Flora sniffed. "As if you could be any other kind."
Gillian ignored that. "I shall need to do something which will make it appear as though the Headless Lady threw the head on purpose. As a joke, perhaps. Maybe I could throw some other things at him. I could be a poltergeist."
"What things?"
"I don't know. I'll need to go through my books and determine which tricks or illusions would best suit a mischievous, talking boodie."
"I have an uncomfortable feeling about all of this."
Gillian glanced over her shoulder. "It is the bairn making you uncomfortable."
"It is my twin." Flora folded her arms and rested them on her belly. "What about the séance? Do you still intend to host one of those?"
Gillian pursed her lips and blew a gentle breath that made a circle of fog on the windowpane. "Perhaps. That should be a perfect opportunity for some mischief, don't you think? I do believe I shall save the magic slate and tapping hand for another time, although I would feel better if I rehearsed everything I might need once Lord Harrington is in residence."
Silence descended as the two women considered the situation. Gillian pictured herself tossing various items from the castles hidden doorways, crawl spaces, and blind spots.
She swallowed a groan. This will never work.
I must make it work.
Each day Uncle Angus found it more difficult to get up and down Rowanclere's numerous staircases. Each day he appeared to suffer greater pain. Each day he asked after her progress, and worry did him no more good than it did Flora.
Gillian refused to accept defeat. Her grand-uncle had surely saved her and her sisters' lives when he rescued them from their abusive Ross relatives following their parents' death. 'Twas her turn to save his.
"The sale of Rowanclere must go through," she said grimly. "Lord Harrington will be convinced this castle is haunted." She plopped back down on her bed, sat cross-legged, and declared, "I shall haunt this castle so very well that Mr. Delaney will shake in his cowboy boots."
"Guid fegs." Flora shot Gillian a sharp stare, then took a seat in a floral upholstered chair. "You have that look about you again, Gilly. Tell me. What did he do? Taunt you? Bait you? Challenge you?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"Then what? You only get that particular sparkle in your eye when you are planning something wicked."
"Wicked?" Gillian protested, giving her head a toss that sent her long hair flying over her shoulder and bringing a theatrical hand to her chest. "Me?"
"The innocent look doesn't fool me. You love to do wicked, dangerous things. That attack of nerves you had in your room before Mr. Delaney arrived was highly unusual. Now you are back to your normal self."
Gillian studied her fingernails. "Do not be silly. Flora. What could be dangerous about darting along Rowanclere's secret passageways pretending to be a ghaist?"
Flora leveled a stern look upon her sister. "I'd say you might fall and hurt your head upon the steps, but we both know it's more likely that hard head of yours would crack the stone."
Their gazes met and battled silently for a long moment before Flora asked, "What are you hiding?"
It was at times like this that Gillian wished she didn't have a twin. They could not keep any secrets from one another. "All right. It is Delaney. The man bothered me."
"Bothered you how?" Flora's expression grew stormy as she added, "Did he touch you, Gilly?"
"Nae. He did not come near me."
"What, then?"
Gillian swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. "He's from America."
Her sister blinked. "So?"
"I dinna like Americans."
"You dinna know any Americans!"
"Aye, I do."
"Uncle Angus? You love him."
"Not Uncle Angus. Besides, he considers himself a Scot despite all those years in Texas."
For a moment, Flora looked at her twin with a blank stare. Then slowly, the light dawned. "Oh, Gilly. You canna be that unfair. Mr. Delaney should not be blamed for the fact that David Maclean acted the cad and married that American heiress. Mr. Delaney had nothing to do with David's betrayal."
"I know that. David hurt my heart, not my mind. But they say in the village that the woman used wicked wiles to ensnare him, and I would not be surprised if such behavior were an American trait. Think of the risks we face. If Delaney suspects we are staging the hauntings, he could use the information against us. He could tell Lord Harrington."
Flora nibbled at her lower lip as she considered her sister's argument. Then she shook her head. "Nae. I dinna believe that. I quite liked Mr. Delaney. He was charming."
"Exactly." Gillian nodded forcefully. "Which is what has me concerned. Did we not have a similar first impression of Mrs. David Maclean?"
"Actually, my first thought was that David stole a bairn from a cradle. But you canna compare our guest to—"
Gillian shook her head. "Mr. Delaney was much too charming and far too flirtatious when addressing a woman well advanced with child."
"Don't be ridiculous. If he flirted with me—and I am not saying he did, mind you—it would be because I am obviously..." she glanced down at her stomach "... safe."
"Safe? I seriously doubt Alasdair would agree. No matter, Delaney was still too forward in his actions, just like Mrs. Maclean was when she stole my betrothed."
"She bought your betrothed, sweetie, and Mr. Delaney wasn't forward. He was courteous."
"He was cocky."
"Aye, I believe you mentioned that already," Flora said dryly.
Gillian's mouth twitched with a grin at that, though the seriousness of her point quickly quashed the urge. "Cocky as in bold and brash, sister dear. He claims to be a writer, but for all we know, he could have come to Rowanclere for nefarious purposes."
"He had references from a full dozen English peers."
"So? Sleekit men can fool anyone. Perhaps he is a thief who is here to steal our valuables."
"Now you are being silly."
"True," she said flippantly. "We have no valuables. Uncle Angus's brother sold them all."
"Gillian."
Hugging one of her pillows to her chest, she sulked a few moments before saying, "Ah, all right. Perhaps I should not be so distrustful. Still, I sense Mr. Delaney is more than he presents himself to be."
A wicked light sparked in her sister's eyes. "Considering your description of how much the man presented, that is saying quite a lot."
* * *
Jake tucked Scooter beneath his arm as he made his way downstairs the following morning. He'd slept surprisingly well for a man so recently "haunted" in his bedchamber. Probably because he would have enthusiastically welcomed the seductive spirit into his bed.
He'd heard tales of headless ladies and green ladies and gray ladies, various ghouls, bogles, and brownies, and while he didn't necessarily believe in them, he wasn't prepared to discount the stories entirely. However, such phenomena had nothing at all to do with the shapely flesh-and-blood woman who had invaded his privacy yesterday. Even before he'd pulled on his pants this morning, he had decided to track down the elusive illusion while he was here at Rowanclere. There was no reason he couldn't keep an eye out for her at the same time he searched the confines of the castle for the piece of Texas history suspected to be harbored within its walls.
After all, he ought to get some fun out of this trip.
Last night and again this morning he had examined the portion of the wall where the apparition had appeared, and while he was certain a hidden passage existed, he'd failed to locate the mechanism that opened it. He'd decided to look for it again at different times throughout the day. Changing light altered how a room appeared, exposing different details.
Right now, however, he wanted to survey the lay of the land, get his bearings, and develop a plan on how to best conduct his search. In light of yesterday's events, his decision to conceal the true purpose of his visit appeared to have been the right one. Rowanclere
definitely had its share of intrigue.
Reaching ground level, Jake eventually found himself back in the centrally located room that presently served as Rowanclere's entry hall. He eyed his choice of doors. The most appealing led past the dining room he'd noticed yesterday. The least appealing led outside. Out of doors where he should take Scooter. Where a light mist fell. An undoubtedly cold, light mist.
Jake gave the dog in his arms a scowl and muttered, "Pest."
Outside, he surveyed the surroundings for an appropriate spot to set Scooter down, settling on a spot of green grass beside rosebushes in bloom. With her business taken care of. Scooter happily took to sniffing around. Jake flipped up the collar on his jacket, hunched his shoulders, stuck his hands into his pockets, and burrowed in to wait on her. Damn, but he was miserable cold. Here it was the middle of summer and he could all but see the fog of his breath on the air.
"It's a helluva way to live," he observed to Scooter, who had fastened a hunter's gaze upon a lark perched upon the spreading branches of a nearby birch tree. The brainless mutt had yet to accept she was no longer fast enough to catch birds. Although Jake had to admit, even on two legs and dragging a hind end, she was still faster than most men. The dog was actually quite amazing.
And hungry, judging by the way she'd caught a scent and was scooting off.
"Whoa there, pooch." He stepped after her, reaching into his jacket for the rope sling he'd fashioned from a long strip of sheeting to assist her mobility. Slipping it under her belly, he lifted her rear quarters from the ground and she took off, dragging Jake along with her.
They wound up at what he deduced from the aroma to be the door to the kitchen. Within minutes, a playful Scooter had secured for herself not only a bowl of choice table scraps, but also a nice warm spot in front of the fire. Still chilled from the early morning cold, Jake was tempted to plop down beside his dog. The scandalized cook wouldn't hear of it, however.
"Just like Miss Gilly," the matron said, ducking her tongue. "She always has preferred to eat here. When will you gentry learn to act like gentry?"
"Who is Miss Gilly?"
She ignored the question and continued. "Guests will eat in the dining room. You will find a cheery fire built in the hairth and our breakfast is superb, if I'm allowed to boast a bit. I suggest the Arbroath smokie this morning. It is a fine bite of fish."
Jake knew a losing argument when staring down the wooden spoon at one, so he offered a rueful grin and said, "The food and fire sound wonderful, but could you tell me how to get to it without going back outside? It's colder than a banker's heart out there."
A kitchen maid flashed him a flirtatious smile and said, "I can show him up the servant's stairs, Mrs. Ferguson. That is the quickest way."
"Excellent," Jake hastened to say when Mrs. Ferguson appeared to hesitate. Along with finding the fireplace more quickly, this might give him the opportunity to clandestinely study the young woman's shape for the purpose of eliminating her as a spirit suspect. Every woman at Rowanclere was a possibility. Except for Mrs. Dunbar, that is. Jake's headless lady had no baby growing beneath the most lovely breasts Scooter had managed to reveal.
The flirtatious young kitchen maid—whom he quickly deduced was not his ghost due to an overabundance of hip—chattered like a mockingbird as she led him up the narrow servants' staircase. In short order he learned that the elderly laird of the castle, Angus Ross, was slowly recovering from a lung inflammation, that Mrs. Dunbar's husband loved to fish for salmon, and that Mrs. Ferguson's haggis had won a prize at this year's fair. Other delectables, the girl told him with a wink, could be found in the cottage with green doors and shutters at the north end of the village once dinner duties at Rowanclere were done.
Jake declined her offer in a well-practiced, roguish manner and she ushered him into Rowanclere's dining room with a regretful sigh.
He was disappointed to find the room empty. Addressing the maid, he asked, "Before you go, could you tell me where I might find the mistress? I've a question or two to ask her."
"She took a breakfast tray in the drawing room this morning, sir."
"Thank you. And please tell Mrs. Ferguson her breakfast does smell delicious."
As promised, a fire burned in a marble fireplace, and Jake crossed the room toward its welcoming heat. Warming his hands, he eyed the steaming dishes lining the carved mahogany sideboard and gave the air an appreciative sniff. Ham. Eggs. Fresh bread. Something with cinnamon... apples perhaps?
His hunger aroused, Jake headed for the buffet, but a sound coming from beyond the dining room had him veering out into the hallway. There he stopped and listened again.
A thud. A bump. And a woman's humming. Coming from the room next door.
Having strolled toward the sound, he paused at the doorway of a small drawing room. His gaze flicked past the embroidered mahogany chairs, marble-topped tables, and portrait-hung walls to settle upon the delightful vision of a woman. Her back was toward him as she bent forward at the waist while reaching through the opened window to pluck a mist-kissed yellow flower from a vine. Golden hair piled high upon her head and quality of silk in her skirt convinced him he'd found Mrs. Dunbar. Before proceeding any farther, Jake did what any red-blooded man would do. He gave a soundless, appreciative whistle at the appeal of round, shapely buttocks pointed in his direction. Then, shifting his gaze from the view to the window, he cleared his throat, and said, "Y'all sure do have some beautiful scenery here in Scotland. Good morning, Mrs. Dunbar."
She gasped, dropped the flower, started to turn toward him, then abruptly stopped and did something downright strange. Yanking the midnight blue drapery toward her, she wrapped it around her like a bulky, badly pleated kilt before turning to face him. "Mr. Delaney. I didn't hear you come downstairs."
"I took the long way around."
Silence fell between them as Jake was distracted from his purpose by the sheer beauty of his hostess' face. A splash of pink embarrassment on either cheek was bridged by a light dusting of freckles across a pert little nose. Her eyes were the exact shade of bluebonnets. A wildflower, Jake was reminded, that legend claimed originally came to Texas via shipments of wool from Scotland.
His gaze drifted downward and he puzzled over why she had wrapped herself in the drapery. Was she embarrassed about her size? Had his comments yesterday upset her, made her worry about her expanding waistline? He hoped not. He hadn't meant any criticism, only concern. Personally, Jake had always thought expectant mothers especially beautiful. This was a time when their femininity shone like no other... oh, damn.
Jake's downward glance stopped abruptly at the sight of her bare feet peeking out from below her lilac-colored hem. His eyes narrowed. Heat flowed into his loins.
He'd always had a passion for a woman's bare feet.
Right along with the surge of lust came a wave of shame. Dammit, Delaney. What kind of lecher was he? She was a married woman. An expectant mother. He shouldn't even be looking at her, much less hankering after her.
Desperate to change the direction of his thoughts, he cleared his throat and said, "I, uh, think you should know, ma'am. I had a disturbance of a sort in my bedroom last night."
She blinked once. "Did you?"
"Yep. I think somebody was trying to play a joke on me. I think I was supposed to believe this person was a ghost."
"I see."
Jake waited for more, but she wasn't forthcoming. Eventually, he gestured toward the settee. "Maybe you should sit down and listen to my story. I think this is something you should hear."
Her smile was fast and as fake as a tonic peddler's pitch. "I'm fine as I am. Please continue, Mr. Delaney."
Suspicious, Jake folded his arms. "Not until you sit down, ma'am. It's not good for a woman in your condition to be on your feet too much."
Now the fake smile got some emotion in it. Heat. The woman was piqued.
She opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly shut it. Keeping herself wrapped in the drapery, she too
k two steps forward, reached out and grabbed the back of a desk chair and tugged it toward her. Before Jake quite realized what had happened, she had taken the seat, folded her hands on her lap, and pasted on a smile that was downright challenging. All the while, she kept herself covered by the drapery.
"Are you cold, Mrs. Dunbar?"
"Just curious, Mr. Delaney. Please, tell me about your ghaist. Rowanclere has a number of them, you see, and from your description, I am uncertain which one made himself known to you."
"Herself. She was definitely a woman. A living woman. I saw her... breathe."
Mrs. Dunbar sat a little stiffer in her chair and her chin came up. "We have the spirits of at least three different women haunting the castle. One is a brownie, who keeps out of sight and is often quite a help around the castle. At times, however, she delights in mischief. She loves to play tricks by moving things around. Another is My Lady Greensleeves, who legend tells us threw herself from a tower window after her father murdered the man she loved, a stable hand here at Rowanclere. Last, of course, is the Headless Lady of Rowanclere. She, too, is full of mischief. She dresses all in white and likes to frighten people by popping up in unexpected places at unexpected times. She carries a head that is but a wood model, and often leaves it behind following a haunt. I have seen the Headless Lady myself. She left a head in my room the day I departed Rowanclere to marry Mr. Dunbar."
"Really," Jake drawled, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.
Her chin rose a little higher. "Did your spirit resemble either the Headless Lady or Lady Greensleeves?"
"No, more like Lady Godiva."
The woman blushed red as the tartan that hung in Rowanclere's entry hall. "Well, 'tis neither here nor there. None of our ghaists are dangerous. Well, except for the bogles. They have been known to cause injury, although only to obnoxious men. As long as you are kind to the women of Rowanclere, you should be safe."
"That's reassuring to know," he replied, his lips twisting in a half-smile. The woman was full of spirit. Downright feisty. Funny, she hadn't struck him that way at all yesterday.
Sizzle All Day, Bad Luck Wedding #4 (Bad Luck Abroad) Page 3
