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

  Sizzle All Day

  Bad Luck Abroad

  Book Two

  by

  Geralyn Dawson

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  © 2000, 2011 by Geralyn Dawson Williams

  Cover by Kim Killion

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  For my mother

  Acknowledgments

  I want to offer my sincere thanks to Denise Marcil and Katie Kotchman at Denise Marcil Literary Agency for their assistance in negotiating the reversion-of-rights waters. Thanks, also, to Jody Allen, for so kindly answering my e-mails and recommending my favorite Scots reference book. Y'all are the best.

  Chapter 1

  Scottish Highlands, 1884

  Jake Delaney was a man on the run.

  From his mother.

  "It's embarrassing," he told the small dog sharing the saddle with him. "I'm thirty-four years old. I'm my own man. I've driven cattle from Austin to Wichita. I've fought a gun battle with bandits in the West Texas badlands and won a knife fight with card cheats in a San Antonio whorehouse. I took my first drink when I was ten, loved my first woman at fourteen, and bought my first property at eighteen. I truly believed I had my share of sand."

  The dog snorted.

  So did Jake. Sand, hell. He'd taken one look at that matchmaking light in his mother's eyes and had run for the hills. The hills of Scotland, that is.

  The dog gazed up at him with liquid brown eyes, her long ears flopping in cadence to the horse's gait. She'd been a good, if unexpected, companion on this trip north. Jake liked females who listened well and didn't wear out a man's ears with talk of hair styles and fabrics and fashion.

  That's all he'd been hearing of late. He'd spent the past few months escorting his mother around London. Elizabeth Delaney had returned to England after more than twenty years in Texas, thrown herself into the welcoming arms of a blue-blood society, and decided her son needed to follow suit. Literally.

  "A bit of wenching is fine, don't get me wrong," he told the dachshund he'd christened Scooter. "But I'm not about to marry one of those simpering English misses. If I did want a wife—which I don't—I'd want a female with some pepper in her. I like heat in my women."

  And in the weather, too, he silently added as the dog whined and burrowed her way inside his coat. Here it was the middle of summer, but the day was cold as a dead snake in an ice house. Think of how miserable he'd feel had he made the trip during the winter months. That's when he'd first learned that the missing copy of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence was likely hidden in a castle in the Scottish Highlands, and he'd been elected to go get it.

  Jake believed it to be a worthy quest. When the state capitol burned four years ago, Texas's lone copy of the historically significant document was lost to the fire. Recently, research by the Historical Preservation Society in San Antonio confirmed that in 1836, five copies of the Declaration had been penned and sent by courier across Texas in order to inform citizens of the official creation of a new republic. What, then, had happened to the four unaccounted-for copies? The Society had made it their objective to find out. They would locate the lost Declarations and bring them home to the people of Texas.

  Jake became involved because at that time, his mother had been an officer in the organization.

  Originally, Cole Morgan—Jake's brother-in-every-way-but-blood—had been charged with the task of retrieving the copy rumor had placed in England. Cole's search proved to be quite an adventure, netting him in the end one wife—Jake's sister Chrissy—but no Declaration, only a lead about where to look for it next. Supposedly, a lost copy of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence could be found in the Scottish Highlands, in a place called Rowanclere Castle.

  "So here I am," he murmured. "Cold enough to spit ice."

  Jake might have been born in Britain, but he was South Texas bred. He thrived in the sizzling heat of a Texas summer, and he wasn't cut out for cold. He was more than ready to reach his destination, recover the Declaration of Independence for the people of Texas, and start living his own life for a change.

  Jake had plans. For years now he had spent his time fulfilling responsibilities to family, friends, and country. But now his sister was blissfully married to his best friend, his mother happily reconciled with her British family, his land sold, and his law partnership in San Antonio cheerfully disbanded. As soon as this last duty was accomplished, Jake would be free to shake off the clay that had long weighted down the wings on his feet.

  He craved adventure. The wilds of Africa, the islands of the South Pacific, and the mysteries of the Far East were lures he need no longer resist. He couldn't wait to see it all, experience it all. To live it all.

  Thinking about it spurred him into picking up his pace. A short time later, his horse rounded a bend and Jake spied the end of the current trail. "Rowanclere Castle," he murmured, reining his mount to a halt so he could study the place.

  He scratched Scooter behind the ears as he blew a soundless whistle of appreciation at the sight of a fairy tale come to life. Turrets and towers and thick, weathered walls of stone rose high above the deep blue waters of a narrow lake—or loch, to use the vernacular. A colorful flag fluttered from the long pole reaching up into the sky from a tall, square keep. The rest of the castle was a hodgepodge of gabled roofs and towers and crenelated lines that softened the keep's imposing facade.

  Jake had visited larger castles since arriving in Britain, but this was certainly the most beautiful. Rowanclere possessed an air of welcome lacked by the others he'd seen along the way. This castle was no forbidding hunk of stone and mortar, appropriate as a setting for one of Shakespeare's tragedies. Rowanclere was more a light-hearted, fanciful romance, a place for a princess to dance with her prince.

  "Princess?" Jake muttered aloud. Hell. The cold must have frozen his brain. Next thing you know, he'd be composing poetry.

  He'd better get his head on straight. Castles were historically places of intrigue, and the search for this lost document had already come close to costing his sister Chrissy her life. Besides, he didn't want to die before getting a good look at those bare-breasted Tahitian women.

  Tucking that warm image pleasantly in mind to combat this wretched cold, Jake snuggled Scooter close to his chest, signaled his horse forward, and headed for the castle by the loch.

  * * *

  Gillian Ross stood at a tower window and watched the broad-shouldered man guide his horse across the small stone bridge spanning the burn. The wings of a thousand butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she sent up a silent prayer for the success of the plan she prepared to put into action.

  Mr. J. A. K. Delaney of Texas had
sent word to expect his arrival today. How would he react to what he found at Rowanclere Castle?

  "I am having second thoughts," her twin sister. Flora, insisted as she nervously twisted the wedding band on her finger. "We should not do this."

  "We have little choice at this point."

  Flora grimaced and her arms fell to her sides. Dejection filled her voice as she said, "Aye, you are right."

  Gillian couldn't help but smile at Flora's woebegone state. Adopting a cheer she didn't feel, she said, "Though I could happily skelp Uncle Angus for forcing this upon us, and our brother for abandoning us to our grand-uncle's whims."

  "Now, Gilly. Nicholas left Scotland two years before Mama and Papa were killed. He did not abandon us."

  "What would you call it? We have not heard a word from him in the longest time."

  Flora shook her head. "Let us not argue over Nicholas. He has nothing to do with this. David is the one—"

  "I will not speak of David," Gillian snapped.

  Then, mindful of her sister's delicate condition, she reached for Flora's hand and gave it an apologetic, reassuring squeeze. "We've more important matters to occupy our minds. Lord Harrington arrives in little more than a fortnight."

  "Aye," Flora said with a sigh. She trailed a finger along the wide window casement painted in Gillian's favorite color, a deep forest green. "Whether we wish it or not."

  Gillian shared her twin's lament, though she refused to voice it. Not now. Not when doing so could serve no positive purpose. "That is beside the matter, sister. After a year of search, you and Uncle Angus have found a potential buyer for Rowanclere."

  She returned her gaze to the window and the stranger approaching the castle. "All we need do is successfully navigate these next few weeks and come first snow, Uncle Angus will be safe from the danger this castle poses upon his health."

  Flora resumed her hand-wringing. "But you will lose your home."

  Gillian took her sister by the hands and stared into bluebell-colored eyes identical to her own. "Never. My home is my family, wherever we are, and I do not intend to lose a one of you. You and your Alasdair and babe to come. Uncle Angus and Robyn. And Nick, if he ever returns to us."

  Flora's eyes closed and her shoulders slumped forward as she relaxed. "You are right."

  "Of course I am right," Gillian said, her lips twisting to smother a smile. "I am always right. Rowanclere is just a place. As long as we are together—or within a day's ride, in your case—in a place that provides safe shelter, it matters not where we live." Turning back to the window, she watched as the man reined in his horse. He removed a wide-brimmed hat and raked his fingers through dark auburn hair as he sat staring toward the castle. "Besides, Flora, you know how much I believe in fate. Fate put you and Uncle Angus in that hotel dining room at the same time as the Earl of Harrington. Fate caused your tongue to slip when he asked The Question."

  Flora moved to stand beside her sister. Together, they saw the visitor signal his horse forward. "I opened my mouth to say no, Gillian. I promise I did. I dinna ken what came over me."

  "Fate, Flora." The grin broke free as she gave her sister a sidelong look. "Or, perhaps a brownie. They are mischievous ghaists, after all."

  "Aye, that I do know. I learned the wee detail from all the reading you forced upon me." She hooked a thumb toward a stack of books and pamphlets atop Gillian's bedside table. "Spiritual Magazine has an interesting article about brownies in its winter issue."

  "I read that piece," Gillian said. She'd read them all, in fact. She'd started collecting the material four months ago after Flora ran weeping into her bedchamber upon her return from Edinburgh. With tears flowing down her face, her twin had stuttered out her story.

  During luncheon with Flora and her husband Alasdair Dunbar at an Edinburgh hotel, Uncle Angus had suffered an attack of severe chest pain. A gentleman seated nearby was quick to offer his assistance, and Alasdair requested he keep Angus and Flora company as he left to summon a physician. While they waited, the man who introduced himself as the Earl of Harrington from Devon, England, went out of his way to distract Flora from her worries by asking innocuous questions about her home. Flora had told him that while she now lived at Laichmoray, she had spent her youth at Rowanclere Castle. The earl then expressed interest in buying a Scottish castle of his own, and Uncle Angus caught his breath enough to inform Harrington that he wished to sell his Highland home. In reply, the earl had asked his fateful question: Is Rowanclere haunted?

  Flora, who seldom spoke a falsehood, had opened her mouth, looked him in the eye, and lied. Aye, we have a very active ghaist, in fact.

  Her claim captured Harrington's imagination. A Spiritualist and a fellow in the College of Psychic Studies, the earl had a keen interest in everything relating to the supernatural. Though he did wish to buy a Scottish castle, not just any castle would do. He wanted to study supernatural beings. He must own a haunted castle.

  Wasn't it convenient, Flora had told him, that they had a haunted Scottish castle for sale.

  The Englishman immediately made arrangements to call at Rowanclere.

  "I do so hope we have not missed something important, Gilly," Flora said, her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip.

  "I don't know what it would be. I think I must have read everything that has been written about these ghost hunters in the past five years."

  Upon learning of the earl's impending visit, Gillian set about studying both Harrington and those whose interests mirrored his own. She'd found a wealth of material available. At least a dozen magazines had been born in the wake of the Spiritualist movement as it swept from America to Europe. Newspapers wrote of the séances that were the rage in London society these days. Clairvoyants provided entertainment at parties, and spirit photographers held showings in galleries. From her research, Gillian compiled a list of what talents and abilities Lord Harrington might expect of Rowanclere's wraith.

  Now she prepared to evaluate her research using Mr. J. A. K. Delaney. If all went well, the Texan would get the first glimpse of their apparition.

  Gillian leaned forward, staring harder out the window when their visitor paused to rearrange something he carried on the saddle in front of him. Idly, she wondered what it was.

  Her sister said, "I had difficulty sleeping last night so I picked the most recent issue of Spiritual Magazine. Did you read Lord Spaulding's article theorizing that ninety-eight percent of all castles in Scotland are haunted by at least one ghaist?"

  Gillian blinked. "Ninety-eight percent?"

  "Aye, Considering our luck, I am surprised it is not higher."

  Outside on the drive, the rider nudged his horse into a trot. Gillian clicked her tongue. Delaney sat his horse quite well. "Well I think our luck is about to change, Flora. I think fate is working on our side this time."

  Flora smoothed a hand down the front of her dress across her belly, swollen with child. "Possibly. Though I hesitate to place my faith in it. Gilly, are you certain we must take this path? Could we—" She broke off abruptly and grimaced as she rubbed her back.

  "What's wrong?" Gillian demanded.

  "Nothing. I am fine."

  "Indeed now." Her muscles tight with sudden tension, Gillian took her sister by the arm and led her to a chair beside the fireplace. "I insist you rest."

  When Flora lowered herself into the seat, Gillian folded her arms and pinned her twin with a scowl. "I forbid you to worry one second longer. It is bad for the bairn."

  Both hands resting protectively on her stomach, Flora lifted her chin and sniffed. "Do not start that lecture again, Gillian Ross. You do me insult with it. I am not so daupit as to put my child at risk."

  Gillian blew a frustrated sigh, then attempted to explain. "You are careful, but you are also a worrier. That, in turn, worries me." She paused a moment before confessing, "I fear I should have refused your help and sent you back to Laichmoray."

  "Would have been a waste of breath, that."

  Gillian couldn't
help but smile at Flora's expression of disdain. "Aye. Like Uncle Angus always says, you are a stubborn lass."

  Flora lifted her chin and wrinkled her nose. "I am your twin."

  Laughing outright, Gillian dropped to her knees and sought her sister's comfort by joining their hands in a clasp. "Oh, Flora. The selfish part of me is very, very glad to have your help. Alasdair Dunbar is a fine man to allow you so much freedom. Most men in his position would insist you remain home the final two months prior to your confinement."

  Her sister hummed her agreement. "I married a prince. He understands how important my family is to me and how I need to be with you through this upcoming... challenge. He is aware of how difficult it was for me to leave Rowanclere when we married."

  Gillian's answering smile was shaky. She, too, would find it hard to leave her home when the time came. But the leaving must occur. Uncle Angus had made up his mind and he was laird of the castle. Besides, knowing he had provided for his grand-nieces' futures would bring him a measure of peace. Heaven knew he'd earned that.

  And, in all honesty, she'd rather leave her home than be forced into a loveless marriage in order to save it.

  She closed her eyes, sent a quick prayer heavenward for her loved ones' continued good health, then stood and said, "Are you feeling well enough to go downstairs? Our guest will be knocking at the door shortly. Maybe I should—"

  "I'm fine, Gilly. I'll rest another minute or two just to be careful. I've asked Mrs. Ferguson to act the butler and show him to the red drawing room if I'm not downstairs when he arrives."

  "Good." Rowanclere had few servants, and the cook was the only one informed of their plans concerning Delaney and the earl. "Mrs. Ferguson is a fine judge of character and I should be glad to have her observations about the man."