up to seeing visitors. He's poustit this eve. Suffering the pains, the rheums."
Jake thought for a moment, interpreting the unfamiliar words. "Your uncle suffers from rheumatism?"
"Aye. Some days, like today, it sinks its teeth into him fiercely."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Chronic pain can wear a man down. Let's hope he feels better tomorrow."
"Aye." She appeared distracted for a moment, then, to his shock and chagrin, she gave her head a shake, paired a devilish smile with a wicked twinkle in her bluebonnet eyes, and crooked her finger right at him. "Allow me to show you the delights of Rowanclere, Mr. Delaney."
Damned if every drop of blood in his body didn't feel like it headed south.
Jake brought the newspaper with him when he stood, using it to shield his body's reaction. In a way, he was reassured by the response this woman elicited from him. Were he developing a performance problem, surely his pistol wouldn't load so fast.
No, the trouble wasn't with him. It had to be her. The trouble was he had a beautiful hostess who couldn't decide which personality to present: gentle Madonna or flirtatious vamp. Either way, she twisted him into knots.
Jake's temper kindled. To hell with going slow. Folks here at Rowanclere were big on bluffs, what with this ghost business and all. Maybe he should run a bluff of his own. Maybe he should pick her up, carry her to his chamber and tie her to his bed, refusing to let her go until the missing Declaration of Independence was in his hands.
He could see her lying stretched out before him, her hair spread around her a golden waterfall, her eyes flashing blue fire, her breasts heaving with the force of her breaths, her belly... damn! "She's pregnant , for heaven's sake."
"What was that, Mr. Delaney?"
He shut his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind. By all means, ma'am, show me your castle."
The next half hour was a whirlwind education on furniture, architecture, and Clan Brodie history. If she dwelled a little heavily on the bloodthirsty parts, he didn't mind. Gory detail kept his mind off other unsavory things.
Like how the burr in her words seduced him like the stroke of a velvet ribbon against his skin.
The cook offered him a lemonade when they toured the kitchen, and he gulped it like a man dying of thirst, hoping the drink would cool him down. "Maybe now's a good time to give me a look at the outer wall, Mrs. Dunbar," he suggested.
"The outer wall? But I thought you wished to remain indoors out of the weather. It is much cooler outside now than it was this morning."
"No, ma'am. A good dose of cold sounds right good to me about now."
"Very well." She shrugged her shapely shoulders and added. "We'll take the dungeon route from here and exit to the spot where the old wall stood, all right?"
Dungeon. Lovely. Better hope she can't read my mind or shell lock me in down there.
Never having been one to enjoy jail cells of any kind, Jake didn't look forward to the next portion of the tour. He needed to see them, however. Dungeons were great hiding places for all sorts of things—like a stolen copy of an historically significant document, for instance.
For the thousandth time since being sent to the freezing north to retrieve the document, Jake wondered how the Declaration ended up at Rowanclere to begin with. The Texas memorabilia collector who'd come so close to killing Chrissy claimed to have purchased the item from a member of the Rowanclere household for a ridiculous price. Someone from Rowanclere had then purportedly stolen it back. Now that he was here, he found himself even more curious about the whys, wheres, and hows of the story. He liked a good mystery, and between this and the "ghosts," Rowanclere was certainly providing that.
His hostess opened a doorway cleverly hidden in the back of a food pantry and while holding a torch, led him down a steep, dark, spiral stone staircase. She droned on about this clan and that clan and this ghost and that. So much
Jake thought for a moment, interpreting the unfamiliar words. "Your uncle suffers from rheumatism?"
"Aye. Some days, like today, it sinks its teeth into him fiercely."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Chronic pain can wear a man down. Let's hope he feels better tomorrow."
"Aye." She appeared distracted for a moment, then, to his shock and chagrin, she gave her head a shake, paired a devilish smile with a wicked twinkle in her bluebonnet eyes, and crooked her finger right at him. "Allow me to show you the delights of Rowanclere, Mr. Delaney."
Damned if every drop of blood in his body didn't feel like it headed south.
Jake brought the newspaper with him when he stood, using it to shield his body's reaction. In a way, he was reassured by the response this woman elicited from him. Were he developing a performance problem, surely his pistol wouldn't load so fast.
No, the trouble wasn't with him. It had to be her. The trouble was he had a beautiful hostess who couldn't decide which personality to present: gentle Madonna or flirtatious vamp. Either way, she twisted him into knots.
Jake's temper kindled. To hell with going slow. Folks here at Rowanclere were big on bluffs, what with this ghost business and all. Maybe he should run a bluff of his own. Maybe he should pick her up, carry her to his chamber and tie her to his bed, refusing to let her go until the missing Declaration of Independence was in his hands.
He could see her lying stretched out before him, her hair spread around her a golden waterfall, her eyes flashing blue fire, her breasts heaving with the force of her breaths, her belly... damn! "She's pregnant , for heaven's sake."
"What was that, Mr. Delaney?"
He shut his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing. Never mind. By all means, ma'am, show me your castle."
The next half hour was a whirlwind education on furniture, architecture, and Clan Brodie history. If she dwelled a little heavily on the bloodthirsty parts, he didn't mind. Gory detail kept his mind off other unsavory things.
Like how the burr in her words seduced him like the stroke of a velvet ribbon against his skin.
The cook offered him a lemonade when they toured the kitchen, and he gulped it like a man dying of thirst, hoping the drink would cool him down. "Maybe now's a good time to give me a look at the outer wall, Mrs. Dunbar," he suggested.
"The outer wall? But I thought you wished to remain indoors out of the weather. It is much cooler outside now than it was this morning."
"No, ma'am. A good dose of cold sounds right good to me about now."
"Very well." She shrugged her shapely shoulders and added. "We'll take the dungeon route from here and exit to the spot where the old wall stood, all right?"
Dungeon. Lovely. Better hope she can't read my mind or shell lock me in down there.
Never having been one to enjoy jail cells of any kind, Jake didn't look forward to the next portion of the tour. He needed to see them, however. Dungeons were great hiding places for all sorts of things—like a stolen copy of an historically significant document, for instance.
For the thousandth time since being sent to the freezing north to retrieve the document, Jake wondered how the Declaration ended up at Rowanclere to begin with. The Texas memorabilia collector who'd come so close to killing Chrissy claimed to have purchased the item from a member of the Rowanclere household for a ridiculous price. Someone from Rowanclere had then purportedly stolen it back. Now that he was here, he found himself even more curious about the whys, wheres, and hows of the story. He liked a good mystery, and between this and the "ghosts," Rowanclere was certainly providing that.
His hostess opened a doorway cleverly hidden in the back of a food pantry and while holding a torch, led him down a steep, dark, spiral stone staircase. She droned on about this clan and that clan and this ghost and that. So much
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