Sizzle All Day (13 page)

Returning Scooter to the floor, he rose, reached into his pocket, and handed her a card that read
J. A. K. Delaney, Attorney at Law. San Antonio, Texas.

Lovely.

"In this matter I represent the people of the State of Texas." His tone turned professional as he elaborated, "I have been sent by a group of concerned Texans who have organized a search for four handwritten copies of the Republic of Texas's Declaration of Independence. We traced one of the Declarations to England. My brother-in-law's inquiries then turned up Lord Bennet's name. That trail has now led right to you."

Then, with a wink, the solicitor disappeared and the rogue returned. "So hand it over and be done with the debt. This document truly belongs to the people of Texas. The only other copy we had burned a few years ago. A country deserves to own its own history."

"Tell that to the museums of the world," Gillian observed wryly. "I'm certain Greece would like the Elgin marbles back, too, but I don't see the British Museum handing them over."

"The British Museum doesn't owe me a debt and you do, princess."

"Dinna call me princess."

Wicked charm filled the smile he flashed. "You are a blindingly beautiful woman who lives in a fairy-tale castle. Princess fits."

His compliment warmed her and stroked her wounded sense of femininity. David never called her blindingly beautiful. Of course, David had never wanted her to give up an historical document, either.

No, he only wanted your virginity.

Gillian mentally slammed that door and cleared her throat. "I understand your concern, and I would be pleased to help you if it were in my power. However—"

"Not yours to give away, hmm? Must be your Uncle Angus's property, then. He's the one who'll make the call?" Jake pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. "Now that we have an understanding, I reckon this can wait until later this morning. Mind if I bunk in one of those rooms downstairs near your sisters instead of up in the tower? I noticed it's warmer in that part of the castle, and after the day I've had, my bones are crying out for heat. We can both get some shut-eye, then I'll meet with your uncle at breakfast. If all goes right, I can be on my way home before noon."

"Wait. You have made assumptions and decisions based on your imagination. We have no understanding. What we have between us is—"

"Debt. You said it yourself, Gillian. You said it first. Don't try to fishtail when I want to collect."

"Fishtail?"

He moved his hand in a back and forth motion. "Back out of it. Change directions. Change your mind."

"I'm not changing anything. Nor am I admitting to anything or denying anything." Gillian closed her eyes and drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm her jittery nerves. Delaney wanted to sleep. Good. She would use the time to talk to Uncle Angus and explain the situation. Maybe together they could think of a way to pay the debt in a currency different from the one requested by Jake Delaney.

If that was what Uncle Angus wanted, she couldn't imagine it being otherwise.

The Declaration of Independence meant too much to Uncle Angus. He often said that in many ways, the document defined him as a man. He did not elaborate, other than saying it had something to do with what had happened on the San Jacinto battlefield where independence was won.

After Lord Bennet stole the Declaration, she'd been surprised at the depth of Angus Brodie's sorrow. When the depression dragged on for months, she'd been motivated to go to great lengths to bring the document home. Now Jake Delaney wanted to take it away again. How would Uncle Angus react? Would the altruistic reasons Delaney presented make a difference to Uncle Angus?

Possibly. She wouldn't know until she asked.

"Well?" Jake folded his arms and scowled. "How long does it take for you to make up your mind? I'd just as soon not be standing here come dawn."

"I was trying to decide which bedchamber you would find most comfortable. I think the pink room on the second floor is the best choice. It's usually warmer than—"

"Pink?" He grimaced.

"Actually, lavender and pink. It's a perfect room for you, sir." His petulant expression made her grin. Nodding toward the dog, she said, "If you and Scooter will follow me, I'll show you to your room."

"Perfect room," he muttered. "Lavender and pink. What, did I kiss like a schoolgirl?"

They were halfway down the spiral staircase when Gillian first heard Robyn's shout. Immediately, she picked up her skirts and ran down the steps. Rounding the final turn, she spied her younger sister. Tears glistened in eyes rounded with worry.

"Oh, Gilly, come quick. Please, come quick."

"Angus?" Gillian asked, her throat tight with nervousness.

"No. It's Flora. It's the baby. Oh, Gillian, it's way too soon, but Flora says she's afraid she's having the baby."

* * *

Rowanclere was a castle in chaos.

Before disappearing into her sister's room, Gillian dispatched a stableboy to Laichmoray to summon Flora's husband and sent a maid to the nearest village to fetch the howdie, or midwife. Mrs. Ferguson, the cook and all-around caretaker, dashed up and down the stairs, checking on Flora's progress while seeing to preparations for the merry meht, a kind of post-birth celebration, from what Jake gathered.

Even young Robbie kept busy. Seated at a table in the sitting room across the hall from Flora's bedchamber, the girl made lists of items needed for the coming child. "We are not prepared to have a baby here at Rowanclere," she told Jake solemnly. "Birthing bairns is a serious event and matters must be a certain way to ensure the health and safety of Flora and the wee babe."

"I see," Jake said, even though he didn't. At home, babies were birthed with little more than clean sheets, soap, a pan of hot water, and a knife to cut the cord. Why would it be so much different over here? He could see the need for extra coals for the fire to keep the infant warm enough, but the girl had filled three whole pages with writing, and she didn't appear near finished yet.

Because he was curious by nature, Jake would have asked questions. Under the circumstances, he figured he'd better not. Calling attention to himself any more than necessary might prove dangerous. At the moment, while activity swarmed around him, Jake sat on a straight-backed, too-small, splintered-seat wooden chair within point-blank range of a Texas Paterson five-shot revolver held by a shaky Angus Brodie, Laird of Rowanclere.

Damned old man had gotten the drop on him.

Surprised was a mild term for what Jake felt when shortly after meeting his host, the Scot had pulled a gun. Hell, Brodie had to be eighty if he were a day, and he walked not just with one cane, but with a pair of 'em. If anyone from home saw Jake playing target in a chair like this, he'd never live it down.

Except for confirming Jake's identity after Gillian's hurried introduction, Angus Brodie did not address him at all during the first half-hour of the bairn watch. A time or two Jake wondered if the lord of the castle had forgotten him, but each time he so much as twitched, he found himself staring down the Paterson's barrel. Not that he couldn't have extricated himself from the situation if he'd wanted. The man had a sickly look about him. But Brodie kept demanding information from the women going in and out of Flora's room, and Jake wanted to hear their replies. He figured Brodie probably wouldn't shoot him without some sort of provocation, and he was a bit worried about Mrs. Dunbar, himself. So he'd settled down to wait.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the howdie arrived with her daughter and another female assistant. Moments later, the midwife called for Robbie. The girl disappeared into the bedroom, then less than five minutes later, dashed out into the hah headed for the stairs. She returned a short time later carrying a huge knife.

"Careful, there, sweetheart!" Jake exclaimed, horrified at the sight of such a little girl carrying such a big weapon. As Robbie hurried into the bedchamber, he turned to Brodie. "Why the hell did they need a knife like that in the birthing room?"

Angus scowled in his direction, then explained in a voice that was a unique blend of Texan drawl and Scottish burr. "The butching-gullie. To ward off evil. Flora already has her Bible."

"Oh. Of course." Now that didn't make a lick of sense. Jake was still pondering the remark a few minutes later when Robbie reappeared, rolling her eyes theatrically.

"What's wrong?" asked her uncle, the last of the color fading from his already pallid face. "Flora?"

"Flora is fine." Before she could elaborate, a pain-racked cry sounded from inside the bedchamber.

"Never mind the noise, lass," the Scot said, his brow dipping in a frown. "Do not be judgmental. Birthing bairns is hard work."

"I know that," Robbie replied, her young girl's voice dripping with disgust. "If that were Flora squealing, I wouldn't say a word. But Flora is being very brave about it. Gilly's the one who is squealing."

"Gillian?" Jake and Angus asked simultaneously.

At that moment, the bedroom door opened and Gillian stumbled out, stooped over and holding her leg below the knee. "But Mrs. Cameron—" she protested.

"Bide a wee, Gillian. Your sister disnae need the distraction right now."

"I did not mean—"

"We ken," replied the midwife before she shut the door.

Gillian whimpered her way over to the settee and plunked herself down next to her uncle, massaging her leg as he asked, "What is it, lass?"

She winced. "I do not know. Every time Flora feels a pain, my leg cramps. I could not stop it, Uncle Angus. It does it all on its own. Mrs. Cameron thinks the fairies could be responsible. She says they may be trying to distract us from putting all the protection in place, giving them the chance to steal Flora's child."

"She has a point," Robbie said. "Fairies are wee wicked folk."

Angus Brodie sniffed with disdain, then used his free hand to pat Gillian's knee while he soothed, "Dinna fash yersel'. I'm certain your pain has nothing to do with the fairies. It is part of being a twin, I imagine. The pair of you are too close to go through this together without you being affected."

Gillian sighed and nodded. "I hope you are right."

"Perhaps you'd feel better if your mind were put to other matters," He motioned toward Jake with the Paterson. "Tell me about him, lass. I thought we sent him away."

"I did, too," she glumly replied. "He came back."

Robbie snapped her fingers. "I know how we can watch for fairies. Where is Scooter?"

Gillian replied, "Up in my bedchamber."

"Yours?" Brodie asked. "Why was his dog in your chamber?" He lowered the aim of his gun from Jake's heart to his loins.

Jake decided a diversion was in order. His gaze captured Gillian's. "Fairies? You mean ghosts aren't enough? Now I'm supposed to worry about fairies, too?"

"Not with Scooter around," Robbie insisted. "She'll sniff out those fairies and scare them away. I'll go get her now, all right?"

Without waiting for permission, she darted for the door, leaving a pregnant silence in her wake. As the moment dragged out, Jake rubbed his palms along the top of his thighs and asked, "What do y'all expect the weather to do today? Think we'll get any rain?"

Angus Brodie snorted. "That is how Texans start more than half their conversations. Tell me, lass. Do I want to talk to him at all, or shall I simply shoot him and be done with it?"

Damn the woman, she actually acted as if she had to consider the question. Jake hastened to say, "Tell him about the debt, Gillian."

"What debt?" Brodie asked, grabbing up one of his walking canes and rapping it on the floor.

Gillian scowled at Jake, then looked at her uncle. "According to Mr. Delaney, our worries concerning Lord Bennet are behind us. Mr. Delaney says his sister shot him. Lord Bennet is dead."

It took a moment for the news to seep through, then Brodie's bushy white eyebrows winged up. "Dead? The bastard is dead?"

Gillian and Jake both nodded. Brodie looked from one to the other, then angled his head toward Jake and asked his niece, "Can we believe him?"

Before she could open her mouth, Jake rolled the truth out like a rug. "I would never put your grand-niece at risk."

He sat motionless, chin out and eyes glaring as Angus Brodie shot him a hard stare, measuring his worth. Abruptly, the Scot lowered his gun. "You will tell me the entire tale. Now."

Jake arched a brow, silently asking Gillian if she wished to tell it or have him do the honors. She wrinkled her nose, gave Flora's bedchamber door one more glance, then launched into the story.

While she talked, Jake took advantage of the unguarded moment to move to a more comfortable chair nearer the fireplace. There he stretched out his legs and settled in to listen, interrupting her twice to elaborate on a point, three times to correct a mistake. He didn't count the number of times Gillian paused to massage her leg muscles.

It didn't escape Jake's notice that she failed to mention that the Declaration of Independence was the object of his search. Jake decided she must be working up to that, saving the best for last, so to speak.

Once during the telling, they heard Flora cry out for her husband in a voice racked with pain. When a few minutes later they heard the laboring woman curse her man with invectives as blue as the lochs of Scotland, Gillian moaned and buried her face in her hands.

Jake felt the urge to reassure her, to touch her and kiss her cheek and tell her everything would be all right. He refrained, which appeared to be a good thing considering the unvoiced threat her grand-uncle shot his way when she shook off her worry and continued the story, picking up at the place where she awoke to find Jake in her bedroom.

At least she had the good sense not to mention he had tied her up.

During a pause in her narrative, Brodie eyed Jake speculatively and stroked his snowy beard. "Sneaking into the lass's room. I probably should kill you just for that. Gilly, tell me the truth. Did he dare to lay a finger on you?"

Jake held his own breath and eyed Brodie's revolver waiting for Gillian to reply. Hell, if he'd known he stood a chance of dying for his transgression, he wouldn't have stopped at a kiss.