Sizzle All Day (5 page)

"Just like Miss Gilly," the matron said, ducking her tongue. "She always has preferred to eat here. When will you gentry learn to act like gentry?"

"Who is Miss Gilly?"

She ignored the question and continued. "Guests will eat in the dining room. You will find a cheery fire built in the hairth and our breakfast is superb, if I'm allowed to boast a bit. I suggest the Arbroath smokie this morning. It is a fine bite of fish."

Jake knew a losing argument when staring down the wooden spoon at one, so he offered a rueful grin and said, "The food and fire sound wonderful, but could you tell me how to get to it without going back outside? It's colder than a banker's heart out there."

A kitchen maid flashed him a flirtatious smile and said, "I can show him up the servant's stairs, Mrs. Ferguson. That is the quickest way."

"Excellent," Jake hastened to say when Mrs. Ferguson appeared to hesitate. Along with finding the fireplace more quickly, this might give him the opportunity to clandestinely study the young woman's shape for the purpose of eliminating her as a spirit suspect. Every woman at Rowanclere was a possibility. Except for Mrs. Dunbar, that is. Jake's headless lady had no baby growing beneath the most lovely breasts Scooter had managed to reveal.

The flirtatious young kitchen maid—whom he quickly deduced was not his ghost due to an overabundance of hip—chattered like a mockingbird as she led him up the narrow servants' staircase. In short order he learned that the elderly laird of the castle, Angus Ross, was slowly recovering from a lung inflammation, that Mrs. Dunbar's husband loved to fish for salmon, and that Mrs. Ferguson's haggis had won a prize at this year's fair. Other delectables, the girl told him with a wink, could be found in the cottage with green doors and shutters at the north end of the village once dinner duties at Rowanclere were done.

Jake declined her offer in a well-practiced, roguish manner and she ushered him into Rowanclere's dining room with a regretful sigh.

He was disappointed to find the room empty. Addressing the maid, he asked, "Before you go, could you tell me where I might find the mistress? I've a question or two to ask her."

"She took a breakfast tray in the drawing room this morning, sir."

"Thank you. And please tell Mrs. Ferguson her breakfast does smell delicious."

As promised, a fire burned in a marble fireplace, and Jake crossed the room toward its welcoming heat. Warming his hands, he eyed the steaming dishes lining the carved mahogany sideboard and gave the air an appreciative sniff. Ham. Eggs. Fresh bread. Something with cinnamon... apples perhaps?

His hunger aroused, Jake headed for the buffet, but a sound coming from beyond the dining room had him veering out into the hallway. There he stopped and listened again.

A thud. A bump. And a woman's humming. Coming from the room next door.

Having strolled toward the sound, he paused at the doorway of a small drawing room. His gaze flicked past the embroidered mahogany chairs, marble-topped tables, and portrait-hung walls to settle upon the delightful vision of a woman. Her back was toward him as she bent forward at the waist while reaching through the opened window to pluck a mist-kissed yellow flower from a vine. Golden hair piled high upon her head and quality of silk in her skirt convinced him he'd found Mrs. Dunbar. Before proceeding any farther, Jake did what any red-blooded man would do. He gave a soundless, appreciative whistle at the appeal of round, shapely buttocks pointed in his direction. Then, shifting his gaze from the view to the window, he cleared his throat, and said, "Y'all sure do have some beautiful scenery here in Scotland. Good morning, Mrs. Dunbar."

She gasped, dropped the flower, started to turn toward him, then abruptly stopped and did something downright strange. Yanking the midnight blue drapery toward her, she wrapped it around her like a bulky, badly pleated kilt before turning to face him. "Mr. Delaney. I didn't hear you come downstairs."

"I took the long way around."

Silence fell between them as Jake was distracted from his purpose by the sheer beauty of his hostess' face. A splash of pink embarrassment on either cheek was bridged by a light dusting of freckles across a pert little nose. Her eyes were the exact shade of bluebonnets. A wildflower, Jake was reminded, that legend claimed originally came to Texas via shipments of wool from Scotland.

His gaze drifted downward and he puzzled over why she had wrapped herself in the drapery. Was she embarrassed about her size? Had his comments yesterday upset her, made her worry about her expanding waistline? He hoped not. He hadn't meant any criticism, only concern. Personally, Jake had always thought expectant mothers especially beautiful. This was a time when their femininity shone like no other...
oh, damn
.

Jake's downward glance stopped abruptly at the sight of her bare feet peeking out from below her lilac-colored hem. His eyes narrowed. Heat flowed into his loins.

He'd always had a passion for a woman's bare feet.

Right along with the surge of lust came a wave of shame. Dammit, Delaney. What kind of lecher was he? She was a married woman. An expectant mother. He shouldn't even be looking at her, much less hankering after her.

Desperate to change the direction of his thoughts, he cleared his throat and said, "I, uh, think you should know, ma'am. I had a disturbance of a sort in my bedroom last night."

She blinked once. "Did you?"

"Yep. I think somebody was trying to play a joke on me. I think I was supposed to believe this person was a ghost."

"I see."

Jake waited for more, but she wasn't forthcoming. Eventually, he gestured toward the settee. "Maybe you should sit down and listen to my story. I think this is something you should hear."

Her smile was fast and as fake as a tonic peddler's pitch. "I'm fine as I am. Please continue, Mr. Delaney."

Suspicious, Jake folded his arms. "Not until you sit down, ma'am. It's not good for a woman in your condition to be on your feet too much."

Now the fake smile got some emotion in it. Heat. The woman was piqued.

She opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly shut it. Keeping herself wrapped in the drapery, she took two steps forward, reached out and grabbed the back of a desk chair and tugged it toward her. Before Jake quite realized what had happened, she had taken the seat, folded her hands on her lap, and pasted on a smile that was downright challenging. All the while, she kept herself covered by the drapery.

"Are you cold, Mrs. Dunbar?"

"Just curious, Mr. Delaney. Please, tell me about your ghaist. Rowanclere has a number of them, you see, and from your description, I am uncertain which one made himself known to you."

"Herself. She was definitely a woman. A living woman. I saw her... breathe."

Mrs. Dunbar sat a little stiffer in her chair and her chin came up. "We have the spirits of at least three different women haunting the castle. One is a brownie, who keeps out of sight and is often quite a help around the castle. At times, however, she delights in mischief. She loves to play tricks by moving things around. Another is My Lady Greensleeves, who legend tells us threw herself from a tower window after her father murdered the man she loved, a stable hand here at Rowanclere. Last, of course, is the Headless Lady of Rowanclere. She, too, is full of mischief. She dresses all in white and likes to frighten people by popping up in unexpected places at unexpected times. She carries a head that is but a wood model, and often leaves it behind following a haunt. I have seen the Headless Lady myself. She left a head in my room the day I departed Rowanclere to marry Mr. Dunbar."

"Really," Jake drawled, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.

Her chin rose a little higher. "Did your spirit resemble either the Headless Lady or Lady Greensleeves?"

"No, more like Lady Godiva."

The woman blushed red as the tartan that hung in Rowanclere's entry hall. "Well, 'tis neither here nor there. None of our ghaists are dangerous. Well, except for the bogles. They have been known to cause injury, although only to obnoxious men. As long as you are kind to the women of Rowanclere, you should be safe."

"That's reassuring to know," he replied, his lips twisting in a half-smile. The woman was full of spirit. Downright feisty. Funny, she hadn't struck him that way at all yesterday.

She hadn't loaded his pistol yesterday, either.

It was, of course, the heat he sensed in her today that did it. Jake did like his women with some sizzle to them.

Again, his conscience gave him a rap on the skull.
She's married, Delaney
.
What's wrong with you?

Giving his head a quick shake, he pushed to his feet. "I reckon I'll see to breakfast now."

She didn't rise, but simply flashed him a brilliant—and relieved—smile. "Be certain to sample Mrs. Ferguson's haggis. It is a prize-winning recipe."

"So I've been told."

He was halfway back to the dining room when the drawing room door closed and he heard the snick of a lock. Hmm. Friendly one minute, ill-tempered the next.
Maybe that has something to do with the pregnancy.

In the dining room, Jake headed for the buffet. He lifted a fancy, blue china plate from a stack and began to pile it high with Texas-size portions of scrambled eggs, ham, stewed pears—he'd been wrong about the apples—and haggis, which experience had shown him tasted like a dully spiced sausage. He skipped the porridge and black pudding, and added an Arbroath smokie as recommended by the cook. Jake liked this Scottish custom of having fish with breakfast.

His plate filled to near overflowing, he reached for one last item, a roll. But the basket moved.

Jake blinked, certain he had imagined the movement. Once again, he reached for the bread.

Once again, the basket moved.

What the...?

Abruptly, he grabbed for the basket. This time, his fingers brushed the straw before the basket scooted beyond his reach. He set down his plate, torn between annoyance and anticipation. Obviously, his "ghost" was up to her tricks once more. Unless, of course, these hijinks were the effort of Mrs. Dunbar's brownie and Jake didn't much believe that.

Shoot, he would suspect Mrs. Dunbar of being the culprit had last's night's seductive shade not proven beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not far gone with child. However, someone was making this breadbasket dance.

Jake stood still as a fence post, visually examining the sideboard for sign of a line, which was the most obvious explanation for the shenanigans. He saw nothing, but then a dark thread against the dark wood would be difficult to spot. "You know," he said aloud. "This effort is juvenile compared to last night's."

At that, the basket jerked and slid completely off the cabinet, sending rolls tumbling onto the floor. Jake tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek and said, "Yes, flying bread is definitely amateurish. Now, the naked bosom showed promise. Among other things." As he spoke, he bent and picked up the basket, fully expecting to find a thread attached to it.

He didn't.

"Well, well, well. Maybe you're a better mischief-maker than I thought."

Five minutes later, breakfast forgotten in the wake of the intriguing mystery, he lay on his back halfway beneath the sideboard, studying the bottom of the furniture. Hearing footsteps, he twisted his head to see the swish of lavender skirts revealing a pair of trim, graceful ankles. And, to his masculine dismay, a pair of shoes.

"Mr. Delaney," came his hostess' censuring voice. "I realize that Texas has a reputation for being less civilized than other parts of the world, but you should know that here in Scotland we take our meals from a table rather than the floor."

Some things Jake simply wouldn't listen to, and criticism of his home was near the top of his list. "Oh, I'm not down here eating, ma'am," he drawled, looking to turn the tables, so to speak, as he scooted out from underneath the cabinet. "I was looking for a likely spot to stash my gum, except somebody beat me to it. I see a dozen wads or more down here already."

"Gum?"

"Chewing gum."

"Chewing gum?" Fire lit her eyes.

Jake bit back a grin. "Sticky stuff, that gum."

He wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rising from her ears. "I'm going to wring Robbie's neck."

Then, while Jake climbed to his feet, to his surprise, the very pregnant woman dropped down onto her hands and knees. "Uncle Angus's, too," she muttered.

Jake's mouth dropped open in shock and a fair measure of horror when she compounded her folly by lying on her stomach—on her stomach!—and sticking her head beneath the sideboard to confirm his claim. "I rue the day my grand-uncle introduced the child to that nasty habit. Chewing gum on a Sheraton sideboard. The girl is—"

"Mrs. Dunbar, please! I don't think it's a good idea for you to be down on the floor like drat in your condition."

"—such a trial. Oh!" She broke off abruptly. "Aye. My condition." Then, with a grace that belied her advanced state of ripeness, she scrambled to her feet. Her cheeks were once again stained a bright red. Failing to meet Jake's horrified gaze, she started for the door, murmuring absently, "Excuse me, Mr. Delaney. I have a lass to locate. Enjoy your breakfast."

Then she was gone and Jake was left staring after her, his arms folded and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Damned if in the past couple of minutes, Mrs. Dunbar's baby hadn't dropped.

Chapter 3