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.
"Very well. I'll leave you to your ease then, Mr. Delaney."
Jake was already reaching for the whisky before his hostess cleared the door. He poured a healthy amount into a glass, then took a generous sip. The liquor left behind a smooth, smoky taste as it burned down his throat and hit his stomach. Rays of welcome warmth spread through him.
Scooter dragged herself to his feet and whimpered. "No," Jake told her, his smile apologetic. "This is not for you. Let me get a fire going, though, and you can have the prime spot in front of it."
Jake set about the task, and soon felt a welcome heat steal over him. Scooter plopped down to the left side of the hearth, so he took the right. "Feels good, doesn't it?" he said to the dog as he warmed his hands.
He'd have loved to take a hot bath, but after downing a second drink, he decided to settle for a change of clothes. To that end, he removed pants, a shirt, and clean underwear from his satchel and hung them near the hearth to warm. Then, pulling a rocking chair close to the fireplace, he sat, tugged off his boots and socks, and stuck his feet toward the fire. Heat soaked into his skin and he groaned aloud. It felt so damned good.
A few minutes later, greedy for more of that delicious warmth, he stood and shucked out of the rest of his clothes, toasting his front side first.
From behind him, he heard Scooter start to whine. "What's the matter, girl? Why did you leave the fire? You need to stay over here if you're cold."
Ordinarily, the dachshund would tug her way toward the sound of his voice, but this time Scooter ignored him. Curious and with his front side finally warm, Jake turned his back toward the heat and—
What the hell?
A filmy white figure floated where a portion of the room's plastered wall appeared to have dissolved. Jake's heart leapt to his throat. He stared at the apparition holding a glowing lantern at its side in one hand, and its... oh, God...
It held its head in the other.
Jake took an inadvertent step backward.
At the same instant, the ghost let out a squeal. "Where are your breeks?"
Jake froze in shock at the very human voice, and a number of things happened at once. The fire hissed, then popped. It spat out an ember that landed on his rear. He jumped as pain shot into his skin, then grabbed the nearby water pitcher, intending to cool the burn.
While Jake tended his posterior. Scooter darted forward and began nipping at the ghost. In addition to the dog's barks, Jake heard a tearing sound from the direction of the wall as he doused his left buttock.
Then the figure literally lost her head.
It rolled toward him, its long tresses twisting like a golden rope. The pitcher slipped from Jake's grip and shattered against the stone floor. Revulsion swept over him, even as he recognized the object as nothing more than a painted wooden model. When it rumbled to a halt at his feet, he stared at it in frozen surprise until a distinctly feminine gasp grabbed his attention.
His gaze trailed the length of white cloth that now stretched between Scooter's teeth up to the prettiest set of plump, rosy-tipped breasts he'd seen this side of the Atlantic.
"Well now," he murmured, breathing hard. He took a step forward even as the lamp flickered off, the opening in the wall closed, and the figure disappeared.
Damn. That was no ghost. That was a flesh-and-blood woman. And fine flesh it was.
Bending down, he lifted the head by the hair and held it out in front of him, studying the grotesquely painted face in the firelight. What sort of trick was this? What had she been trying to accomplish?
He stood there, naked, pulse finally beginning to slow as he stared at the wooden head dangling from his hand.
Then a voice seemed to come from the mouth mere inches from his manhood.
"My, my, my," said the snickering ghost. "I have long been told they grow things bigger in Texas. Now I see it is the truth."
Jake yelped and the head hit the floor with a thud.
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Excerpt from
The Bad Luck Wedding Night
Bad Luck Abroad
Book Three
by
Geralyn Dawson
© 2001, 2011 by Geralyn Dawson Williams
It's bad luck to marry in May, on Friday, or on an odd-numbered day, especially the Thirteenth.
Chapter 1
Friday, May 13
Fort Worth, Texas 1877
In the two-room honeymoon suite at the Blackstone Hotel, Sarah Ross extended her left arm, wiggled her fingers, and smiled with delight as the lamplight glistened off the shiny gold band. "Mrs. Nicholas Ross," she murmured with a sigh. "Sarah Ross. Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Ross."
Happiness bubbled up inside her as she clutched her ring hand to her chest and twirled around. Her wedding gown billowed in a cloud of satin and lace, and she laughed aloud. She was gleefully, joyously, jubilantly in love with being in love. "Oh, Abby. Wasn't the wedding wonderful?"
Sarah's best friend, Abigail Reese, smiled dreamily and nodded. "It was a fairy tale. Everything about it. Your wedding was without a doubt the most spectacular this town has ever seen."
"That's sweet of you to say."
"It's true, though. The flowers especially were divine. Whatever gave you the idea to give miniature rose bouquets to all the little girls in the congregation?"
"They were perfect, weren't they?" Beaming, Sarah kicked off a slipper. "I believe now more than ever that a wedding should be enjoyed by both family and guests. The perfect wedding should create warm memories that will linger in the minds of all who attend—not just the bride and groom. The bouquets were part of my effort to make those memories."
"You accomplished that." Abby brought her own bridesmaid bouquet up to her face and inhaled the sweet scent of roses. "Did you hear all the squeals?"
"I did."
"And so did the girls' parents and the other guests. Sarah, those sounds of delight were as much a part of the wedding music as the songs the organist played." Abby sighed and set down her bouquet. "Plus they perfumed the church and enhanced its beauty."
"St. Paul's is lovely, but a bit dark. All that yellow helped make it bright and cheerful inside, but more important, the flowers made each girl feel like a bridesmaid. They'll have fond memories of my wedding for years to come. Now the boys might have preferred something other than the little wish boxes we passed out, but I think they'll put them to good use. Tommy Wilson said he wished his way out of church during the ceremony."
She smiled slyly as she kicked off her second shoe and added, "While the girls dreamed of their own wedding day, the boys wished themselves far away."
Abby laughed. "But they were quiet."
"They were quiet." Sarah wiggled her toes. "And their parents enjoyed the ceremony."
"You have a special talent," Abby said, staring wistfully into th
e future. "I hope someday you'll help me plan my wedding."
"Of course I'll help. I'll be honored to do so." She clasped her friend's hands and gave them a squeeze. "And I hope that stubborn Jerry Johnson quits piddling around and asks for your hand soon. Wouldn't it be lovely to do a Christmas season wedding? I have lovely ideas about poinsettias."
"Christmas! Maybe Christmas two years from now. My papa is different from your mother, Sarah. He thinks sixteen is too young to marry."
Sarah wrinkled her nose. "I never told you this, but my mama tried to convince us to delay the wedding until I turn seventeen in August, but Nick and I didn't want to wait. May weather is so much more pleasant for wedding festivities, and besides, I can't wait to move into the house Nick has built for us. I can't wait to put all our beautiful wedding gifts to use. Did you see the silver service the Washingtons sent?"
"I did. I love the curlicues on the end of the handles."
"I do, too. I intend to display it atop the teacart my aunt and uncle gave us."
"It'll be beautiful. Just like the wedding and just like the bride." Abby beamed a teasing smile Sarah's way and added, "Nick looked poleaxed when you started down the aisle on your uncle's arm."
Dreamily, Sarah recalled the moment. "He was the one who looked beautiful. That thick dark hair and those brilliant blue eyes. Oh, Abby, when he smiles at me I feel a flutter all the way to my toes."
"Sometimes when he smiles at you, his eyes get a wicked gleam in them. I'll never forget how at your piano recital last month he slouched against the wall with his arms folded. He never once looked away from you, and when you finished your piece, he straightened up and clapped real slow."
Sarah sighed breathlessly. "Then he winked at me."
"And you blushed pink as your dress. Wilhemina Peters leaned over to my mama and said, 'John Simpson must be rolling over in his grave at the notion of his little girl with that boy. Nicholas Ross is a devil in denim.' "
Sarah sniffed. "My papa would have liked Nick. He's no devil. He may look a little dangerous since he's so tall and broad for a man of eighteen, but he's really sweet and kind and gentle."
"Maybe she meant devil in a good way," Abby reassured her. "But it's good that he's gentle with you. That will make tonight easier."
Both girls' gazes traveled toward the tall poster bed partially visible through the half-opened doorway into the suite's second room. Sarah's stomach took a nervous roll.
Tonight. The bedding. Though she'd managed to avoid dwelling on it during the festivities, the subject had hovered at the edge of her mind all day. She couldn't ignore it any longer. Not since her mother had sent her up to the room to prepare for her new husband's arrival.
Sarah sank into a chair and shut her eyes. She loved Nick. She really, truly did. But all in all, she'd rather crawl under the bed and hide than crawl into it with Nick.
Abby cleared her throat. "Did your mama have a talk with you about it? Did she tell you what to expect? I've been dying to know, Sarah."
Sarah swallowed a little moan. "Yes, she spoke with me, although I almost wish she hadn't. You know this isn't the first time we've discussed it. I've told you what she said in the past. What she had to add today was... well... just a little more detailed."
Eyes going round and wide, Abby sat on the sofa across from Sarah. "You mean she didn't take it back? All the previous talk was true? She didn't say it to scare you off from acting loose?"
"It's all true," Sarah said glumly. "And I hate to tell you, but according to the new information she told me today... well... It is even worse than we thought."
"No! You mean the part about the tongue is true?"
Sarah felt the warmth of a blush steal up her throat. "Uh, actually, I know about that myself. That part is kinda nice."
If possible, Abby's eyes went even rounder. "Why, Sarah Simpson. Or, I should say, Sarah Ross. You let Nick use his tongue? Before you were married?"
"Technically, it was a kiss. Mama always said kisses were allowed with a fiancé. Besides, sometimes he gets all het up and the Scot comes out in his voice. The sound of it makes me go all soft and... willing."
"But still..." Abby leaned forward, her eyes bright "His tongue? And you liked it?"
Embarrassed now, Sarah nodded.
Abby waited. When her friend failed to elaborate, she said, "Well. Maybe you'll like the rest of it, too." After a moment's pause, she asked, "What is the rest?"
Sarah wasn't certain how much she should say. Mama told her a lady didn't discuss the private side of marriage, not even with her husband, except to prepare her own daughter when the time came. But she and Abby had always shared secrets, and if Abby learned the truth now she'd have enough time to get used to the idea before she herself married.
Sarah thought that would be a good thing. She certainly wished she'd had more than one day to prepare herself. She might not be so scared in that case.
She cleared her throat. "Remember last year she told me how men sometimes want to pinch and pull at women's bosoms?"
"Yes, and I know that's true because one time not long ago my papa wasn't paying attention, and he took a wrong turn on the way home from church and we drove through Hell's Half Acre. I saw a man with his hands on a painted lady's breasts."
"Well," Sarah said, wincing, "according to what Mama told me this morning, men like to do more than touch. Mama says that sometimes men act like babies and suck on them."
Abigail's mouth dropped open. "No."
"Uh-huh. And that's not the worst of it." Sarah drew a deep breath, then exhaled with a sigh. Frowning, she leaned forward and crooked a finger, gesturing her friend to come closer. Then she whispered, "Mama says his tallywhacker will turn into a Rod of Steel, and he'll want to put it between my legs and ram it into me until I bleed."
Abigail responded with a horrified gasp. "What?"
"I know." Sarah's stomach took another roll. "It's awful. She says it hurts, but it's a woman's lot in life, and the reward is children, which makes it worth the pain. And, she said maybe I'll be lucky and have a considerate husband who will get it over with fast."
Eyes glazed with shock, Abby slumped back against the sofa. "Oh my. A Rod of Steel. Oh my. Do you believe her?"
Sarah swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "My mother doesn't lie."
The two girls sat quietly for a time, pondering the mystery. Finally Sarah said, "I've tried to be sensible about this. If it's as bad for every woman as it was for my mother, the human race would have died out long ago. Men might be stronger and physically able to force their desires on women, but we have the advantage of our superior intelligence."
"That is true," Abby said, her yellow hair ribbon swinging as she nodded in agreement.
"So, if it is that awful, surely women would have figured out a way to avoid it long ago. Or make it better, anyway."
"I think some women actually like it," Abby declared. "How else could one explain mistresses? Soiled doves might be forced into the life by circumstance, but from what I've heard while eavesdropping on Mother's quilting circle, some women actually choose to have affairs with men. They must like to do it."
"True." Sarah sighed. Actually, she had considered that notion herself Her stomach almost always got fluttery when Nick kissed her, and once after they'd been kissing for a long time, he'd pulled away groaning and said she was wicked. She'd certainly felt wicked at the time. Hesitantly, she put her question to her friend. "Maybe I'm an evil woman, too, and I just don't know it."
"You're not evil, Sarah, although in this one case it might be better if you were." Abby stood and paced the room, pausing beside the wardrobe where Sarah's veil hung like a lace waterfall. She fingered the seed pearls at the crown and gave a nervous little laugh. "All of a sudden I'm glad Jerry is stubborn, and my papa won't permit me to marry anytime soon."
"All of a sudden, I wish I were still a fiancée, not a bride. I adored being a fiancée."
Abby stepped away from the veil and crossed the ro
om to sit beside her friend. Taking Sarah's hand in hers, she said, "Are you certain you want to go through with this? Do you have to do it? Is it a law or something? Maybe you could talk Nicholas into playing chess instead. You said he loves to play chess."
"I get the feeling he's gonna love doing it more," Sarah replied, recalling the hardness she'd felt against her when he'd tongue-kissed her senseless at her front door after walking her home last night. For a minute she'd wondered if he carried a pistol in his pocket, then she'd realized it must have been his Rod of Steel.
Sarah wanted to bury her head in her hands and shudder and shake. Instead, she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. "It will be fine. I'll be fine. I love our new home, and I can't wait to arrange all the pretty gifts we received. I look forward to cooking for Nick—he loves my molasses cookies—and I'll plant roses by the front door and wash our clothes on Mondays, and we'll attend the Literary Society meetings on the third Thursday of every month. I want to do all those things. I look forward to doing all those things. We'll have a happy life, Nick and I, and someday we'll have children. I vowed to be his wife for better or worse. I keep my word, Abby. I won't deny him his husbandly rights."
"Oh, Sarah, you are much braver than I."
Sarah squared her shoulders and spoke in a martyred tone. "No, I'm a wife now, and I will accept my lot as such. Besides, Nick has always been a considerate man. Maybe I'll be lucky and he'll be quick about it."
* * *
Nicholas Ross wondered if acute sexual frustration could make a man ill. Considering he'd been walking around with his wick constantly lit for weeks now, he was in trouble if that were the case.
Luckily, it was almost time to take the cure, and Sarah was certainly the cure for everything that ailed him.
Nick grinned at the thought. Actually, he'd grinned at just about anything and everything today. For the first time in a long time, he was happy. He had a family again.
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