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

  The tears fell freely now and she scrambled to her feet. But halfway to her sister, Gillian cried out, clutched her leg, and stumbled. Jake caught her just before she hit the ground.

  Flora Dunbar's second son was born five minutes later.

  The females took the momentous occasion in stride. The father fainted dead away right at the foot of Flora's bed.

  After preserving her sister's modesty with a sheet, Gillian asked Jake to remove her brother-in-law from the room. "We have much to do here, and he is in the way. Tell Uncle Angus I said to break out his best."

  It took some muscle to move the dead-weight Scot, but eventually Jake dragged Dunbar to the stairs and tumbled him down to a lower floor, then heaved him into what Angus Brodie called his Whisky Room. The fumes wafting from a bottle of the malt finally roused him, and Dunbar began rattling on about sons and clans and history.

  Brodie was the one who eased the conversation into toast-making. Jake's brain was buzzing a bit by the time they'd tossed back a dram to everyone in the castle from the new mother and her babies, to the stableboy and the barn cats.

  That's why he was a little slow on the uptake when Angus Brodie lifted his glass and said, "To the successful haunting of Rowanclere. May Jake Delaney scare that Sassenach fool right out of his pants."

  "Not out of his pants," observed Dunbar, a slight slur to his words. "My Flora will be abed a fortnight. I'll not have any bare-ass naked man around my wife."

  Jake quit admiring the attractive amber shade of the whisky and said, "Now wait one minute. Why would I be scaring anybody? And make no mistake. I have absolutely no interest in men who aren't wearing their pants. I know it's tradition and style and such, but hell, I get cold just thinkin' about you Scotsmen and your kilts. Give me denim britches anytime, thank you very much."

  "Well, you cannot be wearing denim when you're a ghaist," Angus declared.

  Jake took another sip of the local malt. This Scotch kind of whisky took some getting used to compared to the Tennessee brand he was accustomed to drinking, but the taste grew on a man. That decided, he responded to the laird of Rowanclere. "I can be buried in my work pants if I want. As long as it's not my mother laying me out, that is. She'll insist on a suit. But my sister Chrissy, she's a good one. She'll bury me in comfort. All I have to do is let my wishes be known."

  "I don't intend to bury you, Jake Delaney. We will set it up like Gillian did. You will make appearances." Brodie stroked his beard and studied Jake. "We will drag out the trunks. You're big enough."

  Suddenly, Jake felt as sober as a Baptist preacher praying for souls at a San Antonio sporting house. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Brodie threw back his drink, then banged the empty glass on the table beside him. "I have reached my decision. Although I am thankful the bastard Lord Bennet is dead, your sister did not kill him on our Gilly's behalf. Therefore, my clan is not in your debt, Jake Delaney."

  "Bennet is dead?" Dunbar asked.

  "Wait a minute." Jake slammed down his own drink. "You aren't gonna weasel out of this. Your own niece said you owe us, and you do."

  Dryly, Angus observed, "Despite what she likes to think, Gillian is not laird of Rowanclere. I own this castle and all its contents. I own the Declaration of Independence you are so determined to get."

  "You are wrong. That document belongs to the people of Texas." Jake shoved to his feet and glared down at Brodie.

  "Get your pride out of your ears, boy, and listen. I'm offering you a deal."

  "What deal?"

  The feminine voice floated from the doorway behind him. "My, Uncle Angus," Gillian said. "Are you not the canny Scot?"

  Jake whirled around, bracing his hands on his hips.

  "Have you been there long? Did you hear this nonsense he's spouting? The man is a thief!"

  "No, he is not He was given that which you seek. I heard what he said, and he is right. He has something you want and you can give us something we need."

  Jake was tired and angry and a ways down the road to drunk. He didn't feel like playing around with words. "I know what I think you need, but what the hell do you think you need?"

  "A ghaist. Rowanclere needs a boodie, Jake, and Uncle Angus is right. You'll be perfect."

  She beamed a smile at him so bright and so beautiful, he felt it clear to his toes. Under the circumstances, that frustrated him even more. "Are you saying you want me to take over the role you've been playing so poorly the last few days?"

  "That's right, Texas." Her smug smile made his eyes cross.

  Angus said, "That's my deal. Flora cannot help Gilly, so you must. You help her convince Lord Harrington that Rowanclere is haunted, and I'll give you my copy of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence."

  "I'll be damned if I'll do that!"

  "Better than dead if you don't," Gillian said, her eyes sparkling like jewels as she bit her lip and gazed pointedly at the gun once again in her grand-uncle's hand. "One way or the other, Texas, Rowanclere will have you for a ghaist."

  Chapter 7

  Flora's bairns were five days old when Gillian descended the corner tower stairs, her arms overflowing with tartan. The trunks in the storage rooms had yielded a dozen or more setts from which to choose. After much internal debate, she had chosen a tartan in shades of the forest and the summer sky, not due to its history or marriage ties to Rowanclere, but because the particular shade of green reminded her of Jake Delaney's eyes.

  Though she acknowledged that truth, it embarrassed her. So when she spied Robyn and asked if she'd seen the Texan yet this day, the tone of her voice was sharper than necessary.

  Her younger sister took an exaggerated step backward. "What's the matter with you, Gilly? Did you not sleep well? Did the babies keep you awake, too? May I change rooms until Flora and Alasdair return to Laichmoray after the christening? The howdie says it's a scandal that Flora won't leave them in the nursery with a maid, but I understand that Flora worries herself sick when they're not around. They are terribly tiny, even though Mrs. Ferguson says the bairns are too big to be two months early, and Flora must have been mistaken on her dates. What does she mean by that?"

  "Ask Flora. I'm looking for Mr. Delaney. Have you seen him this morning?"

  "Aye, he is in the muniment room. I think his idea to use the suits of armor in the haunting is a fine idea, don't you?"

  Gillian rolled her eyes. "No, I do not. The man wants to play in them, that is all. He acts no older than you, Robbie."

  It was true. Despite his vociferous protests, Jake Delaney had taken to the haunting like dye to wool. She had expected him to pout, but he didn't. Once he decided it was in his best interests to agree to Uncle Angus's proposal, he'd shown nothing but enthusiasm for the plan. He'd taken Gillian's ideas for haunting the castle and elaborated on them to the point of overkill.

  The numerous presages of death he had ready to employ were prime examples. The Texan wouldn't settle for setting up a deid-rap, an unexplained knocking; he had to create a deid-spail, too. The man wasted a full dozen candles in the attempt to guide the melted wax overhanging the lip of the holder into the form of a shroud that could extend in the direction of one individual. But he'd eventually triumphed, and now they had a deid-spail to use along with a number of pictures waiting to fall, footsteps ready to be heard overhead, and clocks prepared to stop for no apparent mechanical reason. It was ridiculous.

  And maybe, just maybe, Gillian was a little jealous the Texan displayed such adeptness at something she'd struggled so to get right.

  "I like Mr. Jake," Robbie told her with a shrug. "He tells good stories like Uncle Angus and he makes me laugh. He likes to laugh, too, and when he smiles, he's very handsome. Do you not agree, Gilly?"

  She attempted to ignore the question, much like she tried to ignore the man himself of late. She succeeded with both about equally well.

  "Gilly, I said do you not think he is bonny?"

  "Aye," she replied, sighing. There was no denyi
ng the Texan's appeal. The man was even handsome when he scowled. Noticing the fact had become quite a problem for her of late. Worse, he didn't even need to be around her for the trouble to occur. They could be at opposite ends of Rowanclere, and the moment she recalled the kiss or the tender way he'd cared for her while Flora birthed the bairns, she would be lost in a fog. Just yesterday her inattention resulted in a pan of burned scones, a broken Wedgwood vase, and a cut on her finger when the knife slipped as they were repairing a worn spot in the string holding together Young Fergus's bones. It was humiliating.

  Especially since he'd not touched her or attempted to kiss her since the night Flora's sons were born.

  Disgruntled now, Gillian shifted the burden in her arms. "The muniment room, you said?"

  "Aye. But he was on his way to take Scooter outside."

  Ah, that meant she now should search for him in a room warmed by a fire. The man had to warm himself if he so much stuck a big toe past the front door. Bidding her sister farewell, she looked for him first in the library, then the dining room, and the yellow sitting room. Finally, upon approaching the blue drawing room, she heard the dachshund's yip from behind the closed door.

  Reaching for the doorknob, Gillian paused. She glanced down at the predominantly green tartan in her arms and silently admitted one of the red setts may have been the smarter choice. Convincing this man to dress his part as a seventeenth-century ghaist might well be a bloody battle. Scarlet did a better job at hiding bloodstains. Gillian took a deep, bracing breath and quietly opened the drawing room door.

  Heat rolled over her in waves. As expected, in a room occupied by the thin-skinned Texan, a larger-than-necessary fire burned in the fireplace. Gillian shook her head. One would think a bitter winter storm battered Rowanclere's doors rather than a gentle summer breeze. This morning's weather was moderate, bordering on warm, even. She hadn't broken ice in her pitcher on her washstand for several weeks.

  Jake Delaney sat on the floor in front of the hearth, his back to her as he wrestled with his dog over a bone. He wore his customary boots, denim pants, a long-sleeved blue chambray shirt, and a leather vest, and she couldn't help but think the clothing suited him. For a cowboy haunt, perhaps. Not a Scot.

  Her hold on the feileadh mor tightened and she waited for him to notice her. Dreading the battle certain to come, she wasn't in a rush. Initially, it had taken Uncle Angus hours of negotiation to gain Delaney's agreement to haunt Rowanclere. Had the required mode of dress been mentioned, he might well have refused the deal.

  Gillian could delay no longer. Lord Harrington was due to arrive at Rowanclere tomorrow. While Jake had taken to playing a spirit with gusto, he had yet to attempt any of the haunts in costume. 'Twas time for a dress rehearsal.

  Hearing him growl, she momentarily wondered if he had read her thoughts. When she realized he mimicked the mutt's rumble, a rueful chuckle escaped her.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder. "Well, good morning, Gilly. What death defying tasks have you set for us weary ghouls today?"

  Ignoring his question, she gave the bone a pointed look and made a query of her own. "Did you not get enough porridge this morning, Texas?"

  He flashed a grin, then rolled Scooter over onto her back and scratched her belly. "When it's a choice between ham and haggis, I'll go for the bone every time."

  Because Robbie's observation about the Texan's handsomeness plagued like a pebble in her shoe, Gillian glanced away from the man as he rolled to his feet. Since she wasn't looking at him, he caught her by surprise when he reached out and grabbed the black-hilted dagger from out of the bundle of cloth in her arms.

  "Pardon me, princess, but something about seeing a killin' knife in a female's hands gives me the shivers."

  She offered a false smile. "Such wit this morning, Mr. Delaney."

  "Jake." He studied the knife, tested its balance, and nodded. "Nice little weapon. Is it for me?"

  "Aye. It is a sgian-dhu, a small dagger." It was to be worn at the outside top of his stocking, although she thought she would wait to impart that particular detail.

  "Thanks, but I don't need it. I have a Bowie knife I strap on when it's best to wear a knife. It's three times the size of this little thing. So, what's on the agenda for today? I hope in your planning you remembered to keep the afternoon free. I promised Angus a game of dominos if he's up to it."

  "I remember. I do expect you will play. He claims to have felt better these last few days than he has felt in months. I think the babies have much to do with it. My fear is that he will suffer a setback once Alasdair takes his family home."

  "Don't borrow trouble, princess."

  He casually set the treasured dagger on the marble mantel, and Gillian tried not to be annoyed. He couldn't know it was an heirloom due respect, having been passed down from the maternal side of her father's family. He couldn't know an ancestor carried that very same weapon during the Battle of the Pass of Killiecrankie in 1689.

  That aside, if this Bowie knife of his was substantially larger than a sgian-dhu, it wouldn't do as a substitute for her purposes.

  Before she could argue the fact, he moved to relieve her of the entire burden she held in her arms. Setting the bundle atop a nearby table, he asked, "What is all this? New draperies?"

  "No." Gillian cleared her throat. It wasn't an outlandish idea. Rowanclere had a number of rooms decorated in tartan from the window treatments to the furniture upholstery to the rugs on the floor. "It's the feileadh mor. Look, Jake. See how much cloth is here?"

  She took hold of one end of the tartan and whipped it out in front of her, unfurling the cloth till it lay in a long, straight band across the floor. "Nearly six yards. And notice its weight and weave. Here, feel it."

  She held the fabric out for him to touch and when he hesitated, gave it a shake. "Nothing keeps a person as warm as good wool."

  "All right." He slid his hand across the soft plaid, then shot her a cautious look. "So you're making a dress from this bolt of fabric?"

  "Oh, no. It's not a dress. I know Americans tend to think of the feileadh mor as a skirt, but that is ignorance."

  "Gillian," he began, a frown darkening his brow.

  "It is a long and proud tradition, something that puts you upstart Texans to shame."

  "Now wait one minute." Affront bristled in his voice. "What has you all puckered up? Did Mrs. Ferguson put lemons in her haggis this morning?"

  Gillian's mouth was dry as an overcooked haddock. Nervousness sang in her veins, building up pressure and diluting her good sense so that when she finally managed to talk, she babbled forward into the fray with little regard for strategy. "I brought my own father's brooch and dirk. I have a bonnet, too, although I think we can do without that, and both stockings and truis, depending on your preference. Personally, I think you would be more comfortable with stockings. Oh," she snapped her fingers. "I left the sporran in the storage room. I shall need to go get it."

  While she paused to draw a breath, the only sound to be heard in the blue drawing room was the muted tick of the mantel clock. Then the Texan replied with a short laugh.

  "You won't believe the ridiculous thought I just had. This bundle of yours? For a minute there I thought you might be trying to get me to wear one of those Scottish dresses."

  "It's not a dress or a skirt, it's a plaid. And you will wear it. That is the deal you made with Uncle Angus."

  He folded his arms, lifted his chin, and looked down his nose, the very picture of an arrogant aristocrat. "No, it is not. The terms of our agreement are very clear. I am an attorney-at-law, remember? I wrote the contract. I agreed to haunt Rowanclere for no longer than a two-week period commencing with the Earl of Harrington's arrival and ending upon either the expiration of the time limit or the departure of your ghost-hunting guest, whichever comes first."

  Her nervousness having eased some now that the first shot was fired, Gillian took a moment to shoot him a perplexing look. Who was the real Jake Delaney? This starched-shir
t professional or the lazy-drawled rogue? Whichever, he was the most fascinating man.

  But she and her grand-uncle Angus had bested him this time. Now it was up to Jake Delaney to honor his word. She squared her shoulders and smiled. "Pull out your contract and read it. Page two, paragraph three. Cowboy, you agreed to wear a kilt."

  * * *

  Jake stalked from the drawing room and marched to his bedchamber where he dug the signed contract from his saddlebags. "Page two, paragraph three," he muttered, paper rustling as he flipped to the second page.

  His eyes skimmed to the third paragraph. It was the seventh sentence that stopped him cold.... will play the part of Brian Brodie, deceased.

  Jake closed his eyes. Obviously, this Brian Brodie was no made-up name like he had thought. "Sonofabitch. Who is Brian Brodie?"

  She had followed him up to his room, bringing the damned armful of tartan and toys with her. "Was. Brian Brodie was the fifth laird of Rowanclere. He died here in the castle in 1692, stabbed through the heart after accusing a companion of cheating at cards."

  "A violent death? Then why isn't his real ghost haunting the castle? Why do you need a false one?"

  Gillian shrugged. "Who is to know the way of the dead? Perhaps he is here and does not indulge in haunt-tag."

  "Just my luck. A selfish specter." Jake's gaze returned to the page. "I can't believe I left it wide open. I'm better than that. How did I miss it?"

  "I believe you were smeekit at the time."

  "Smeekit?"

  "Drunk."

  "That never mattered before," he snapped, his gaze returning to the words written in his own hand upon the page. "It was the cold. This damnable cold. It froze my brain to the point that even your whisky couldn't thaw it out."

  "Stop whining, Texas."

  "I'm not whining. I'm complaining." She was part of it, too. His thinking had been numbed by a sexual haze since almost the moment he stepped foot in Rowanclere. "I haven't done this poor a job at lawyering in years."