The glint of light off metal blades of swords, knives, claymores, and battle-axes added an air of threat, or menace. So, too, did the moan of wind as it blew through the sheep's horn Jake had hung outside the muniment room for just such a purpose.
Puffing a bit with the effort of having carried the dead-weight man up and down several flights of stairs, Jake approached the large, thronelike lord's chair he'd prepared for Harrington. Bending over, he heaved the earl into the seat. Sort of. The Englishman's arms flopped over the armrests to dangle at the sides. His behind slid down until it hung half on, half off the seat.
Through it all, he continued to snore. "Loud enough to scare away the ghosts if we had any," Jake grumbled. Still, he was well pleased with the progression of matters so far. Now to make those final preparations, after which he would settle back and wait for the curtain's rise.
Which would happen, he hoped, before Gillian figured out that the spooking spot had changed, that he hadn't taken the earl down to the dungeon room, the setting of the original plan. The place where she awaited him even now.
Gillian was too soft, too tenderhearted in her own obdurate way. She'd try to interfere with the haunting Jake had in mind. But he wouldn't let that happen. He wanted it done this way, and by God, he was the bogle. "I get to be the boss."
He puttered around the room for a few minutes, rearranging weapons and stirring up the pot of old raw scraps and blood he'd hidden beneath Harrington's chair to add that special, battle-decayed odor to the scene. That done, he checked his watch and figured how much time had passed since Harrington ingested the medicine. Hmm... another half-hour or so ought to do it.
"Good," he murmured softly. That would give him just enough time to put on his makeup and get rewrapped in the damned dress. Dragging the earl around had played hell with the pleats in his plaid. Judging by the draft, Jake suspected he might be flashing a cheek, too. That would never do. How intimidating a ghost would he be with a flesh-and-blood butt hanging out?
Jake's lips twisted in a cocksure grin. "Now, flashing my sword would be a different matter entirely."
* * *
"How long from the moment of death would it take a Texan to transform into a boodie?" Gillian muttered, eyeing an old, rusted sword. If the timing were right, she might consider assisting Jake through the transformation.
Three o'clock in the morning, and he had her waiting for him in a dungeon room. A dungeon room a short distance away from the castle crypt. A crypt filled with Rowanclere dead going back centuries.
Not to mention spiders.
Gillian swallowed hard. She'd give him five more minutes, then she would leave.
She lasted three and a half. The scurrying noise off to her left sent her rushing upstairs.
Her heart pounded with both temper and fear as she escaped the dungeon and hurried to Lord Harrington's room. She wasn't particularly surprised to find it empty. And it wasn't because she expected to find him with Jake's mother.
Jake had him. She'd bet the Declaration on it.
As expected, when she peeked into Elizabeth Delaney's suite she found the lady alone in her bed, deeply asleep. A quick check of the other guest rooms along that section of the hall turned up nothing, and she realized she needed a more efficient way to trace Jake Delaney through Rowanclere's numerous rooms, nooks, and crannies. If the Texan got creative, finding him could take hours.
Gillian knew just the thing to assist her.
After a brief visit to her own bedroom where she removed the belt from her oldest robe, Gillian made her way to Robbie's room where Jake's crippled mutt lay sleeping in her sister's arms. Plucking Scooter from the bed, she tried to ignore the wet tongue that licked its way up her neck and onto her face. "Stop that, now," she murmured, turning her head away, trying to scowl, but smiling instead.
"Gilly? Is that you?" asked Robbie, her voice slurred with sleep as she twisted around in her sheets and sat up.
"Aye. I need to borrow Scooter for a short bit. I shall bring her back to you soon."
"All right."
She burrowed headfirst back beneath her covers and Gillian flipped the blanket up over her sister's bare feet before retreating from the room. Once out in the hallway, Gillian set Scooter on the floor, slipped the belt around her belly, and lifted her hindquarters off the floor, saying, "Find Jake, Scooter."
It didn't work quite like she had planned. Instead of taking her to Jake, the dachshund led her to the buttery and the bowl of meat scraps Mrs. Ferguson left near the dog's favorite spot beside the hearth. "Eat up quickly," she impatiently urged. In that much, at least, the dog obeyed her.
Once the food bowl was empty and the water bowl sampled, Gillian tried again. "Jake. Find Jake. Find that lying Texan."
Scooter sneezed twice, then started off. "Guid dog," she encouraged. "I was wrong to call you those bad names before. But we're getting along better now, right? Guid puppy. Find Jake."
She kept her gaze on the ground and the dachshund, lifting her up staircases, then setting her back down. Gillian kept up a whispered stream of praise the entire time, feeling quite proud of herself for thinking to use the mutt to find the Texan scoundrel. With her attention divided between the dog and what she planned to do to Jake once she found him, she didn't realize just where Scooter was leading her until they reached the bedchamber door.
"No," she groaned. All the mutt had done was use Gillian for transportation assistance to a late night snack and back to bed. Glaring down at the dog, she added, "I said find Jake, not go eat a steak!"
Scooter jerked from her hold and dragged herself quickly toward the bed. There she let out a whimper and Robbie lifted her head from her pillow. Leaning over the bed, she scooped the hound up into her arms, then tucked the traitor in beside her. "Thanks for taking her downstairs for me, Gilly. What did Mrs. Ferguson leave for her tonight?"
"Beef." Gillian, on the other hand, was left with a plateful of crow.
Briefly, she considered giving up for the night and finding her own bed. But the sense of urgency riding her blood wouldn't let her. Something was telling her she had best find Jake and Lord Harrington.
Quickly.
Chapter 10
Lord Harrington sat in the old laird's chair in the center of the room, his eyes round and wary, his face chalky.
Jake stood before a crackling, crimson fire dressed in the feileadh mor, complete with knife, sword, and shield. In his hands he held a broadsword, which he swung in a slow, steady effortless arch from right to left, over and over again.
He was having the time of his life.
Jake had submerged himself in specterhood. He'd bathed himself in bogledom and reveled in his wraithness. If he'd known playing a ghost would be so much fun, he wouldn't have spent all that time rigging up the tricks. This was working so good, he wouldn't need them at all.
"Let me tell you a story," Jake said to the cowering Englishman. He banged the blade of the claymore against a leg of the chair and added, "You can make up your own mind about how you want to act once I'm done."
The odor from the bucket of blood and sheep entrails he'd set beneath the earl's chair floated up and smacked him like a fist. Maybe he'd gone a bit overboard with that. Hiding his reaction, he retreated to a more safely-scented position and spoke in the burr he'd been practicing with Angus. "Ye summoned me to study me, so ye must reap what ye have sown. Ye want to write about me own self in your Spiritualist Magazine, to invade me privacy, to disturb me unrest. So I will gie ye what ye want, Lord Harry. Do with it what ye will. I am Ciaran, younger brother to the first laird of Rowanclere. This castle has been my home for centuries. I was murdered in my sleep in my own bed along with my lover, a bonny, buxom lass from the village. She was a sweet piece, and how was I to know the knap to whom she was wed was more than mortal? She complained of his performance atween the sheets all the time."
Jake shook his head sadly. "Those fairies, they are a heckle to understand."
"Fairies?" the Englishman
croaked.
"Aye. Cursed me afore he killed me, he did. And take note, Lord Harry. The curse extends to any and all men who step beneath Rowanclere's roof and dare to treat any woman with less than respect. Only gentlemen may sleep safely beneath this castle's roof. Succumb to a rogue's behavior with the lady with whom you travel and be prepared to die yourself."
"I haven't acted less than gentlemanly."
Jake released the claymore and it clattered against the stone. Softly, he demanded, "And you won't."
"Of course not. I would never insult my hostess, and my companion is a lady whom I love and intend to marry. I wouldn't dream of dishonoring my Elizabeth."
Jake froze. "What did you say?"
"I'd rather die than dishonor my lady love."
"No, the other part. You want to..." Jake cleared his throat."...marry her?"
The earl nodded. "As soon as possible. We'd be married already if I had my wish."
Jake slumped into a chair. "Why hasn't she agreed?"
"She must have her son's blessing first."
Damn. Jake dragged his hand along his jaw, ignoring the greasy slide of the paint against his palm. "How long have you known her?"
Harrington paused for a long moment, his eyes narrowed as he studied Jake. Jake could all but see the wheels turning in the Englishman's brain, and when the silent question entered the older man's eyes, Jake stared back boldly, challengingly. A moment of silent communication passed between them.
Harrington's voice was stronger when next he spoke. Stronger and almost, well, kind. "Years and years. We were children together. Our parents were best of friends. She recently returned to England from America and we've renewed our acquaintance during the past five months."
"Five months? And you didn't meet the son during all that time?"
"Elizabeth is nervous about the introductions. Apparently her son is extremely protective of her, having admirably stepped into his father's shoes following Mr. Delaney's death."
Hell. "And why was she so nervous? Is there a reason the son wouldn't approve of the match? Are you impoverished? Given to excessive drink? Do you have a bevy of mistresses established in houses all over London?"
His color restored, Harrington smiled. "None of those. I daresay my wealth rivals that of your grand... uh, of the Earl of Thornbury, my darling's father. I am only an occasional drinker and as far as mistresses go, I rid myself of any encumbrances when Elizabeth reentered my life."
Damn and hell.
The earl continued, "My love is nervous about a meeting between myself and her son because she worries he'll not take kindly to another man following his father's footsteps. She hopes he'll give me the opportunity to explain that I would never try to replace his father, that I understand Mr. Delaney will always hold a piece of Elizabeth's heart. We both pray he'll believe that I will cherish his mother, protect her with my life, and love her until the day I die."
Dammit to hell. "Does she love you?"
"She has told me she does and I believe Elizabeth Delaney is a woman of her word."
"That's true." Jake picked the claymore off the floor and began tapping the blade against the stone as he considered all he'd just learned. Why was this so unsettling? Wasn't marriage infinitely better for his mother than the clandestine love affair he'd previously imagined? And wouldn't marriage to a British earl make it all the easier for Jake to sail away on his adventures with a clear conscience? Then another thought occurred, and he looked up and fired a glare at Harrington. "Does this romance between the two of you have anything to do with her overly enthusiastic efforts to see her son wed?"
The earl shrugged, as best a man could do while bound to a chair, anyway. "She is in love. Her daughter is in love. She feels her son should find similar joy. And too, she dreads the thought of these travels he is so intent to take. She will miss him desperately, you know."
"I know." Jake sighed heavily. He continued to roll the matter over and over in his mind, his protectiveness toward his mother still strong, but under siege by the honesty in the Earl of Harrington's declarations. Finally, on the verge of surrender, he posed the only legitimate objection he managed to think of. "What about this ghost-hunting hobby of yours? That sort of thing can be dangerous."
Dryly, the earl replied, "So I have recently come to understand."
Jake shot him another glare.
Harrington said, "I have a true curiosity about the supernatural and I intend to continue to pursue my interests. Whether or not Elizabeth will come to share my fascination for the subject. I cannot say. I have said I will protect her with my life and I mean that. However, a man who dreams of sailing around the world should understand that a life worth living involves a risk or two, don't you agree?"
Jake couldn't bring himself to give in. Not completely. Not yet.
"I love your mother to distraction, Jake Delaney, and she loves me in return. Our fondest wish is to marry. Will you give us your blessing?"
Dammit to hell and back.
"Oh, I guess so. But mind my word, Harrington," Jake stood and pointed the claymore toward his soon-to-be stepfather's face. "If you ever hurt her, I'll kill you."
"On my word of honor, I will never hurt your mother."
Jake nodded, then realized he had another problem. "And while you're at it, I want you to swear you won't tell her about what went on here tonight."
Now the earl scowled. "I won't lie to Elizabeth."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you not to say anything about my being here at Rowanclere, not until I've had a chance to explain it. I know my mother. She's not gonna be happy about..." He waved his arm around the muniment room. "... all this. You've got to promise to let me tell her in my own way in my own time."
"I don't like it, but all right. You have my word. I will not mention to Elizabeth that I have met her son."
"Good." Jake grinned, feeling a bit relieved. No one gave a tongue-lashing like his mother. He would be glad to avoid it in this instance.
He loosened Harrington's bonds, then helped him to his feet. "I don't know about you, but I can use a drink. Want to join me?"
Harrington clapped him on the back. "I'd be honored. Jake. I hear they make a damn fine whisky in this part of the world."
* * *
Gillian found the two men sharing a bottle in Angus's whisky room. They were laughing together—laughing!—as Jake the traitor said, "...she plopped down on her stomach to look for the gum and when she stood up, her 'baby' had dropped."
Feeling as cold as the icy waters of Loch Rowanclere in the middle of a hard winter, she stepped into the room, "Jake, may I have a word with you in private, please?"
He glanced up at her in surprise, then winced. "Gillian"
"So you do remember me? I thought you might have forgotten, considering you failed to meet me in the dungeon as promised."
She sailed into the room, temper sizzling in her blood. Through the haze of her anger, she spied the remnants of white paint upon his lying face and she noted his apparent comfort in the feileadh mor. "Lovely. Simply lovely. What a perfect way to cap off a perfectly wretched evening."
Lord Harrington eyed her, then Jake, and pushed to his feet. Tossing back the last sip of his drink, he set down the glass and said, "If you will excuse me, Miss Ross, I believe it is time I found my bed. Goodnight."
Gillian didn't bother to respond. She was too busy flinging visual arrows at Jake. When they were alone, she braced her hands on her hips and demanded, "Would you care to explain what happened tonight?"
Jake refilled his glass. "To be perfectly honest, no."
"You ruined it, didn't you? You gave the game away?"
"Uh, yes, I'm afraid I did."
"Deil swarbit on, Jake Delaney!" she cursed him. "I knew it when I saw the scene you set in the muniment room. That's where you took him, wasn't it? What did you do? Did you stomp around and swing a broadsword while threatening a man on account of his love interest? Never mind that the man is a scholar. Never
mind he knows a billy-blin from a banshee and would know the moment you spoke that you were no apparition. You didn't give a care about convincing him Rowanclere truly is haunted, did you? You forgot all about Uncle Angus and our need to sell Rowanclere to Lord Harrington."
Jake scratched at the paint that still clung to his face and winced. "Yes, you pretty much covered it."
Gillian literally growled at him.
He held up his hands, palms out, and said, "Look, Gillian. It'll be all right. I'll fix it."
"How?"
"I don't know. I'll come up with something." He raked an impatient hand through his hair. "Cut me some slack, here, woman. I haven't had time to think about anything except my mother's future. Harrington told me he wants to marry her."
"How lovely. Your mother is getting married." She advanced on him, feeling mean and angry and completely devastated. "In the meantime, my puir Uncle Angus will die because he's forced to endure another winter at Rowanclere! You've killed him, Jake Delaney."
"Wait just one minute. Angus is not gonna die, not because of what happened tonight, anyway. I told you I'd fix it and I will."
Suddenly, the emotion of the night caught up with Gillian. Weariness like she'd never known before overcame her and swept the starch from her spine. "I don't believe you. Why should I believe you? You're a man and when has a man in my life ever kept his promises?"
"Ah. Gilly."
She walked toward the hearth where a fire flickered and held her hands out to the soothing warmth. She was cold. She was cold and tired and sad to her soul. When Jake's arms slipped around her and he pulled her back against him, she didn't have the energy to fight him.
"You can believe me, princess. I don't make many promises, but when I do, I keep 'em."
To her dismay, she felt tears swell and slip from her eyes. Soon they were spilling like water over rocks in a burn.
Sizzle All Day, Bad Luck Wedding #4 (Bad Luck Abroad) Page 16