Sizzle All Day (11 page)

He dimmed his light, flipped the latch, and cracked open the door. This was somebody's room, all right. And somebody was cuddled beneath the bedcovers in a fanciful bed hung with emerald green silk.

The scent of jasmine wafted deliriously heavy on the air. Success!

Grinning, Jake shifted back into the passage, took off his jacket and fashioned a bed for Scooter with it and the sheeting he'd used as a sling. "Take a nap, sweetheart. This might take a while."

Moments later, he stepped into the bedchamber and pulled the door shut behind him. Moonlight cast a silvery glow about the room, and as he moved closer he saw not a ghost in the bed, but an angel.

Golden, ethereal, and so beautiful she made his teeth ache. At first glance, the sleeping beauty puzzled him.

This wasn't Mrs. Dunbar, though she looked just like her. He'd seen Mrs. Dunbar only minutes ago, awake and walking in her room. The biggest clue was, of course, the baby. Mrs. Dunbar couldn't hide hers. This woman didn't have one.

This was her. His sneaky spirit. Had to be.

He recalled how she'd looked during the very first "haunting" and his fingers itched to tug down the covers and check those breasts to make a positive identification. But that would have to wait. He would not assault a sleeping woman. However, he did have something else in mind.

Jake reached into his pocket and tugged out the tiebacks of soft red silk he'd appropriated from the bed hangings in one of the unoccupied chambers. Then it hit him. Sisters, he thought, approaching the bed. She and Mrs. Dunbar were sisters. Twins. Relief swept through him as finally, he understood.

He hadn't lusted after an expectant married lady. He wasn't the twisted lecher he'd feared. He didn't suffer from some distressing sexual sickness. This female had played a role, pretending to be the expectant mother in public and the mischievous gremlin in private. Jake had sensed the difference every single time.

Damn, I'm good.

And she was beautiful. And sneaky. And ornery as a snappin' sow.

Then he heard a noise, and he stopped and listened and grinned. With each inhalation, she let out a tiny little feminine snore. Wasn't that so damned cute?

He realized he couldn't wait to see what son of noise the Headless Lady of Rowanclere made when she realized she'd lost the use of her hands. So keeping his touch as light as possible, he set about securing her wrists to the bedposts, taking care not to awaken her.

That done, he studied the lump in the covers that marked her feet and debated what to do. Though she had tied him spread-eagle, Jake couldn't do that to a lady. Should he tie her ankles together or leave them be?

No, better tie them. This gal struck him as the kind of female who wouldn't think twice about kicking a man where it mattered.

That decided, he carefully drew back the covers and his mouth went a little dry. Her white linen nightgown had ridden up to mid-thigh as she slept, revealing long shapely legs that seemed to stretch on forever. Jake had a fierce, sudden vision of those naked limbs wrapped around his lips and fought for self-control.

Dammit, he wasn't here to drool over her. He was here to teach her a lesson.

After that, maybe he could slaver a bit.

He made quick work of binding her ankles together, expecting her to wake at any moment, but she continued to sleep. That task accomplished, he stepped away and debated his next move. He had a cloth for her mouth with him, but he'd prefer to leave it in his pocket. However, if his spirit was a screamer, that wouldn't be a choice.

His preparations made, Jake was ready to begin the show. He lit the bedside lamp and waited for her to awaken.

And he waited. And waited. And waited.

Hell. He had tied her and shined a lamp in her face, but she continued with that cute little snore. The woman slept like the dead. Jake's lips quirked in a grin.
Well, she is a ghost, after all
.

As he glanced around the bedchamber, his gaze snagged on an item hanging from the back of a chair. "Well, well," he murmured softly. "What do we have here?" Checking to see that his prisoner still slept, he strode over to the chair and lifted the article. He held the contraption out in front of him and studied it.

It was a homemade... well... truss, he guessed was the word. Straps likely went over the shoulders while others buckled in back. The pouch, which would have been her "baby," was stuffed with, of all things, feathers. Quite effective, he thought. Then, recalling the incident at breakfast and the way the hump had dropped, he whispered, "Unless one lies down on the job, so to speak."

Looking back toward the devilish angel in the bed, he deliberately dropped the prop onto the floor and the buckles clanked against the stone. At the noise, she rolled her head from one side to the other. Still, she did not awaken.

With a roll of his eyes, Jake ran out of patience. He bent down, reached into the pouch, and withdrew a handful of feathers. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

Approaching the bed once more, he studied her, and chose a place to begin. Her nose. Tickle her nose, the gentleman within him said.

The man in him wanted to begin with her breasts. Jake envisioned his hands reaching out and tugging down her neckline, baring her bounty to his appreciative gaze. Her round, pink nipples would be soft in her sleep, but he'd stroke her once, twice with the feather, and they'd pebble up, pert and pretty and ready. Then he'd kneel down, lean over, and replace the feather with his tongue and taste her, feed upon her. Drown in her.

Heat surged in Jake's loins. A part of him—the honorable part—felt a tweak of shame at his behavior, but he simply didn't have the heart to pull himself out of the fantasy.

In fact, he sank into it even deeper.

In his mind, they both were suddenly naked and rolling on the bed. He nuzzled her neck, ran his hands up and down that satiny skin. Learning her, even as her hands learned him. Her long, thick hair spilled over him like a golden waterfall. He imagined her rising above him, wet and ready, then easing down upon him, taking him to the hilt. Her passage around him a soft tight glove. Then she moved, slow and languid, killing him. He wanted more, deeper and faster. Faster. Faster.

His blood pounded, his loins ached. He reached for his shirt buttons, undoing two before a gust of wind raided the window and woke him to reality.

Jake was shocked at himself. Shocked and physically aching. Painfully aching. It sent his temper soaring. What the hell was he doing? He hadn't come here to be a damned Peeping Tom, to lose himself in fantasy like a fuzz-faced boy. He'd come here to find the stolen Declaration of Independence. That and get a little innocent revenge. Letting his lusty imagination ran rampant was something else entirely.

Guilt perched on his shoulders as he removed one feather from the bunch in his hand and tossed the others away. While they floated toward the floor, he strode to the side of the bed, then shoved out his hand and tickled the tip of her nose.

She wrinkled her nose, but didn't wake up.

He stroked the feather against the same spot a second time.

She turned her head away and continued to sleep.

Sonofabitch! Mouth set in a grim smile and brow furrowed, Jake leaned over her, glared down into her face, and rubbed the feather back and forth across her nose, over and over again until she responded with a loud, "Achoo!"

But still, she didn't wake up. What was it going to take to get this snoozing specter to rejoin the living?

He'd shake her, but he didn't trust himself to touch her. He could shout in her ear, but in truth, he hated to do that. That's the way his father used to wake him up, and he'd always sworn he'd never do that to another human being. "Of course, I forgot you're not supposed to be human are you, Miss Wraith of Rowanclere?" he muttered. "It shouldn't matter if I holler—"

Jake broke off abruptly as another thought occurred. A smile melted across his face like warm butter in a bowl of grits. Pivoting, he walked to the secret passageway door and opened it. A moment later, he returned carrying his own personal alarm clock.

He plopped Scooter down upon the woman's chest, then stepped back, folded his arms, and prepared to watch the show.

Sure enough, the dog acted just like she did with Jake almost every morning. The dachshund poked out her snoot, stuck out her tongue, and started licking the lady's face.

Jake almost always awoke at the first wet stroke of tongue. Scooter got the woman five times—twice right on the mouth—before her lashes fluttered and lifted.

"Hello, wee sweet pup," she murmured before her eyelids sank once more.

Jake snorted. He couldn't believe it. She even slept through this?

Then Scooter gave her a particularly enthusiastic lick and the woman's brow furrowed. "Finally," Jake muttered.

One arm flexed, pulling at the bindings. Then the second repeated the action of the first. Her frown deepened as her hands fisted and simultaneously pulled at the strips of silk.

She opened her eyes and focused on the dachshund. Then she blinked. Her eyes narrowed. Blinked again.

Then, the spirit spoke. "Thank God 'twas the dog that kissed me. For a moment there, Texas, I feared it was you."

* * *

The problem with bravado, it could backfire on a woman. Some men one simply didn't challenge. Jake Delaney was one of them.

And Jake Delaney was back.

A part of Gillian recognized she wasn't terribly surprised. Nor was she afraid of him. Well, not very afraid. She should never have mentioned kissing.

A variety of emotions glittered in the Texan's eyes as he loomed above her. She read threat and anger and indignation. Anticipation and...
megstie me
... lust.

"Afraid of my kisses, are you?" he drawled, as he plucked the dog from her chest and set her on the floor. He propped one knee on the bed and leaned over her, his hands supporting his weight on either side of her shoulders.

Gillian swallowed hard as her pulse accelerated. She hadn't intended to dare him. She wasn't that foolish. She was tied to a bed and at the mercy of a man who was basically a stranger. She should be frightened to death.

But she wasn't.

It was because of Scooter. He was so kind to the dog. He wouldn't hurt her. She was certain of it.

Delaney's gaze dropped to her mouth. "Aren't you going to answer me, darlin' ? Does the thought of my kiss scare you?"

No, not at all. Thrill was a better word for what she felt. But she dare not tell him that.

As the moment dragged out, the tension thrumming in the air thickened. Gillian's mouth went dry. He would do it. He wanted to do it. She could see it binning in his emerald eyes.

What should she say? What answer would distract him? Did she even want to distract him?

No, she wanted him to do it.

Gillian bit back a groan. Now that was being foolish.

He lightly brushed her cheek with the tip of one finger, though the look in his eyes was anything but gentle. Maybe he would kiss her, then not stop. She knew that sometimes men, and even women, lost control during the heat of passion. She might feel safe, but the reality was that as long as she was tied, she was vulnerable.

Now, suddenly, Gillian felt nervous.

She drew a deep breath, prepared to scream. He clapped a hand over her mouth before she managed so much as a peep. "Don't do it, darlin'. Don't make me have to gag you. Now, back to my question." The hand covering her mouth shifted to cup her cheek. "What's your answer? Are you scared of my kiss?"

One more tender touch and she'd be lost. Gillian cleared her throat and used truth as her defense. "Yes, the thought does frighten me, Mr. Delaney. My experience is limited and has left an unpleasant taste behind. The last man I kissed broke my heart."

He drew back and scowled down at her. "Limited and unpleasant. Are you trying to provoke me, or do you simply not know better?" After a slight pause, his eyes narrowed and he added, "Or maybe you mean to wave your words around like a red flag in a bullring. Are you asking for it? Is that it? Do you want me to kiss you?"

The man was an excellent observer.

"No," she lied. "Of course not." Then, hoping to diffuse the situation with something absurd, she added, "We have not been properly introduced."

Momentary shock registered on his face, then he laughed, a quiet chuckle that brought Scooter's head up from her reclined position in front of the fire. "I reckon you're right. You've seen me buck naked, and I had a most delicious glimpse of your bare breasts. Nothing proper about those introductions."

"Sir—"

"Now that we're face to face, in the light and sans disguise or blindfold, we should at least swap names before we get around to swappin' spit." He sat on the bed, took her right hand in his, his finger playing with the trailing edge of the silken binding. "Jake Delaney, at your service," he said, showing a snappy grin. "And you are Miss Ross, I presume? Miss Robyn's sister and Mrs. Dunbar's twin?"

She saw no reason to deny him at this point. "Miss Gillian Ross."

"Miss Gillian Ross," he repeated. "Now that's pretty. Suits you much better than Young Fergus or Headless Harriet. So tell me, Miss Gillian, how long have you been haunting Rowanclere Castle?"

Why was he bothering with this? Why didn't he simply do the deed and get it over with?
Is that what you want, Gillian? Are you yearning to "swap spit" with the Texan? And maybe more?

Ignoring all the questions, she said, "Mr. Delaney, my Uncle Angus lived much of his life in Texas. He has always told my sisters and myself that gentlemen from your home state pride themselves on their gallantry. I realize you have a legitimate argument supporting the manner in which you... approached... me tonight. However, as a Texan, do you not agree that binding me to my bed is less than chivalrous?"

"Chivalrous!" He snorted with disgust as he tickled the inside of her wrist with the trailing edge of the red silk tie. "Pardon me, but was I alone down there in the dungeon yesterday? I don't believe so. I didn't think of this—how did you say it, manner of approach—all on my own. Damned right I have a legitimate reason for tying you to the bed."