TheWifeTrap Read Online Free

as brazen and bold as her Irish counterpart.
    Yet strong as her
will might be, ’twas no stronger than his own. And like the fearless mythical
warrior Cúchulainn, who had challenged Queen Maeve, he had no hesitation in
taking a stand against Lady Jeannette.
    He’d met her type
before—spoiled, lofty English beauties certain of their own innate superiority.
Likely another man would have taken offense, and perhaps the Irishman in him
should have done so, but he wasn’t one to rise easily to anger. Nor did he tend
to hold grudges, at least not unless the offense was well and truly earned
beforehand.
    Besides, Lady
Jeannette was just a girl, young and unsure of herself in a strange new land. Likely
scared as well. Though he had to admit she didn’t show it much, remembering the
intrepid way she’d confronted him when she’d believed he might be a thief. He
couldn’t imagine any other woman of his acquaintance challenging him in such a
manner. Having the nerve to brazenly threaten to put a bullet through him if
need be. He could well believe she would have done it too, and sent up thanks
he was no outlaw. The lady might be overbold but her words and actions bespoke
a brave heart, and for that he could only feel admiration.
    He thought again
of her name—Jeannette Rose. A pretty, feminine appellation every bit as
exquisite as the stunning young woman who bore it. Yet like that glorious
flower, she came complete with a set of pernicious thorns. Wicked barbs she
wasn’t afraid to use to deadly effect. A man would do well never to misjudge
her, else he draw away injured and dripping blood.
    Aye, she was a
regular little rosebush, he thought with a grin. Beautiful but sharp-tongued,
just as he’d told her. Even now he could still feel the bite of the words she’d
used back at the coach.
    In the general
way, outspoken females didn’t bother him. How could they when he’d been raised
in a house full of fiery-willed women? Females who’d long since taught him to
respect their keen wit and laugh at the worst of their cutting words. Of
course, it didn’t hurt a man when he had the knack of knowing how to duck every
now and again.
    The Little
Rosebush was just such a one and he had to confess he’d had a grand time
sparing with her—a grand time indeed.
    He glanced over
his shoulder and caught sight of her sitting all stiff and proper on top of one
of her trunks, her maid holding an open parasol over her head. Studying her, he
realized he wouldn’t mind going another round with her like a pair of
linguistic pugilists. Then again, as a man in his prime, he wouldn’t mind doing
a lot of things with her.
    She was pretty
and there was no denying the truth. Her skin creamy and soft as a blush peach. Her
hair lush and silky, its pale golden hue cool like young winter wheat. Her eyes
clear and vibrant as the shifting blue-green waves of a warm southern sea.
    Desire ripened in
his blood as he recalled the way she’d felt in his arms, delicate and female. The
scent of her, sweet like apple blossoms and fresh as new-mown heather on a
perfect spring day.
    No mistake about
it, she was a fine bit of femininity for all her determined ways and stubborn
words. An easy thing it would be to kiss her, to press his lips to hers for the
space of a few breathless moments. Of course, once the passion was through,
she’d like as not snatch up that parasol of hers, or whatever else came handy,
and cuff him for his presumption.
    He grinned again
at the idea and his foolish longings, then set himself more determinedly about
his search.
    A few minutes
later, he rejoined the others, a pair of heavy stones in hand. Setting the
rocks onto a dry patch of ground, he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up
his shirtsleeves in preparation for dealing with the mud-bound coach.
    Good thing he
hadn’t worn any of his better clothes today, since they would soon enough be
ruined by the task ahead. A gentleman architect, he’d been out scouting a
nearby