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

by Geralyn Dawson

  He couldn't believe he'd gotten himself into this mess. A skirt. A damned skirt. If anyone from home ever saw him he'd never live it down. "I want to renegotiate."

  "No. Pull off your boots and your shirt. You can leave your trousers on for now."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I am about to demonstrate the proper way to don the feileadh mor, or belted plaid. It is a bit complicated, so you shall need practice dressing yourself. Rowanclere cannot have a ghaist who is not comfortable in his plaid."

  All thought of his pending humiliation fled when Jake realized Gillian Ross was telling him to strip. His mind filled with images of a pair of naked bodies rolling on the bed before him.

  Jake stood without moving, watching mutely, while the woman laid a brown leather belt across the bed, then spread the tartan lengthwise atop it. He stared from his bed to Gillian, then back to the bed again.

  She was all business as she explained her actions. "Now watch how I fold the tartan neatly in transverse pleats. You will want to leave a foot or so unpleated as aprons on each end."

  Jake need only lay his hand on her posterior and give her a tiny push and she would fall upon his bed, there for the taking. He cleared his throat. "I'm not doing this."

  Impatience simmered in the look she sent over her shoulder. "Take off your boots and shirt and lie down, Texas. Align your knees with its lower edge."

  "No, I said."

  She stepped away from the bed and folded her arms. Her gaze swept over him in a scathing glance. "So law means nothing to you? And you, an advocate? Have you no honor? Your contract is not worth the price of paper and ink?"

  He hadn't meant he wouldn't wear the skirt. He'd meant he wouldn't wear the woman. "Gillian—"

  "I'm surprised, Delaney. Uncle Angus has often told us how Texans tend to exaggerate and redefine the truth to suit their moods. However, he also says that a Texan's word freely given was worthy of trust. He says a man's honor is held in great regard in Texas. It appears my uncle is wrong."

  "He isn't wrong. That's not what I... oh, forget it." Jake sat on the bed and stuck out his foot, silently demanding her assistance at pulling his boots. "By the way, if I want to whine, it is well within my rights to do so. I may have to do this, but there is nothing in that contract that says I can't grouse about it while it's happening."

  The relaxation in her shoulders and spine at his capitulation was subtle, but unmistakable. Jake realized then that despite her bravado, Miss Gillian Ross had harbored doubts about the outcome of the argument. Maybe with a little patience and a bit of thought, he could find a way around this nonsense.

  She knelt and tugged at his left boot. The sight of her down on her knees before him was highly erotic, and Jake tried not to watch. He couldn't help himself. When the boot suddenly slid free and momentum carried her back onto her behind, she looked up at him and laughed, her blue eyes sparkling, warming him from the inside out.

  Gillian Ross could be a damned fine substitute for a fire. She removed the right boot, set it beside the left at the foot of the bed, then rose gracefully to her feet Automatically, Jake stood, too. Not six inches of space separated them.

  The warmth in his blood burned hotter, his will power waned. Acting on instinct, he lifted his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. "You want me to lie down? How?"

  She froze like a doe in a rifle sight. Time seemed to slow as her gaze traveled across his bare shoulders, then down his naked chest. Jake filled his lungs with jasmine-scented air that sent his senses reeling. Heat pooled in his loins.

  His own stare focused on Gillian's mouth and he leaned toward her.

  But she pulled back, whirled away, and reached for the bundle she'd carried upstairs. "We've no time to waste. Our guest arrives tomorrow and you need to learn this. Here," she tossed him a folded square of white linen. "I found this shirt in one of the trunks. I thought you might prefer to wear it as it will provide added warmth."

  Jake inspected the garment, noting laces instead of seams at the sleeves and down the front. He slipped it over his head and flexed his shoulders. A tight fit, but bearable. At least it fell past his backside and helped to conceal his body's reaction to Gillian Ross's attentions.

  "That's better," she murmured. "Next..."

  The devil in him made him rumble, "I'm at your service, Gillian."

  Her voice emerged in a thin, reedy squeak, "... the feileadh mor."

  She wouldn't look him in the eye as she placed her hands on his arms just below the shoulders and positioned him beside the mattress. His skin burned beneath her touch and again, he scented jasmine on the air. It was all he could do to rein in his needs. It wouldn't do to ravish the woman, no matter how much his body urged him to do so.

  Jake was a man in control of his own desires. He refused to be led around by his pecker. He'd sworn off that on his nineteenth birthday, the day he woke up in an Abilene whorehouse, three dissolute women in his bed, and a queasy sense of shame in his gut. He never wanted to experience that kind of self-disgust again.

  Gillian Ross could make him feel it.

  A spark smoldered between them that couldn't be denied. He sensed that even a little indulgence could feed the flame, make it flare and burn hot and out-of-control. In some cases, with some women, that would be a pleasant interlude. An enjoyable seduction.

  With Gillian, everything would be different.

  For as much as he liked to play with fire, he could not in good conscience dally with Gillian Ross. Despite her skill with feathers, Gillian was no sporting woman, and he would not treat her as such.

  Yet, he could offer her nothing more. He would leave Rowanclere in a matter of days. Africa, China, the Polynesian Isles. He'd waited half his life to be free to go exploring, free of responsibility, free of the ties that bound him so firmly to family and San Antonio, Texas. Now, finally, his time had come. He wouldn't let a hankering for a beautiful Scottish lass interfere with his plans.

  The safest course was not to touch her at all.

  Damn.

  While Jake lectured himself, Gillian pushed him down upon the bed, trying to act matter-of-factly, betrayed by the tremble in her hands. When she leaned over him, Jake's erection battled with his brain to take charge of his thinking.

  Maybe a little touching wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he could indulge a little. He could stop before it went too far. He was strong. He could handle this.

  God, he wanted her to handle him.

  As his gaze snagged on the generous swell of her bosom, another question occurred. Perhaps she wasn't as chaste as he assumed. Hell, she'd spied on him when he was naked. An innocent maiden would have run away screaming; Gillian made a most suggestive comment. Too, how did a beautiful young maiden come to learn how to dress a man in Highland garb unless she did a bit of the undressing that went along with it?

  Wishful thinking, Delaney?

  He didn't know. As much as he'd love to have her here and now, the thought of another man knowing her charms made his gut twist.

  Meanwhile, Gillian forged ahead, obviously anxious to put this intimacy behind them. "This is the difficult part. You must fold the unpleated ends across your body, first right, then left, making sure you do not disrupt the pleated part while you're about it."

  As she folded, her hands brushed his lower stomach, his hips, his thighs. Jake sucked in a deep breath as his cock swelled even more. Good thing he had his pants on.

  "Next the belt." She hesitated, her hands hovering on either side of his waist for the space of a heartbeat before she fastened the leather strap around him. Softly, she said, "Stand up and we'll finish it."

  He'd rather pull her down against him and finish it his way.

  Jake wanted Gillian Ross. He wanted her with an intensity he'd never felt with another woman. It surprised him, shocked him. Disconcerted him.

  He held out his hand for Gillian to help pull him to his feet. Her gaze flicked up, met his. He saw his own feelings of confusion and desire reflected in their depths.<
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  She clasped his hand and tugged. Jake rolled smoothly to his feet, but was slow to release her. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.

  Gillian yanked herself free of him and took a big step back. "The sporran. We need it. I shall bring it." She darted from the room as quickly as Scooter after a bird.

  Jake could breathe again.

  Alone now, he tugged at the bottom of the skirt that hit him a good two inches above the knees. Funny how naked the garment made him feel even with his pants still on. But then, if he were wearing just the skirt and not these britches that got tighter every time Gillian touched him, wouldn't he be a helluva lot more comfortable? Maybe these Scots had the right idea after all.

  "Hell, when in Rome," he muttered, his fingers reaching beneath the tartan.

  Jake dropped his pants, then kicked them out of the way. Walking over to the mirror, he braced his hands on his hips and studied his reflection. Hmm. Never realized my legs were so hairy.

  Turning sideways, he took two steps forward, then two back, watching the swing of the skirt. Hell, a good wind would bare him but good. Cool him down, too. Around Gillian, that would come in handy.

  The female in question knocked briskly on the door even as she waited into his room. "I have the sporran, Mr. De..."

  Her voice trailed off as her gaze dropped to his bare legs.

  "Laugh and I'll have to hurt you," Jake warned.

  "Oh, my. I see nothing to laugh about. You wear the feileadh mor as if it were made for you."

  With the approval in her tone, the tension returned. The air between them all but vibrated. "Gillian, I want—"

  She pasted on a cheery smile that looked as fake as her voice sounded false. "Excellent. It's a bonny fold, too. I must say I did a fine job of it, considering I've never worn the belted plaid myself."

  "I wondered about that. Just how did you learn to do this?"

  Had he not been watching closely, he'd have missed the shadow that crossed her face.

  "An old friend taught me."

  Suspicious, Jake waited for further explanation, but it wasn't forthcoming. His eyes narrowed. That was a damned strange reaction.

  Before he could pursue it, she gestured toward a gilt-edged mirror and spoke in an instructive tone. "Look in the glass. The hard part is done, and now you can adjust the plaid to suit your mood or the weather. Like this," she explained as she pulled the unpleated portion up over his shoulders, her touch brisk and businesslike. "You can wear it for a cloak. You'll like it this style because it is good for keeping warm."

  She stood at his side, close enough for him to detect that jasmine scent again. Never mind the feather spiders, this was true torture. "Yes, I can tell."

  If she heard the rueful note in his voice, she ignored it. "To wear it in the usual fashion, and in the manner in which our Brian Brodie should present himself, we shall drop the plaid from your shoulders so you are wearing the double skirt again."

  "Skirt? Let's use a different term, shall we, Gillian?"

  Damned if her lips didn't twitch into a grin. Damned if those beautiful blue eyes didn't sparkle.

  Jake glanced away from the intriguing sight and gritted his teeth. He didn't want to laugh. He wanted to howl. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and teach her how a Texan undressed.

  Instead, he tried to think of something else—anything else—and watched in the mirror as she took the outermost front part of the plaid, rolled it up a bit, then tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. Then, he found a distraction. "You've made me a tail," he protested.

  "Quit whining or I'll find you horns to match. Now, we take the right portion in front and your tail in back and join them on the shoulder with the brooch," she said, describing the actions as she performed them. "When we tuck the rest of the front into the belt, it appears you are only wearing a sash across your chest."

  Stepping back, she studied him, then nodded with satisfaction. "See how the left shoulder wrap allows freedom of your dominant arm for battle? Isn't that ingenious?"

  "Uh huh," he said, his attention caught by the purse of her mouth.

  "And Texas? That day you spent hiding at the watchtower? Had you been wearing the feileadh mor, all you'd need have done was remove the brooch like this..." she plucked the pin from his shoulders "...and you'd have had your pillow and blanket right there with you."

  As she gathered up the cloth to demonstrate, her hands brushed his arousal. Gillian jerked back and the tension between them flared thicker and hotter.

  Ever so slowly, Jake reached out a finger, touched the soft skin beneath her chin, and tilted her face up.

  "You stir me, Gillian Ross," he told her, his voice low and rough with desire. "You warm me like a San Antonio summer, and you make me want to take... what I shouldn't."

  "Jake... I..." She licked her lips.

  And he was lost.

  Chapter 8

  How could this man complain of being cold so much? He was fire inside. Kissing Jake Delaney was like diving headfirst into a volcano.

  His lips slashed across hers, urgent and insistent and hungry. His tongue probed and stroked and demanded her response. Gillian gave freely. Joyfully. With a wondrous sigh.

  Jake Delaney wanted her. Quite badly, judging by his reaction. The knowledge eased the burden of self-doubt that had weighted her heart for months. Her femininity had needed the affirmation. Receiving it allowed her passion to soar.

  Jittery with desire, Gillian poured herself into the kiss. She answered him nip for nip, stroke for stroke, and when he rumbled a low, greedy moan, she replied with a feral purr.

  His hands glided up her sides, cupped her breasts. His nails scratched across her erect nipples and a bolt of pure lust, hot and dangerous, shot from the tips of his fingers to the core of her womanhood.

  Unprepared for the intensity of the sensation, Gillian shied. She broke the kiss, stepped back from him, and wrapped her arms around herself, defensively, protectively. "I... I don't know... I didn't mean..."

  "Me either." Breathing hard, he looked away. Arms at his sides, his hands fisted, then flexed, then fisted again. "Kind of got away from us, didn't it?"

  It was a far cry from a declaration of devotion most any woman would hope to hear after such an intimate exchange. Something of her feelings must have shown in her expression because he hastened to say, "Make no mistake. You pack a punch, princess. A powerful punch."

  Uncertain how to respond to that, she settled for the truth. "So do you."

  The grin he flashed was a brazen combination of arrogance, wickedness, and masculinity. He tipped an imaginary hat and Gillian had an absurd mental flash of Jake Delaney dressed in the feileadh mor, but wearing his cowboy boots rather than stockings, a gunbelt instead of a dirk, and a wide-brimmed straw hat as opposed to the traditional Highland bonnet.

  That mental image burned away when he added a slow wink to the hat-tipping. A vivid memory replaced it—Jake Delaney standing naked in front of the fireplace his first night at Rowanclere.

  Gillian felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks.

  "So very beautiful," Jake murmured. "Prettier than the scene outside the tower window. Why, if a man had that view to look at outside, and you in his bed inside, he'd have to wonder if he'd died and gone to heaven."

  Her mouth was dry as Young Fergus's bones. "I cannot go to your bed, sir."

  He arched a brow. "I don't intend to ask you."

  She took it like a slap to the face, flinching backward as she said, "Oh."

  Jake grimaced and waved a hand. "No, I didn't mean it that way. Believe me, Gillian Ross, I want you in my bed. I want that very, very much."

  His deep, resonant tone rang with truth, soothing her hurt and stoking the still smoldering coals of her desire. "I don't understand. Why did you...?"

  He raked his fingers through his hair. "You questioned my honor earlier. Well, my own personal code has a paragraph or ten about how a man should treat a lady. I won't stay in Scotland, Gillia
n. I have plans... dreams... and for the first time in a very long time, I'll be free to pursue them as soon as I wrap up this business with the Declaration."

  He spoke to her at length, then, about his travel plans. He painted pictures of tropical flowers and sugar-sand beaches. He spoke of deserts and pyramids and jungles. "I want to see a tiger in the wild. Don't know why exactly, but it's something I've always dreamed of seeing. With Chrissy settled and my mother happily established in London Society, I'll be able to board my southbound ship in good conscience. Do you understand now, Gillian? Do you see why this can go no further?"

  "Aye, I believe I do."

  He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. "I will not take advantage of you, princess, no matter how much I'd like to do just that."

  "Well." Gillian picked up the sporran and smoothed down the fur adorning the flap. "Not every man feels as you do, Texas. I think I like you."

  "I know I like you." His laugh was rueful. "Too much."

  She handed him the sporran and instructed him how to fasten the strap around him so that the bag hung in front. It would have been easier to do it herself, but she had learned the danger of that. When he had arranged it to her satisfaction, she asked, "So, where does that leave us?"

  Jake sat on the bed and donned the stockings, then slipped the sgian-dhu in the right one at her direction. "This is one part of the costume I agree with."

  "I thought you might."

  Then he took a deep breath and added, "Since becoming lovers isn't in the cards, how about we give being friends a shot? I can always use another friend, Gillian."

  Friends, not lovers. Yes, that was better. She tried to ignore the sinking in her stomach as she nodded and said, "All right, friends it is."

  "Good. All right, then." His gaze stroked over her and he winced. "I think we'll be able to manage it, don't you?"

  "Aye."

  "As long as we don't touch. Touching is... dangerous."

  "Aye. No touching." Carefully, she handed him a pair of leather shoes with buckles on the top. "I hope these are not too small. They were the largest I could find."