Because, foolish or not, she loved the contrary man. She refused to give him up without a fight. He thought he wanted adventure? Well, she would give him adventure, all that he could handle, and neither of them would need to leave Scotland.
The adventure would begin with her gown.
It wasn't a traditional wedding dress, but then, this wasn't to be a traditional wedding. Part of Gillian, the dreamy, girlish side, bemoaned the fact. She would have liked to have had all the trappings of a Scottish wedding.
"This is what you get when you marry a Texan."
She found the perfect dress in the back of her armoire. The sky blue silk matched her eyes and revealed much of her bosom—too much of her bosom—which was why she'd never worn the dress. That, and the fact the dress was cut too snug. Gillian had made a mistake when she'd ordered it on the heels of a bout of illness. In this case, however, the gown would serve her purposes perfectly.
She was threading a ribbon through her hair a few minutes later when her door opened and Robyn darted inside. "Gilly? Are you ready? Everyone is waiting. Even Uncle Angus! He's all dressed up and sitting in his chair like a king on his throne. I think he looks better than he has for the longest time."
"That's wonderful," Gillian said, turning around.
Robyn's face brightened like a morning sun and she clutched the ever-present Scooter—adorned with a bright red bow for the day's festivities—close to her chest. "Oh, Gilly, you are so beautiful. You look like a princess!"
"I feel like a sausage squeezed into a casing."
Robyn didn't make her feel any better when she eyed Gillian's bosom in speculation. "I hope your brisket disnae pop out, though. Reverend Gregor's ears would turn red as his hair."
Gillian started to tug at the bodice, then stopped herself. She had donned her armor. Now it was time to engage the battle.
Minutes later, she walked into the green salon where her grand-uncle shared a glass of whisky with the minister, and her groom stood laughing with a woman Gillian failed to recognize from behind. Upon noticing her, the minister's eyes went inappropriately warm for a man of the cloth. Uncle Angus gave a misty-eyed smile. Jake broke off mid-chortle.
Gillian held herself regally beneath the heat of his stare. His gaze scorched a slow path from her head to her toes, then back up again, dawdling at her neckline both ways. His reaction was everything she'd hoped for when she chose her gown. The man might succeed in his intention to bed her, wed her, and leave her, but she wouldn't make it easy for him.
At some point during his perusal, the woman turned around. When Gillian managed to drag her attention away from Jake and see who had come to call, her stomach dropped to her ankles.
The American. David's wife. Gillian eyed the rug beneath her feet with the idea of crawling under it.
"Hello, Miss Ross." Annabelle Maclean's brown eyes sparkled and she flashed a brilliant smile. She was younger than Gillian and had a fresh-washed, friendly attitude that perfectly complimented her beauty. Today, however, she gushed. "It is such a pleasure to see you again. I understand I have happened upon a happy occasion. I was out riding, you see, and noticed the towers of Rowanclere in the distance. I decided the time had come to let bygones be bygones. Isn't it lucky I picked this particular time to renew our acquaintance?"
While Gillian fumbled for an appropriate response, the American entwined her arms with Gillian's husband-to-be. "Jake and I have proved what a small world we live in. Can you believe we have mutual friends in both Boston and New Orleans? Isn't that simply amazing?"
Gillian noted how Annabelle Maclean's breast nudged up against Jake's bicep and found herself wanting to rip her man away from the other woman. Instead, she forced a smile and said, "Yes, amazing."
Uncle Angus cleared his throat. "I don't mean to rush matters, but I'd like to see this settled this year. Are you ready, lass?"
No, she wasn't. Not now. She'd heard the stories about the elaborate society wedding Annabelle's family had hosted in Boston, and she did not wish to marry in such a shabby manner in front of David's wife. Gillian did have her pride, after all.
Then Jake stepped away from Annabelle Maclean and crossed the room toward her and Gillian realized she had nothing to fret about. All the champagne and edible delicacies could not overcome the superiority of her groom over Annabelle's. And I should know. I've had them both.
The embarrassing thought warmed her cheeks. The flush intensified when her groom took her hands, then dipped his head to brush a kiss across her lips. "You look beautiful, princess," he said softly.
"So do you," she replied. It was the truth. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a coat of charcoal gray and matching trousers, and she was encouraged he had bothered to dress up for the occasion. Maybe this marriage meant more to him than he allowed.
More likely, the suit was his only clean apparel.
On that cheery note, with her former lover's wife standing as witness on one side, her younger sister and a crippled dachshund on the other, Gillian prepared to say her wedding vows.
It would have been nice, though, if her groom hadn't appeared on the verge of fainting dead away.
* * *
Wedding nights, Jake told himself, were not for the faint of heart. Particularly after a strenuous wedding afternoon on a hilltop.
Gillian had retreated upstairs almost an hour ago, and he figured he'd put off joining her as long as he should. After they'd said their vows and while Gillian reluctantly gave young Mrs. Maclean a tour of the castle, Jake's first act as a married man was to send a letter off to his grandfather informing the earl that he'd been altered at the altar, so to speak. Then he spent some time with Angus discussing the purchase of Rowanclere and the documentation required for the elderly man to officially bestow the proceeds of the sale upon his grand-nieces. He found the familiar legal process soothing, and he had relaxed for the first time since the preacher opened his prayer book.
Then Gillian had to walk into the room. Barefoot. Everything had gone south from there. And, in the case of his blood to his britches, he meant it quite literally.
She'd stripped off her shoes because she'd stepped into a puddle of water, and she seduced him by wriggling her toes. From that moment on, he'd felt nervous as a virgin. He didn't understand it. He'd bedded women hundreds of times. Maybe even thousands. Hell, he'd bedded Gillian twice today. Why would he be nervous now?
Because, for the first time in his life, he would be making love to his wife.
Wife. Here came that sick feeling again. What was he going to do? A man couldn't concentrate on pleasing his woman when he worried about losing his lunch.
As he reached the top of the stairs, Jake realized he truly wanted to please Gillian Ross. Gillian Ross Delaney. His wife. He wanted to please her very, very much. He'd promised Angus he would remain at Rowanclere until such time that his trust fund was released and the funds safely transferred to Gillian, Flora, and Robyn. Until then, he wanted to make her happy, to be a good husband to her.
Maybe that way she would decide to make the trip with him.
As the hours passed, Jake had grown rather fond of the idea. The fact surprised him. Astounded him, actually. But he realized he'd told her the truth up at the watchtower. He did consider Gillian a friend and the notion of traveling the world with her set well with him.
Right now, though, they needed to get past this wedding night business. He faced the bedroom door as if a firing squad waited behind it, not Gillian. Swallowing hard, he reached for the doorknob and muttered, "I just hope she's gentle with me."
The moment he stepped into the room, he wondered if he'd get a chance to find out. Gillian wasn't waiting for him in bed. She wasn't in the bedchamber at all. Jake scowled and felt a spark of unease kindle. Don't tell me she got tired of waiting on me. I wasn't that long.
Then he noticed the yawning dark hole in the wall where the passageway door opened. Her wedding dress lay in a heap in front of it. The sight worried him at first. Could somethi
ng have happened to her? Quickly, he crossed to the passageway door and stepped into the gloom. Off to the right, an arrow made of rose petals pointed the way. "Well, well, well. This is starting to look interesting."
He found a petticoat a dozen steps away. A stocking, a flight of stairs beyond that. By the time he'd collected a second stocking, two slippers, a bustle, another petticoat, a corset cover, and a corset, Jake was whistling, his trepidation disappeared in the enjoyment of her game.
When he found the wooden head, he laughed out loud. "My, oh my. Looks like I stand to get another peek at the Headless Lady of Rowanclere's breasts."
The trail exited from the passage at the bottom of a narrow, winding stone stair. There, he discovered another rose petal arrow. Jake began to climb.
It was one of the old towers, an uninhabited part of the castle. Jake had visited it during those early explorations of Rowanclere and from what he could remember, it had served as little more than a storehouse.
He couldn't wait to find out what was stored up here now.
Jake climbed all the way to the top where finally, another door stood open. He stepped inside and his mouth went dry as a West Texas summer.
Standing in front of a small arched window, she wore the delicate white ghost gown. She was naked underneath, her generous curves tantalizingly displayed. Heat slammed into Jake like a fist. "If you're a real ghost this time or a figment of my imagination, I think I'll just lay down and cry."
She offered a slow, Jezebel smile, then knelt in front of the fireplace and gestured for him to join her. He eyed the thick rug covering the hard stone floor and the more than a dozen pillows cozily beckoned. He saw a plate of cheeses and fruit. Wine. Woman. Oh, what a woman. The setting was a hedonist's dream.
Jake took half a dozen steps toward her, then stopped abruptly when a cloud of scent descended on him. Exotic scent, erotic scent. Gillian's scent. For just a second, he closed his eyes and enjoyed. "Mmm..."
"It is wonderful, is it not?" She held a small amber glass bottle in one and a cork in the other and she slowly poured a heavy liquid into a clay bowl. "Fragrant oil," she said. "I've warmed it. This is a drafty old room and I know how much you are bothered by the cold, so I thought I'd do whatever I could to help you to stay warm." She dipped her fingers into the bowl, then slowly, sensuously, rubbed the oil into her palm. "Take your shirt off, Jake, and let me warm you."
The last time he moved so fast, he'd been racing Cole Morgan for the last piece of his mother's pecan pie.
"Now lie on your stomach in front of the fire," she instructed.
"But then I can't see—"
"On your stomach, Texas." She reached out with an index finger coated in spicy-scented oil and trailed it down his chest from his collarbone to his navel.
Biting back a groan, he acquiesced. "Far be it from me to argue with an apparition."
He sank into the velvety texture of the rug, then reared back up again when he felt her straddle his hips. Her slight weight settled down on his buttocks and Jake tensed, his heart racing.
She laughed softly and the sound of it sent shivers streaking up his spine. "Relax, Jake. I won't hurt you, I promise."
Slick, warm hands settled on his shoulders, then worked their way down his back, kneading and massaging. She spoke of Scotland while she worked, the burr in her voice making music of unfamiliar Scots words like sykie and ripple-grass and bobbin-quaw. He breathed the scent of her, embraced the firm, yet gentle touch of her. He drifted into a warm sea of sensation where she was the siren, the Lorelei, lining him toward... something. Not danger. What could be dangerous about such exquisite pleasure?
At some point, her lips began tracing the path of her hands. His limbs went languid; his blood ran thick and lazy. His need was a steady, throbbing ache, but one he preferred prolonged, instead of rushed.
Then, she coaxed him to turn over and everything changed.
Jake watched her. She straddled him as if he were a steed, her hair a veil of sun-kissed silk flowing loose and luscious past her waist. She closed her eyes, her gaze turned inward as her hands slicked their way across his chest. A beguiling smile lingered on her lips, and the sound emerging from her throat was a hungry, yet feminine, groan.
Then her fingers found the flat round disc of his nipples. She circled them with her thumbs, then her head dropped forward and she teased him with her tongue Jake sucked in a quick, harsh breath.
His body no longer luxuriated in warmth. It burned. It shuddered. It ached.
He had to have her soon or die.
Then, witch that she was, she sat up once more. Crossing her arms, she grasped the hem of her gown and lifted it up and off. "Are you warm enough?"
"I'm warm," he choked out, reaching for her. "Plenty warm. I'm hot. I'm sizzling again." He shifted her, trying to switch their positions and take control of the moment. But Gillian wasn't having any of that. She resisted him, laughing, teasing, and tormenting him. Such sweet, delicious torment that he chose to let her have her way.
And have her way she did.
Gillian made love to Jake. A slow, drugging passion filled with mind-reeling kisses and lingering touches. She explored and indulged and aroused. She was sense-stealing sighs and slow, silky strokes that intoxicated Jake—made him dizzy and drunk with desire. His thoughts were sluggish, cold molasses slow. The rest of him was hot. Burning, blazing hot.
Finally, thank God, she took him. Inch by slow, aching inch. With a passion that for all its spice was sweet and somehow innocent, Gillian took him on a journey of desire and delight. She showed him a world he hadn't known existed, and in doing so, made him wish the trip could last forever.
But like all things, it ended. As they lay together before the fireplace, catching their breaths, her head pillowed on his chest, his hand stroking gently up and down her side, Jake sensed something momentous had just occurred. It scared the bejabbers out of him.
"What was this?" he asked, as tension tried to work its way back into his languishing muscles.
"It's the Maiden's Tower," she replied, obviously thinking he'd asked of their location, not what had transpired between them. Gillian drew small whirls in the hair growing on his chest. "Legend has it that in 1536 on the eve of her marriage to a neighboring laird, the Maid of Rowanclere invited the Captain of the Guard to this tower room for a romantic rendezvous that would change the course of history of this entire region of Scotland."
"Got caught, did they?"
"By the bride-to-be's father. There was a battle, and the no-longer-a-maiden Maid managed to lock herself into this room. Along with her lover who immediately became her husband, marriage by declaration accomplishing the deed. The troops were divided between the laird and his man, so a standoff ensued. It took two weeks to negotiate a settlement between the laird, the new groom, and the rejected one. But the newlyweds enjoyed their time alone so much that every year thereafter on the anniversary of their wedding, they retreated to this room for two uninterrupted weeks."
"Two weeks, huh?" Jake lifted his head off a blue velvet pillow and made a show of glancing around the room. "I could handle that. Though you'll have to let me rest some. Even a stud like me has a sinking spell now and then."
She hit him with a red and green brocade pillow trimmed in gold fringe.
The ensuing pillow fight set the mood for the next two weeks. Gillian and Jake didn't spend the entire time up in the Maiden's Tower. They spent their mornings going about the business of the castle and of the family. Afternoons, they played; exploring nearby ruins, fishing in the loch, riding through the glen. Gillian showed him nooks and crannies of the Highlands he'd never have seen on his own, and Jake thoroughly enjoyed the education and the adventure of spending his time with Gillian. And every night they retreated to the Maiden's Tower, where they loved the night away.
As the days passed, Jake began to realize the wings on his feet were enjoying their rest. He woke up in the mornings looking forward to the day and went to sleep each night w
ith a smile on his face. He found himself dreading the arrival of news from England that his trust fund had been released.
Jake was happy. He was content. It confused the hell out of him.
He tried to take each day as it came, to put off worrying about anything until he could do something about it. He succeeded at the task fairly well. Except that in the very recesses of his mind he wondered why Gillian wasn't more upset about his impending departure. Did she plan to travel with him? If not, what were her plans once he left? Did that bastard Maclean figure into the picture at all? What was Gillian's outlook on faithfulness to an absent husband?
The questions plagued him, but he did his best to ignore them. Then Gillian took him on a picnic.
Chapter 13
Gillian took him to her favorite picnic spot where a stand of birks cuddled up next to a burn. It was a beautiful, sunshine-filled afternoon, though a bit cooler than in recent days. It amused her that her formerly thin-skinned Texan didn't seem to notice. It seemed that Jake Delaney had found a way other than southern sun to warm his blood. What was yet to be seen was whether or not the allure of an adventurous, ready-and-willing bride could overcome the lure of Tahitian beaches.
Gillian didn't want to trap him into staying; she simply planned to show him what he'd be giving up by leaving. She had great faith in the life and love she had to offer. Whether he realized it or not, Jake Delaney was a family man. His stories about his sister, his mother and late father proved it to her. Gillian honestly believed he could be happy here at Rowanclere.
Sizzle All Day, Bad Luck Wedding #4 (Bad Luck Abroad) Page 21
