Then, anxious to soothe away the lingering lines of worry on her sister's face, Gillian addressed a concern her twin had mentioned earlier. "Flora, before this all begins, I have something I want to say. Dinna fash yersel' about the lie. Uncle Angus said he would have told Lord Harrington that Rowanclere was haunted. I know I would have."
"Truly?" Her sister's brows arched. "You would have invented a wraith for Rowanclere?"
"I may well have created two of them."
Flora's brow wrinkled in thought, then she nodded. "Aye, I don't doubt it. You always did tend to exaggerate. Still, I find this entire scheme troublesome. If only I—"
"Stop. I'll not listen to any more wheeking about what happened in Edinburgh. You did the right thing. Remember what we are about here. Remember what's important."
"Uncle Angus."
"Aye."
A slow, grateful smile blossomed across her twin's face and Gillian was heartened. Flora didn't need to deal with guilt on top of everything else.
"Now," Gillian continued. "How do I look?"
Flora frowned and studied her twin's face for a long minute before she stood, licked her thumb, then reached out and smudged the black theatrical paint that covered Gillian from the line of her golden hair to the base of her neck. "Quite frightening."
"Good. And quit spitting on me, please. I do not feel frightening with spit on my face."
"You look absolutely awful. So awful, in fact, it worries me. What if we truly frighten Mr. Delaney or Lord Harrington? I hate the thought of being cruel."
Gillian lifted her gaze to the ceiling in frustration. Who was this insecure, vulnerable woman? Acting in such a manner was so out of character for Flora. Normally, she was every bit as strong as Gillian.
The pregnancy. It must be the pregnancy.
Of course. Gillian's heart went soft, and she gave her sister a quick, fierce hug. "Our guest is from Texas. Think of all the things Uncle Angus has told us about Texans. Remember what Nicholas said about them in those early letters of his? I doubt a moving picture or unexplained sound will cause him much anxiety. And as far as Lord Harrington is concerned, he is coming to Rowanclere in order to look for ghaists. He won't be frightened to find one. He will be thrilled."
Flora nodded and brushed a streak of dirt off the filmy white gown Gillian wore. "Aye, you are right."
Flashing a smile, Gillian repeated her earlier observation. "Of course I am right. I am always right."
Her twin shot her a droll look. "What you are is annoying."
"In that case, you will want to leave now. Hie yourself downstairs, sister, and see to our guest."
"I haven't 'hied' myself anywhere for months now," Flora told her glumly. "I shall waddle my way to care for our guest. What is his name again? This man who is writing a book about castles in Britain?"
"Delaney. Mr. J. A. K. Delaney."
Gillian rubbed her itchy nose, careful not to disturb the paint. Delaney was to be the test. If she could fool him, she would be more confident in her ability to deceive Lord Harrington.
Glancing out the window once more, she watched their guest cross the drawbridge. The butterflies in her stomach once again gave a flutter, and her mouth went stone dry. "He is a brawny one."
Her sister stood beside her. "He looks chilled to me. What is that in his arms?"
"A dog, I believe. A wee one." Gillian saw the man swing gracefully from the saddle, confirmed that he was, indeed, an extraordinarily tall, imposing figure.
Flora said, "He's here. I'd best be going. I expect to be at least ten minutes taking him up to his room. That should give you plenty of time, should it not?"
Gillian nodded and her sister turned to leave, stopping at the doorway to add, "Good luck, Gilly. Now that the moment has arrived, I do believe you will do fine."
"So do I," Gillian said, reassuring them both. Then, lifting the black kerchief from the table beside a large doll's head, she tied it around her hair, concealing its long golden strands.
As her sister disappeared from the tower room, Gillian gathered up the rest of her supplies, then felt along the wall for the catch that opened a concealed door granting access to Rowanclere's hidden passages. A musty smell surrounded her as she stepped into the dim, narrow space and made her way along the twisting and turning tunnel toward her destination.
Upon her arrival in the guest wing, and with voice trumpet in one hand and doll head in the other, she turned her ear to the wall and prepared to listen. Softly, she muttered, "Mr. J. A. K. Delaney. Prepare to meet the Headless Lady of Rowanclere."
* * *
Jake carried Scooter in one arm, his saddlebags over his shoulder, and a small satchel in the other as his beautiful landlady led him along a warren of hallways and staircases. At one point as he followed Mrs. Dunbar up a narrow, spiral set of steps, he warily eyed the bulge beneath her gown and said, "I'm sure I can find my way myself, ma'am. No need for you to make this climb in your condition."
She flashed him an amused smile. "Worried, sir?"
"Terrified, ma'am."
She laughed. "Ach, Mr. Delaney, you remind me of my Uncle Angus. No need for concern. I'm fit as can be, and the bairn will not be arriving for months yet. Now, tell me what is wrong with the puir wee beastie."
"She hurt her back and can't move her hindquarters," Jake replied as Mrs. Dunbar paused outside an arched wooden door. "Her owner was a... friend I made in London, and she couldn't bear to put her pet down so she asked me to see to it. When the moment arrived, those big brown eyes got to me and I couldn't do it, either. But Scooter here has adjusted to her problem so I decided to keep her."
"Are not you the kind one."
"No, I wouldn't say that. I'm a... " Jake's voice trailed off as the door swung open. The room was dominated by a bed hung in deep green and gold silk. The tables sitting on either side were a heavy oak and old, and while the marble mantel was fancy enough, the room lacked the delicate froufrou he'd come to expect from British guest rooms. It was homey. A man's room. "Well, isn't this nice. I've always liked this shade of green."
"Thank you. This particular guest chamber is my favorite."
"It's nice of y'all to put me up, Mrs. Dunbar. I want you to know how much I appreciate the opportunity to include Rowanclere in my study of castles. I'm told you don't often entertain visitors here."
Judging from the color creeping up her cheeks, he had embarrassed her. "Rowanclere is a simple household and but for my elderly uncle, primarily one of women. We have learned to be careful. Your letters of reference, however, assured us you are safe."
Safe? Jake debated whether or not to be insulted. He also noted the lady made no mention of a husband. Was the ring on her finger an excuse? Was her pregnancy part of their being careful? Ordinarily he'd consider such questions none of his business, but in light of the purpose behind his visit, he knew not what piece of information might prove of value.
Mrs. Dunbar pointed out a few features of the room, then said, "Your letter indicated your home is in Texas. From what part of the state do you hail? My brother once visited a town called Dallas."
"I'm from San Antonio, ma'am," he said, striding over to the window. "That's a good ways south of Dallas. Did your brother have business there?"
"Nae. He wished to see Dallas, Texas, the town named after our own." She wrinkled her nose and added, "He's gone exploring, Mr. Delaney, for no better reason than he wanted to do it."
"A man after my own heart, then. I hope to do a bit of that myself soon. Once I'm finished with my book, that is. I... well, now!" he exclaimed, distracted by the view of the loch and hills beyond outside his window. "If this isn't one of the prettiest sights I've seen since leaving home."
It was, he concluded, spectacular enough to rival his hostess' face.
They spoke of the countryside around Rowanclere for a few minutes, then she said, "I have kept you from your comfort long enough. Dinner is served at eight in the dining room, but if you prefer a tray in your room we shall
be happy to provide it. Also, you are welcome to make use of the library, billiard room, and drawing room downstairs should you so desire. We've an excellent selection of whisky any time you've a mind for a wee dram." She gestured toward a cabinet against the far wall and added, "You'll find a bottle of the local barley bree there."
"I could use something to warm my insides," Jake said with a smile.
"The Rowanclere malt will certainly do that."
"Do you mind if I build a fire?"
Mrs. Dunbar's brows arched as if to say This time of day? Audibly, she said only, "I'll send a maid immediately."
"No need. I'll do it. I prefer it, in fact. A man who builds his own fire warms himself twice." Also, doing it himself meant he built the blaze to suit him. In England, they'd always made puny little fires that hardly warmed a man's hand, much less his bones.
"Very well. I'll leave you to your ease then, Mr. Delaney."
Jake was already reaching for the whisky before his hostess cleared the door. He poured a healthy amount into a glass, then took a generous sip. The liquor left behind a smooth, smoky taste as it burned down his throat and hit his stomach. Rays of welcome warmth spread through him.
Scooter dragged herself to his feet and whimpered. "No," Jake told her, his smile apologetic. "This is not for you. Let me get a fire going, though, and you can have the prime spot in front of it."
Jake set about the task, and soon felt a welcome heat steal over him. Scooter plopped down to the left side of the hearth, so he took the right. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he said to the dog as he warmed his hands.
He'd have loved to take a hot bath, but after downing a second drink, he decided to settle for a change of clothes. To that end, he removed pants, a shirt, and clean underwear from his satchel and hung them near the hearth to warm. Then, pulling a rocking chair close to the fireplace, he sat, tugged off his boots and socks, and stuck his feet toward the fire. Heat soaked into his skin and he groaned aloud. It felt so damned good.
A few minutes later, greedy for more of that delicious warmth, he stood and shucked out of the rest of his clothes, toasting his front side first.
From behind him, he heard Scooter start to whine. "What's the matter, girl? Why did you leave the fire? You need to stay over here if you're cold."
Ordinarily, the dachshund would tug her way toward the sound of his voice, but this time Scooter ignored him. Curious and with his front side finally warm, Jake turned his back toward the heat and—
What the hell?
A filmy white figure floated where a portion of the room's plastered wall appeared to have dissolved. Jake's heart leapt to his throat. He stared at the apparition holding a glowing lantern at its side in one hand, and its... oh, God...
It held its head in the other.
Jake took an inadvertent step backward.
At the same instant, the ghost let out a squeal. "Where are your breeks?"
Jake froze in shock at the very human voice, and a number of things happened at once. The fire hissed, then popped. It spat out an ember that landed on his rear. He jumped as pain shot into his skin, then grabbed the nearby water pitcher, intending to cool the burn.
While Jake tended his posterior. Scooter darted forward and began nipping at the ghost. In addition to the dog's barks, Jake heard a tearing sound from the direction of the wall as he doused his left buttock.
Then the figure literally lost her head.
It rolled toward him, its long tresses twisting like a golden rope. The pitcher slipped from Jake's grip and shattered against the stone floor. Revulsion swept over him, even as he recognized the object as nothing more than a painted wooden model. When it rumbled to a halt at his feet, he stared at it in frozen surprise until a distinctly feminine gasp grabbed his attention.
His gaze trailed the length of white cloth that now stretched between Scooter's teeth up to the prettiest set of plump, rosy-tipped breasts he'd seen this side of the Atlantic.
"Well now," he murmured, breathing hard. He took a step forward even as the lamp flickered off, the opening in the wall closed, and the figure disappeared.
Damn. That was no ghost. That was a flesh-and-blood woman. And fine flesh it was.
Bending down, he lifted the head by the hair and held it out in front of him, studying the grotesquely painted face in the firelight. What sort of trick was this? What had she been trying to accomplish?
He stood there, naked, pulse finally beginning to slow as he stared at the wooden head dangling from his hand.
Then a voice seemed to come from the mouth mere inches from his manhood.
"My, my, my," said the snickering ghost. "I have long been told they grow things bigger in Texas. Now I see it is the truth."
Jake yelped and the head hit the floor with a thud.
Chapter 2
It was a debacle, a disaster, but Gillian couldn't stop giggling. She lay sprawled across her bed, her face wiped clean and the voice trumpet with which she'd pitched her words lying beside her as she chortled her way through the story.
"You said what?" Flora asked, scandal in her tone as she grabbed hold of the embroidered blue silk bed hangings.
"That they grow things bigger in Texas."
"You didn't."
"I did. And you know what? It is true. I had no idea some men wore such a great sword."
Flora choked, her eyes rounding with scandalized mirth as she clutched her hands to her chest. "Oh, Gilly, you are wicked."
Then, after a moment's pause, she asked, "Just how big is he?"
Gillian sat up cross-legged and rolled her tongue around her mouth in thought before shrugging. "My experience is limited. I've only David and that wicked Jamie Ross to compare him with."
"Jamie Ross!"
"Be calm. I was not personally involved. I stumbled upon one of his staged seduction scenes years ago."
"You never told me that."
"That is because he threatened to hurt you if I mentioned it to anyone. Later on. I forgot about it." After a moment's pause, she added. "He wasn't that impressive."
Her sister giggled. "Unlike Mr. Delaney?"
"Aye. Unlike Mr. Delaney."
Flora plucked at a loose thread on her gown. "And David?"
For the first time in months, Gillian found herself able to smile at the mention of her former betrothed's name. "David? He's half the man at best. I tell you true, sister, Mr. Delaney is a muckle great man."
The women's eyes met, then they both burst out in laughter that lasted until tears ran down their faces. At some point—Gillian couldn't tell exactly when—those tears of laughter transformed to tears of worry, and she gazed up at her sister and said, "Oh, Flora, what if this fails to work? The sale of Rowanclere must go through. I fear Uncle Angus winna last another winter here."
Her twin sat beside her on the bed and gave her a quick, hard hug. "Dinna give up yet, Gilly. All will be well. That was your first attempt, and it is understandable you lost your concentration under the circumstances. I truly doubt you'll be faced with a nakit man next time you pretend to be a spirit." After a moment's pause, she teased, "Although, if you suspect it might happen again. I may decide to play along. You've whetted my curiosity concerning Mr. Delaney."
Now it was Gillian's turn to act scandalized. With a groan, she flopped back down on the bed. "Alasdair would kill us both. We could haunt Rowanclere in truth."
"Aye, he would nae be happy. In that case, I should content myself with playing hostess rather than a haunt." Laughing softly, Flora stood and crossed toward the door, pausing long enough to frown down at the torn swath of white lying against the tartan carpet. "What happened to the gown?"
"His dog," Gillian said with a grimace. "Vicious little thing tore it."
"Vicious? Why, Gilly, the wee dog is crippled."
"The wee dog's jaw works just fine, believe me."
Shaking her head, Flora bent awkwardly and scooped the gown off the floor. "Oh, I see what you mean. This is ripped right in two." She shot h
er sister a questioning look and said, "You are lucky Mr. Delaney did not see more of our ghaist than you intended."
Gillian smiled crookedly and kept the baring-of-the-breast detail of the incident to herself. As busy as he'd been dousing his burning buttock, she doubted he saw anything he shouldn't.
Maybe.
However, even if he did note her in-the-flesh state, it wouldn't ruin the plan. According to the magazines she'd read, some types of bogles took an earthly form. The Headless Lady could be one of those types of ghaists. "Leave the gown with me, Flora, so I can repair it for my next haunting."
"You will give it another go, then?"
Shrugging, Gillian said, "I need the practice. It appears that Mr. Delaney is in for a few more supernatural exposures."
Flora shot her a look of surprise. "Delaney? You cannot haunt Mr. Delaney again. You literally lost your head to the man."
"Who else do you suggest I haunt?"
"But he is bound to realize you are a guiser."
"That is a risk I must take."
"No, it is not," Flora said, flinging up her arms. The diaphanous white gown she held floated like a bedraggled flag as she added, "Haunt the servants or Uncle Angus. Haunt me. It is practice you need. What does it matter if we ken the Headless Lady of Rowanclere is really you and not a death bogle?"
Wishing to soothe her sister, Gillian scooted off the bed, took Flora's hand, and spoke in a soft, solemn tone. "Please do not get so upset. It worries me. Flora, I realize the Texan will be a difficult man to dupe at this point, but consider this. If after this day's fiasco I can convince him that Rowanclere is haunted, I shall surely be successful with Lord Harrington. If I can dupe Delaney now, I can cozen anyone. It will be the perfect test."
"I don't like it," Flora snapped, absently rubbing the bulge of her belly. "But I can plainly see your mind is made up. What exactly do you intend to do?"
Gillian walked to the window and gazed out over the castle's great lawn and the road leading to Rowanclere's front door. The roses need tending, she absently thought as she dwelled upon her sister's question.
Aloud, she said, "Since I've already spoken to him and thrown something at him, I think I should probably be a mischievous specter."
Sizzle All Day, Bad Luck Wedding #4 (Bad Luck Abroad) Page 2
