The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy)

by Geralyn Dawson

  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."

  Then, anxious to soothe away the lingering lines of worry on her sister's face, Gillian addressed a concern her twin had mentioned earlier. "Flora, before this all begins, I have something I want to say. Dinna fash yersel' about the lie. Uncle Angus said he would have told Lord Harrington that Rowanclere was haunted. I know I would have."

  "Truly?" Her sister's brows arched. "You would have invented a wraith for Rowanclere?"

  "I may well have created two of them."

  Flora's brow wrinkled in thought, then she nodded. "Aye, I don't doubt it. You always did tend to exaggerate. Still, I find this entire scheme troublesome. If only I—"

  "Stop. I'll not listen to any more wheeking about what happened in Edinburgh. You did the right thing. Remember what we are about here. Remember what's important."

  "Uncle Angus."

  "Aye."

  A slow, grateful smile blossomed across her twin's face and Gillian was heartened. Flora didn't need to deal with guilt on top of everything else.

  "Now," Gillian continued. "How do I look?"

  Flora frowned and studied her twin's face for a long minute before she stood, licked her thumb, then reached out and smudged the black theatrical paint that covered Gillian from the line of her golden hair to the base of her neck. "Quite frightening."

  "Good. And quit spitting on me, please. I do not feel frightening with spit on my face."

  "You look absolutely awful. So awful, in fact, it worries me. What if we truly frighten Mr. Delaney or Lord Harrington? I hate the thought of being cruel."

  Gillian lifted her gaze to the ceiling in frustration. Who was this insecure, vulnerable woman? Acting in such a manner was so out of character for Flora. Normally, she was every bit as strong as Gillian.

  The pregnancy. It must be the pregnancy.

  Of course. Gillian's heart went soft, and she gave her sister a quick, fierce hug. "Our guest is from Texas. Think of all the things Uncle Angus has told us about Texans. Remember what Nicholas said about them in those early letters of his? I doubt a moving picture or unexplained sound will cause him much anxiety. And as far as Lord Harrington is concerned, he is coming to Rowanclere in order to look for ghaists. He won't be frightened to find one. He will be thrilled."

  Flora nodded and brushed a streak of dirt off the filmy white gown Gillian wore. "Aye, you are right."

  Flashing a smile, Gillian repeated her earlier observation. "Of course I am right. I am always right."

  Her twin shot her a droll look. "What you are is annoying."

  "In that case, you will want to leave now. Hie yourself downstairs, sister, and see to our guest."

  "I haven't 'hied' myself anywhere for months now," Flora told her glumly. "I shall waddle my way to care for our guest. What is his name again? This man who is writing a book about castles in Britain?"

  "Delaney. Mr. J. A. K. Delaney."

  Gillian rubbed her itchy nose, careful not to disturb the paint. Delaney was to be the test. If she could fool him, she would be more confident in her ability to deceive Lord Harrington.

  Glancing out the window once more, she watched their guest cross the drawbridge. The butterflies in her stomach once again gave a flutter, and her mouth went stone dry. "He is a brawny one."

  Her sister stood beside her. "He looks chilled to me. What is that in his arms?"

  "A dog, I believe. A wee one." Gillian saw the man swing gracefully from the saddle, confirmed that he was, indeed, an extraordinarily tall, imposing figure.

  Flora said, "He's here. I'd best be going. I expect to be at least ten minutes taking him up to his room. That should give you plenty of time, should it not?"

  Gillian nodded and her sister turned to leave, stopping at the doorway to add, "Good luck, Gilly. Now that the moment has arrived, I do believe you will do fine."

  "So do I," Gillian said, reassuring them both. Then, lifting the black kerchief from the table beside a large doll's head, she tied it around her hair, concealing its long golden strands.

  As her sister disappeared from the tower room, Gillian gathered up the rest of her supplies, then felt along the wall for the catch that opened a concealed door granting access to Rowanclere's hidden passages. A musty smell surrounded her as she stepped into the dim, narrow space and made her way along the twisting and turning tunnel toward her destination.

  Upon her arrival in the guest wing, and with voice trumpet in one hand and doll head in the other, she turned her ear to the wall and prepared to listen. Softly, she muttered, "Mr. J. A. K. Delaney. Prepare to meet the Headless Lady of Rowanclere."

  * * *

  Jake carried Scooter in one arm, his saddlebags over his shoulder, and a small satchel in the other as his beautiful landlady led him along a warren of hallways and staircases. At one point as he followed Mrs. Dunbar up a narrow, spiral set of steps, he warily eyed the bulge beneath her gown and said, "I'm sure I can find my way myself, ma'am. No need for you to make this climb in your condition."

  She flashed him an amused smile. "Worried, sir?"

  "Terrified, ma'am."

  She laughed. "Ach, Mr. Delaney, you remind me of my Uncle Angus. No need for concern. I'm fit as can be, and the bairn will not be arriving for months yet. Now, tell me what is wrong with the puir wee beastie."

  "She hurt her back and can't move her hindquarters," Jake replied as Mrs. Dunbar paused outside an arched wooden door. "Her owner was a... friend I made in London, and she couldn't bear to put her pet down so she asked me to see to it. When the moment arrived, those big brown eyes got to me and I couldn't do it, either. But Scooter here has adjusted to her problem so I decided to keep her."

  "Are not you the kind one."

  "No, I wouldn't say that. I'm a... " Jake's voice trailed off as the door swung open. The room was dominated by a bed hung in deep green and gold silk. The tables sitting on either side were a heavy oak and old, and while the marble mantel was fancy enough, the room lacked the delicate froufrou he'd come to expect from British guest rooms. It was homey. A man's room. "Well, isn't this nice. I've always liked this shade of green."

  "Thank you. This particular guest chamber is my favorite."

  "It's nice of y'all to put me up, Mrs. Dunbar. I want you to know how much I appreciate the opportunity to include Rowanclere in my study of castles. I'm told you don't often entertain visitors here."

  Judging from the color creeping up her cheeks, he had embarrassed her. "Rowanclere is a simple household and but for my elderly uncle, primarily one of women.
We have learned to be careful. Your letters of reference, however, assured us you are safe."

  Safe? Jake debated whether or not to be insulted. He also noted the lady made no mention of a husband. Was the ring on her finger an excuse? Was her pregnancy part of their being careful? Ordinarily he'd consider such questions none of his business, but in light of the purpose behind his visit, he knew not what piece of information might prove of value.

  Mrs. Dunbar pointed out a few features of the room, then said, "Your letter indicated your home is in Texas. From what part of the state do you hail? My brother once visited a town called Dallas."

  "I'm from San Antonio, ma'am," he said, striding over to the window. "That's a good ways south of Dallas. Did your brother have business there?"

  "Nae. He wished to see Dallas, Texas, the town named after our own." She wrinkled her nose and added, "He's gone exploring, Mr. Delaney, for no better reason than he wanted to do it."

  "A man after my own heart, then. I hope to do a bit of that myself soon. Once I'm finished with my book, that is. I... well, now!" he exclaimed, distracted by the view of the loch and hills beyond outside his window. "If this isn't one of the prettiest sights I've seen since leaving home."

  It was, he concluded, spectacular enough to rival his hostess' face.

  They spoke of the countryside around Rowanclere for a few minutes, then she said, "I have kept you from your comfort long enough. Dinner is served at eight in the dining room, but if you prefer a tray in your room we shall be happy to provide it. Also, you are welcome to make use of the library, billiard room, and drawing room downstairs should you so desire. We've an excellent selection of whisky any time you've a mind for a wee dram." She gestured toward a cabinet against the far wall and added, "You'll find a bottle of the local barley bree there."

  "I could use something to warm my insides," Jake said with a smile.

  "The Rowanclere malt will certainly do that."

  "Do you mind if I build a fire?"

  Mrs. Dunbar's brows arched as if to say This time of day? Audibly, she said only, "I'll send a maid immediately."

  "No need. I'll do it. I prefer it, in fact. A man who builds his own fire warms himself twice." Also, doing it himself meant he built the blaze to suit him. In England, they'd always made puny little fires that hardly warmed a man's hand, much less his bones.