Sizzle All Day, Bad Luck Wedding #4 (Bad Luck Abroad)

by Geralyn Dawson

  "The outer wall? But I thought you wished to remain indoors out of the weather. It is much cooler outside now than it was this morning."

  "No, ma'am. A good dose of cold sounds right good to me about now."

  "Very well." She shrugged her shapely shoulders and added. "We'll take the dungeon route from here and exit to the spot where the old wall stood, all right?"

  Dungeon. Lovely. Better hope she can't read my mind or shell lock me in down there.

  Never having been one to enjoy jail cells of any kind, Jake didn't look forward to the next portion of the tour. He needed to see them, however. Dungeons were great hiding places for all sorts of things—like a stolen copy of an historically significant document, for instance.

  For the thousandth time since being sent to the freezing north to retrieve the document, Jake wondered how the Declaration ended up at Rowanclere to begin with. The Texas memorabilia collector who'd come so close to killing Chrissy claimed to have purchased the item from a member of the Rowanclere household for a ridiculous price. Someone from Rowanclere had then purportedly stolen it back. Now that he was here, he found himself even more curious about the whys, wheres, and hows of the story. He liked a good mystery, and between this and the "ghosts," Rowanclere was certainly providing that.

  His hostess opened a doorway cleverly hidden in the back of a food pantry and while holding a torch, led him down a steep, dark, spiral stone staircase. She droned on about this clan and that clan and this ghost and that. So much so, that by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, he was feeling more than a shade dizzy.

  He felt real dizzy, in fact.

  Jake swayed on his feet. He saw two Mrs. Dunbars. Then four. Then none, because the light winked out.

  "Ma'am?"

  A low, keening groan sailed out of the darkness and swirled around him. Then a cackle, a witch's call.

  Jake shuddered at the sound.

  "Well, sir," came the disembodied voice from out of the darkness. "Welcome to my lair."

  "Who are you?" he gasped, his consciousness fading. Drugged. I've been drugged.

  This time the voice sounded feminine and amused. "Oh, I don't know, Texas. Why don't you call me Death."

  * * *

  Gillian watched him sway at the bottom of the stairs and wished she knew more about sleeping potions. Obviously, she'd given this man too much. He appeared about to drop.

  "Bide a wee, Delaney," she said, jumping forward to offer him her support. "You must make it down the corridor a bit, first." If he fell before reaching the bed she had readied for him earlier, she would have little prayer of moving him.

  And she did so wish to torture him.

  Gillian had questions that demanded answers. Why had the Texan searched Rowanclere's library? Was he truly a writer come to study Scottish castles? Or was he here for more nefarious purposes? Most important of all, was he in any way a threat to her family?

  Gillian intended to find out.

  With one arm wrapped around his waist, the other holding his arm which was draped around her shoulder, she guided him down the narrow passageway. With every step, she was forced to accept more and more of his weight. "You are a big lug," she muttered.

  His arm slipped off her shoulder, but settled around her waist. His hand landed on her stomach, dislodging her stuffing.

  "Wrong," he murmured, his voice slurred.

  She made no effort to reply, but kept all her energy focused on getting him to the bed in the chamber she had prepared.

  They made it. Just. He started his fall close enough to the bed that a good shove from her sent him sprawling across it. She wrestled with his legs, then yanked on his arms, and finally got him where she wanted him, more or less.

  He was snoring peacefully a few minutes later when she approached with the rope, and Gillian felt a prick of unease as she fixed first his hands, then his feet to the bedposts. She'd never done anything like this before in her life. In fact, the past few weeks had been filled with firsts for her. Lying, scheming, and trickery were foreign to her nature, although once she got started, she admitted to having a flair for it.

  Gillian stepped away from the bed and stared down at her captive in the flickering light of the torch. The man truly was magnificent. Relaxed in sleep, the masculine angles of his face softened just enough to give him a fallen angel's beauty. A lock of overly long, deep auburn hair spilled across his brow and tangled with the thick, curling lashes of his eyes. Gillian's fingers itched to reach out and brush it back, but she clenched them into a fist instead. What was it about this man she found so... haunting?

  Now there is an irony for you.

  But it was true. Since the moment he arrived at Rowanclere the Texan had seldom left her thoughts entirely. Was this guilt at work? Did thoughts of him plague her because she felt bad about using him to practice being a wraith?

  She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. No, that wasn't it. She did feel a twinge of shame, but it was easily dismissed. Causing a few moment's fright to this bonny, brawny man was nothing compared to seeing that Uncle Angus spent his declining years in peace.

  "Besides," she grumbled, "I don't believe I have caused him so much as a twitch of fear up until now."

  That, she told herself, was about to change. She wasn't a woman who indulged her temper often, but when she did, she made it count. His methodical search of Rowanclere's library proved he had more than castle architecture on his mind. In order to protect her family, she needed to know what. That was why the Wraith of Rowanclere intended to get mean.

  Gillian discarded her belly, gathered up her string, scissors, a bag full of feathers, and went to work.

  * * *

  Jake awoke from the old nightmare about the time during the cattle drive to Wichita when rustlers had him trussed like a beeve waitin' on the iron. In his case not a branding iron, but a shootin' one. He'd have been one dead cowboy had his best friend and recently wed brother-in-law Cole Morgan not ridden to the rescue.

  His capture that day had been a nasty event, and as a result, those ugly feelings lingered as he drifted back to consciousness. The pounding head and aching muscles didn't help anything. Neither did realizing the sensation of being tied down was not a dream.

  This wasn't good.

  Warily, he opened his eyes. To blackness. Blindfolded. Hell.

  He strained against the ropes, testing. No give at all. Damn.

  Twisting his head, he felt something brush his cheek. Something soft and ticklish. He jerked away from the sensation, only to have it repeated against the other cheek. "What the—?"

  "Spiders," came the disembodied voice from out of the darkness to his left. "My grave is filled with them... and other creeping, crawling things."

  Jake wasn't impressed. Bugs didn't bother him one whit. Now, had he awakened sharing space with a real ghost, he might have experienced a fright or two. The woman who called herself Death was very much alive and back to her old tricks.

  And this particular trick had gone too far. "Are you Mrs. Dunbar?"

  Her laughter bubbled like a brook in a dense, dark forest "Nae, that sweet lady has gone visiting in the village this afternoon. I am the one who led you here. I took her form. I am good, am I not? I fooled you completely."

  Jake scowled and something crawled along his cheek. He blew a breath from the side of his mouth attempting to blow it away. Though spiders and insects didn't give him the willies, he'd just as soon keep them off the menu. Whatever hung beside him swung back and brushed him, and he blew it away again. "If this is the way you treat all your guests at Rowanclere, I wouldn't expect much company."

  "I would not expect many of Rowanclere's guests to conduct a clandestine search of the library."

  "Hmm." Jake pursed his lips in thought. "Caught, was I?"

  "That you were. Now I wish to know why you insulted your hosts with such activity."

  Rather than answer immediately, he listened carefully, probing his surroundings. He sniffe
d the air, detecting only the closed, musty scent of an underground chamber. She was alone. A woman alone. He thought about that for a moment, then said, "Suppose I don't want to tell you?"

  "Then I shall torture you. The Rowanclere dungeons are well equipped for such activity."

  "Oh?"

  "I warn you, it will be very frightening."

  She sounded so fierce. And... cute. Damned if he could decide whether he was angry or enjoying this. He waited a count of ten before asking, "Painful?"

  He heard a sniff on his right, but when she spoke he definitely heard it on his left. "Who do you think I am, Young Fergus?"

  She was pitching her voice somehow. Like she had last night. "If I remember correctly, I do believe that earlier you introduced yourself as Death."

  "True, sir. However, ways exist to torture a person, to kill a person, without even touching them."

  "Yeah, but those ways are not necessarily pain free. Take last night's torture, for instance."

  Suspicion clouded her voice. "What do you mean?"

  "That was you in my bedroom last night, wasn't it? Believe me, honey, you had me hurting all night."

  "Hurting? From what?"

  "Let's just say that after your unveiling, if I'd had to sleep on my stomach, I'd have broken something off."

  The "ghost" softly gasped. Jake swallowed a chuckle. Yes, he definitely leaned toward enjoying himself at this moment, ropes and all.

  "You are a wicked man, Delaney."

  A smile was his only reply.

  Frustration bristled in her voice as she said, "But I am an evil wicht. I can be more wicked than you. Answer my questions, or I shall prove it."

  He shrugged as best he could manage tied spread-eagle to the bed. "One problem here, ma'am. You haven't asked any questions yet."

  This time he heard a definite feminine growl before she snapped, "Why did you search our library?"

  "Didn't your mother teach you it's not polite to spy on a person?"

  "I could ask you the same question, but that is not an answer I seek. Who are you? What is your real name, Mr. J. A. K. Delaney, and why have you come to Rowanclere?"

  Jake debated his response. He wasn't about to tell her he was here for the Declaration, but his story of writing a book about castles obviously wouldn't hold water anymore. What would? To buy time, he said, "My name is Delaney. James Allen Kenneth Delaney, but you can call me Jake. And you are right. I am not an author."

  Smug satisfaction filled her tone. "Then what are you?"

  A dozen different possibilities floated through his mind. He chose the one most outlandish, the one that made him smile. "I'm actually Father Delaney, a Benedictine monk, and I've come on the trail of a rare manuscript stolen from a church outside of Rome during the second Crusade."

  "You a priest? Hah." Scorn lashed like a whip. "And I am the Queen of England."

  "I thought you were a ghost."

  Fabric rustled, then he sensed a presence. He tried to peer through the blindfold, to no avail.

  "Actually, I am the Scourge of Rowanclere and I'm running out of patience. Answer my question. Why were you searching our library?"

  Her voice sounded different now and came from his right. Damned if she didn't sound like Mrs. Dunbar. But the scent was different. Not roses, but something else. Something more complicated, more exotic. More erotic. "What's that perfume you're wearing? It's different. Jasmine and spice."

  "You are a lunatic."

  "It's wonderful, though. You smell wonderful."

  "It's called Coffin Cologne. Now tell me why you are here."

  Coffin Cologne. He grinned. Wasn't she something?

  Damn, he wanted to touch her. Maybe if he made her angry enough... "Fine. I'm a robber. I was looking to steal your jewels."

  "My jewels?" Now she laughed, low and husky; and the sound sent a seductive shiver up his spine. "If that is the case, you are out of luck. Any jewels owned by this family were lost by Brodie ancestors long ago."

  "So you are a Brodie, then?"

  "A Ro—" She broke off and went silent for a long minute. "You tried to trick me."

  "Yes ma'am, I did. Almost worked, too."

  He heard her mutter something beneath her breath and the sound of her footsteps as she paced in a circle around him. Then suddenly, the air seemed to bristle. He felt her presence as she leaned near. Menace loomed in her voice as she spoke into his ear. "I have been told that in Texas you have spiders as big as a man's hand. Tarantulas, I believe they are called? Is that correct?"

  "Yeah."

  She moved away again, chuckled softly. "I am certain they are most frightening, but can they possibly be as wicked as my wee little friends here? Let me show you, Texas. You decide."

  He caught a whiff of her heady scent and felt the heat from her body as she leaned over him once more. Closer, honey. Stay awhile. It's drafty down here and I purely hate the cold.

  Then he heard the twist of a jar lid.

  He felt it first on the back of his left hand. Tiny brushes that seemed to barely touch his skin. They moved up his finger, then played across his knuckles.

  Jake frowned. This didn't feel like little spiders or any type of bug, for that matter. In fact, it felt rather... intimate.

  That wasn't too surprising. After all, he was alone with a woman in what amounted to the dark from his vantage point. While he didn't engage in bondage games as a rule, Jake wasn't unwilling. Especially when an intriguing woman was involved.

  The featherlight strokes moved higher, toward where the rope bound his wrist. Jake concentrated on the sensation. Not spiders, but what?

  Her voice blew across him like a soothing, sensuous summer breeze. "Dinna fash yersel' if you feel a bite or two. My pets are but a wee bit poisonous. They will only make you ill. They'll not kill you."

  He clicked his tongue. "Now you're being vicious, honey."

  "Answer my questions and I'll save you from my spiders."

  Jake lay silent for a few moments, distracted by her perfume as he considered what to say next. How should he follow up his claim of being a robber? What sort of lie might work?

  How anxious was he to end this "torture"?

  The last was answered when her "spiders" breeched the vee of his shirt below his neck. All thought of declarations of any sort evaporated as a bolt of pure lust speared from his chest to his loins.

  Jake strained against the ropes. He wanted free. He wanted to stay just where he was forever. Now he knew why he found this incident so stimulating. Feather Nell. The woman was an artist when it came to making a man sweat.

  Back during the less discriminating days of his youth, he sometimes visited a sporting house up near Bastrop run by a woman named Nellie Blair. One of Nellie's favorite tools of the trade was a plain-old-every-day turkey feather. For the men of central Texas, she gave a whole new meaning to the notion of Thanksgiving.

  But after a few minutes in the dungeon at Rowanclere, Jake concluded this woman could give Feather Nell a run for her money.

  Clearing his throat, he said, "Torture me some more, honey. Unbutton my shirt."

  The stroking stilled. "What?"

  "You gotta give those spiders more room to move around to get the full effect."

  Again, a pause before she asked in an incredulous tone, "You want the spiders to crawl across your chest?"

  "Oh, I do. I really do." Damned if he didn't pant the words. "I've done this before, and that's a great place to start."

  "By my faith. You are... the spiders... well, dampt!"

  Her dismay told him a couple of things. First, the ghost might have been around the ol' graveyard a time or two, but probably no more than that. She picked up on sexual innuendo, but didn't take it anywhere. Second, the woman didn't care for spiders one little bit. For her, the illusion of being at the mercy of a passel of roving arachnids truly was a form of torture.

  Wasn't she just the cutest little thing?

  "I really want to see you," he told her.
r />   "No."

  "Will you show yourself to me if I promise to tell the truth?"

  "You must tell me the truth no matter what. I shall not release you until you do."

  A shade past innocent with a backbone. A combination damned near irresistible to a man. His lips quirked into a smile. "Honey, there is something you should know about me. Back home, I'm a lawyer by profession. In order to serve my clients to the best of my ability, I've learned to tell a darn fine lie. I could tell you the sun rises in the west and make you believe it. I'm that good. So, this little exercise you've arranged—though interesting, I'll admit—won't succeed without my cooperation. You might as well untie me now."

  "Nae. That winna do."

  Footsteps shuffled once again as she paced beside the bed. Jake could almost hear the wheels turning in her head.

  Abruptly, she stopped. "So you admit to being a liar. Do you believe in God, sir?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "So if I make you swear on your eternal soul, I can place my faith in it?"

  The woman was bright, too. Definitely a risk-taker. Definitely the most provocative ghost he'd ever run across.

  "Yes, you can trust my word," he replied honestly. Of course, it was her responsibility to listen closely when he gave it. Jake could bend words with the best of them. He would tell her the truth, but he'd do it in the way he wanted it told. "What about you? Do you stand by your word?"

  "Aye."

  She said it immediately, without hesitation, and Jake believed her. "All right, then. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

  Her unladylike snort made him grin. Yeah, a shade past innocent. If he played his cards right, this trip to Scotland might qualify as the beginning of his much desired life of adventure.

  "You answer my questions first," she said. "Then I'll release you."

  "And you'll show yourself to me."

  "I will. Now you must give swear on your soul that everything you tell me will be the truth."

  "I swear." The scent of jasmine drifted past his nose and he savored it with a smile.