabbed at a new colour.
While she did, O’Brien stretched out on his back and linked his hands together behind his head.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
“Relaxing, lass.”
“But surely you cannot mean to remain here…like that?”
“I was, aye. Considering how well we’ve been getting on, I thought we might attempt a truce. For a few minutes at least.”
“We have no need of a truce, Mr. O’Brien. We are not, after all, at war.”
“Are we not, lass? I am profoundly glad to hear it. Go on with your painting, then, while I lie here and rest my eyes.”
Rest his eyes!
Her own eyes narrowed in speculation, watching him to see if he was watching her. He didn’t seem to be, though, his lids remaining firmly closed. What was he up to? He must have some sort of devious plot up his sleeve. Some new scheme he planned to spring.
But as she alternately watched him and tried to paint, the minutes began to pass. First one, then two, then more, without any discernible movement from him other than the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. After five minutes, she began to realize he meant what he said.
Unable to restrain the impulse, she let her gaze roam his length, saliva pooling in her mouth at the sight.
She swallowed.
He really was the most absurdly handsome man, she thought. Oh, not in a classical way—he was far too roughly hewn to ever compete with Adonis or David—but Darragh O’Brien was beautiful all the same. It really was patently unfair that a commoner should possess such splendid looks. Think how dashing he would appear dressed in proper gentleman’s attire. She closed her eyes for a moment to imagine it—cutaway coat, waistcoat and tailored pantaloons.
He could make any female swoon, and likely had at that.
Dash it all. What was wrong with her? She should be ignoring him, not ogling him. Neither should her pulse be speeding like a thoroughbred galloping in the final race at Ascot. She didn’t like it that he could make her heart do such a thing.
She was the cat, remember?
Some cat, she conceded on a silent exhale.
If he could cause this kind of reaction after so short an acquaintance, just think of the havoc he might wreak after prolonged exposure.
Even more insidious was his undeniable charm, the charisma he exuded like some intoxicating cologne. He might irritate and sometimes anger her all the way down to her toes, but even she had to confess there was more to him than an attractive face and physique.
She’d seen enough of the renovation he was doing for her cousins to realize the depth of his intelligence and talent. He must be educated, she imagined, since architecture required more than an ability to draw and dream. He had to have studied mathematics and physics, as well as history and the arts. She wondered where he had apprenticed, and with whom.
Added to that, he had a glib and clever tongue, even if he was an unprincipled rogue who delighted in plaguing her. Yet he possessed cunning too, and that was a gift she could not help but admire, since ingenuity was something upon which she liked to pride herself. Were he of noble birth, she might well have found herself liking him despite his varied faults. Were he in any way suitable, she might not be trying so very hard to push him away.
Heavens, what a notion! She must have been out here in this field too long and taken too much sun. Clearly, it was making her giddy.
She stared at him through assessing eyes. Was he asleep? She decided to test the matter. “Mr. O’Brien,” she called in a soft voice.
Silence.
“Are you awake, Mr. O’Brien?” she whispered.
This time he snuffled slightly and rolled his head, but his eyes stayed firmly closed.
Why, look at that, he was asleep.
It absolutely was not fair. She was the one being deprived of a proper night’s rest, and yet he was the one sleeping. And on her lawn blanket, of all things! She ought to give that big, wide shoulder of his a nudge. Or sprinkle a brush-ful of water droplets across his slumbering face. That would wake him up quickly enough.
But tempting as both notions might be, she couldn’t bring herself to do either. He looked far too endearing, almost boyish with a lock of hair fallen across his forehead.
But just because she wasn’t going to retaliate did not mean she had forgiven him for hoodwinking her yesterday. Nor did it mean she had given up her quest to get a few extra hours’ sleep in the mornings. She was still puzzling over the possibilities, content for now to let him believe she had conceded defeat.
Let him sleep. He just might need the strength for later.
Turning back, she lifted her brush and began to paint.
Blue sky and cottony clouds were beginning to take form on her watercolour paper when a sharp sound pierced the quiet. Barking. Canine barking, carrying to her on the gentle breeze.
She stilled and scanned the fields as the exuberant sound grew louder. O’Brien woke, rubbing a hand over his face as he sat up next to her. Just then, a large animal came into view.
“Vitruvius,” she murmured.
“Aye, ’tis the lad back from chasing rabbits in the fields. He adores chasing rabbits.” O’Brien sprang to his feet. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll head him off before he realizes you’re here and comes to give you a big, wet kiss.”
“Oh, good gracious.”
But it was nearly too late as the dog pounded through the meadow grass toward them, his thin tail held high and waving in elation. Sighting Jeannette, he charged faster.
O’Brien, however, stopped him with a shrill whistle and a firm command. Torn as always between his own wants and his need to obey, the dog stood, quivering with pent-up excitement, his eyes locked upon her.
“Have you any meat in that basket of yours?” O’Brien asked.
“What? You mean my nuncheon?”
“Aye.”
“Cook packed fried chicken, I believe, but—”
“That’ll do splendidly, assuming you don’t want mud all over that fine gown of yours. A chicken leg should take his mind off wanting to come over for a pet and a snuggle.”
A pet and a snuggle! The great oaf of a dog meant well, she supposed, but he had no regard for a lady’s wardrobe. Desperate to protect her gown, she dug into the hamper and withdrew the first piece of poultry she found. A thigh.
“Here.” She passed the chicken into O’Brien’s waiting hand.
Scenting food, the dog’s nose twitched, his tail wagging harder.
“Stay,” O’Brien commanded. When Vitruvius remained in place, O’Brien peel
ed a hunk of meat off the bone and fed it to the animal. “Good lad. Good dog.”
Freeing the rest of the thigh meat from the bone, O’Brien tossed it down onto the ground for his pet. Vitruvius gobbled it up in two quick bites, tongue lolling out afterward in happy contentment.
O’Brien strode toward her. “That should settle him for now. I think your skirts are safe from muddy paws.”
He raised a finger to his mouth and gave it a lick. “Hmm, good chicken.” Stepping closer, he bent forward to inspect the contents of the open wicker hamper. “Looks like the Merriweathers’ cook gave you more than a hearty serving. I can’t imagine a delicate lass like you will be able to eat all this.” Bending down, he set the denuded chicken bone back onto the serving plate. “You don’t mind if I help myself to a drumstick, do you now?”
Before she could comment, he took a piece and carried it to his lips, biting deep with obvious enjoyment.
“Oh, please,” she drawled sarcastically, “do help yourself.”
He swallowed and grinned, then to her astonishment, reached into the hamper to grab another piece, lifting out a big breast this time. “My thanks. ’Tis delicious.”
“You, sir, are outrageous.”
He winked. “Aye, lass, but you know you love it.”
Mouth dropping open, she stared.
“Well,” he pronounced, “ ’tis time I was off. My appreciation for the excellent company and the delicious food. It’s been a rare treat.” With a wicked glimmer sparkling in his vivid blue eyes, he grinned, then turned to set off at a brisk pace. A shrill whistle issued from O’Brien’s lips, Vitruvius springing up to race after his master.
Crossing her arms, Jeannette watched the procession of man and dog and purloined chicken until the trio disappeared over a rise.
Loved his outrageous behavior indeed, she sniffed, shaking her head. What rubbish.
But as she dug a hand into the hamper for her own piece of chicken, she wondered if he might not be right.
Chapter Eight
“Gather up those as well and be quiet about it,” Jeannette whispered, barely able to see her maid in the dark.
“But they’re dreadfully heavy, my lady.”
“I know, but if we moved the others, we can move these. Now, let’s get this done before we’re caught.”
Jeannette glanced around, left then right, checking to make sure they weren’t being observed. One never knew when a footman might sneak out for a late-night stroll and find more than he’d bargained for.
“Follow me.” Weighed down, knees near to buckling, she and her maid crossed the lawn, each of them hauling a separate wooden box. “Almost there,” she panted to encourage the girl at her back.
A long excruciating minute later, they reached their destination, boxes hurriedly placed onto the ground.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she declared with false exuberance.
Betsy remained silent for a long moment. “You wouldn’t have made Jacobs come out here with you in the dead of night.”
“What have I said about not mentioning that person’s name in my hearing? But you are correct, I could not have trusted Jacobs to aid me tonight. But I can trust you, can’t I, Betsy?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The other girl smiled.
“Quite right. Now, let’s get this finished.”
“Are you sure about this, my lady?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Jeannette said, squelching any internal doubts. O’Brien would be irritated as a rooster whose tail feathers had been plucked, she knew, but she couldn’t imagine her little maneuver bringing anything but smiles to the faces of his workmen. Really, she was giving them all a delightful gift.
“Come, let us finish.”
The pair of them worked for nearly an hour, beads of perspiration dampening each of their foreheads by the time their labors were done.
“Well, that’s the lot,” Jeannette announced. “Now it’s off to bed for the pair of us. You may have an extra three hours’ personal time in the morning.”
“Oh, thank you, my lady.”
“In fact, sleep as late as you wish. I know I shall be doing the same.”
“I tell you, they’ve gone missing.”
An early-morning chill bit through Darragh’s jacket and shirtsleeves, the first full rays of sun just beginning to drive away the cold, grass glistening with a slick coating of dew.
Ignoring the temperature and the damp, Darragh planted his fists at his waist, scowled down at his principle foreman. “Well, they can’t have grown feet and walked off on their own. They’re tools, for Christ’s sake, and who around these parts would want to steal tools? Anyone with half a measure of sense knows they’d never manage to profit from such a deal even if they could locate an idiot foolish enough to trade in stolen goods. The bother alone of hauling them would be discouragement enough.”
Rory shrugged a pair of burly shoulders. “If the tools weren’t pinched, then where’d they go? I’ve asked all the men and none of them knows a blessed thing. Packed up yestereve, same as they always do, before they leave for the night.”
Darragh released a sigh, aware his foreman was right. He’d checked the work site himself last night, making certain it was tidy and secure before he’d headed off for his lodgings. The toolboxes had been exactly where they should be, he distinctly recalled, stacked neatly inside the ground-level mudroom.
Yet this morning when he’d arrived, the first thing he’d heard was talk about the missing equipment. Without tools, no work could be done. Without tools, his men would stand idle, the job delayed, perhaps seriously. And if the tools remained missing, they would have to be replaced at great trouble and expense by a trip to Dublin.
The most obvious culprit had to be one of his workers, but that Darragh refused to believe. None of his men could be responsible. His people were honest, even the local boys hired on for this one specific job. There must be another answer, another explanation.
Turning the knob, he studied the lock to the mudroom. “The door doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. There’d be some sign if thieves had picked the lock or forced the door.”
The foreman nodded. “Odd, it is. Almost as if somebody from inside did the deed. But there’s no sense to that. Who in the house would have cause to do such a thing?”
Darragh paused, the other’s man’s statement coming as a revelation.
Someone in the house? Someone who had reason to be pleased at any interruption to his work? Someone who had a premeditated agenda, such as sleeping late. Only one person, to his way of thinking, who fit all three of those descriptions.
Lady Jeannette Brantford.
Still, as dead certain as he was that she must be behind the theft, how had she managed to move all those tools? They were brutally heavy, those boxes of tools. Too heavy to be wrangled by a mere woman. Yet the Little Rosebush was no ordinary woman. It was certain that whatever she lacked in strength, she more than made up for in determination. But if she was behind the mysterious disappearance of his tools, where would she have hidden them?
“Search the grounds,” he instructed Rory. “Set all the lads to the task.”
The other man’s eyebrows lifted in apparent surprise. “You think the tools are still here on the estate?”
“There’s a high probability of it, aye.” He scrubbed his hands together. “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”
Jeannette snuggled against the soft sheets, eyes closed as she luxuriated in a last few moments of sleep.
Pure heaven, she mused as she let herself slowly drift awake. So quiet. As though the house slumbered too, filled with blissful peace and harmonious silence. A smile spread over her mouth as she stretched her arms above her head and wiggled her fingers, reveling in the marvelous sensation of feeling well rested for the first time in weeks. Full sunlight peeped from beneath the curtains, a glance at the mantel clock displaying the hour at just shy of eleven.
Giggling like a naughty child, she sat up, bo
unced against the feather mattress. Her plan had obviously worked to perfection. How delicious. Somewhere on the property, O’Brien must be dragging his fingers through his hair in confused frustration. Likely he would think the missing tools had been stolen, forcing him to send for more, hopefully all the way to Dublin. Just imagine the days such a task would take. Day after day of luxurious quiet. Day after day of sleeping in.
Energized, she sprang from the bed and tugged the bellpull for Betsy. Because of the late hour, she ate breakfast in her room, sending word to Wilda that she was well and would see her later that afternoon. She bathed and dressed at a leisurely pace, donning her favorite Nicholas blue poplin for today’s painting expedition.
Whistling a jaunty tune under her breath, she made her way through the house toward the east door, where, only a couple days ago, she and O’Brien had conducted their early-morning encounter over the plans. She knew he was probably too busy reporting the “theft” of the tools to the local constabulary to give her any thought. Even so, making herself scarce for the remainder of the day didn’t sound like a bad idea.
The instant she stepped from the house, she realized she was already too late.
Before she could retreat, O’Brien saw her. Peeling away from the side of the house where he’d been leaning, he stalked toward her, his steps as powerful and hungry as those of a hunting cat. A large, fearsome cat who’d been anticipating the capture of its prey for some long while.
“About time you put in an appearance,” he said, drawing to a halt in front of her.
“Ah, good day to you, Mr. O’Brien.” She tossed him a look of utter innocence. “What brings you here to the garden?”
Standing squarely before her, he blocked her path. “You know exactly what, you wily minx. I was beginning to think I’d have to concoct some fib so I could come inside the house and roust you out, but here you finally are.”
As if he would dare, she thought. “My pardon, but I cannot imagine why you would be searching for me.”
“Can you not?”
“No,” she said, still hoping she could bluster her way past him. “Now, if that is all, I would like to continue on.” For emphasis, she raised the art supplies and nuncheon basket she held in her hands.
The Wife Trap Page 10
