Sizzle All Day (17 page)

She stood at his side, close enough for him to detect that jasmine scent again. Never mind the feather spiders, this was true torture. "Yes, I can tell."

If she heard the rueful note in his voice, she ignored it. "To wear it in the usual fashion, and in the manner in which our Brian Brodie should present himself, we shall drop the plaid from your shoulders so you are wearing the double skirt again."

"Skirt? Let's use a different term, shall we, Gillian?"

Damned if her lips didn't twitch into a grin. Damned if those beautiful blue eyes didn't sparkle.

Jake glanced away from the intriguing sight and gritted his teeth. He didn't want to laugh. He wanted to howl. He wanted to throw her onto the bed and teach her how a Texan undressed.

Instead, he tried to think of something else—anything else—and watched in the mirror as she took the outermost front part of the plaid, rolled it up a bit, then tucked it into his belt at the small of his back. Then, he found a distraction. "You've made me a tail," he protested.

"Quit whining or I'll find you horns to match. Now, we take the right portion in front and your tail in back and join them on the shoulder with the brooch," she said, describing the actions as she performed them. "When we tuck the rest of the front into the belt, it appears you are only wearing a sash across your chest."

Stepping back, she studied him, then nodded with satisfaction. "See how the left shoulder wrap allows freedom of your dominant arm for battle? Isn't that ingenious?"

"Uh huh," he said, his attention caught by the purse of her mouth.

"And Texas? That day you spent hiding at the watchtower? Had you been wearing the feileadh mor, all you'd need have done was remove the brooch like this..." she plucked the pin from his shoulders "...and you'd have had your pillow and blanket right there with you."

As she gathered up the cloth to demonstrate, her hands brushed his arousal. Gillian jerked back and the tension between them flared thicker and hotter.

Ever so slowly, Jake reached out a finger, touched the soft skin beneath her chin, and tilted her face up.

"You stir me, Gillian Ross," he told her, his voice low and rough with desire. "You warm me like a San Antonio summer, and you make me want to take... what I shouldn't."

"Jake... I..." She licked her lips.

And he was lost.

Chapter 8

How could this man complain of being cold so much? He was fire inside. Kissing Jake Delaney was like diving headfirst into a volcano.

His lips slashed across hers, urgent and insistent and hungry. His tongue probed and stroked and demanded her response. Gillian gave freely. Joyfully. With a wondrous sigh.

Jake Delaney wanted her. Quite badly, judging by his reaction. The knowledge eased the burden of self-doubt that had weighted her heart for months. Her femininity had needed the affirmation. Receiving it allowed her passion to soar.

Jittery with desire, Gillian poured herself into the kiss. She answered him nip for nip, stroke for stroke, and when he rumbled a low, greedy moan, she replied with a feral purr.

His hands glided up her sides, cupped her breasts. His nails scratched across her erect nipples and a bolt of pure lust, hot and dangerous, shot from the tips of his fingers to the core of her womanhood.

Unprepared for the intensity of the sensation, Gillian shied. She broke the kiss, stepped back from him, and wrapped her arms around herself, defensively, protectively. "I... I don't know... I didn't mean..."

"Me either." Breathing hard, he looked away. Arms at his sides, his hands fisted, then flexed, then fisted again. "Kind of got away from us, didn't it?"

It was a far cry from a declaration of devotion most any woman would hope to hear after such an intimate exchange. Something of her feelings must have shown in her expression because he hastened to say, "Make no mistake. You pack a punch, princess. A powerful punch."

Uncertain how to respond to that, she settled for the truth. "So do you."

The grin he flashed was a brazen combination of arrogance, wickedness, and masculinity. He tipped an imaginary hat and Gillian had an absurd mental flash of Jake Delaney dressed in the feileadh mor, but wearing his cowboy boots rather than stockings, a gunbelt instead of a dirk, and a wide-brimmed straw hat as opposed to the traditional Highland bonnet.

That mental image burned away when he added a slow wink to the hat-tipping. A vivid memory replaced it—Jake Delaney standing naked in front of the fireplace his first night at Rowanclere.

Gillian felt the heat of a blush stain her cheeks.

"So very beautiful," Jake murmured. "Prettier than the scene outside the tower window. Why, if a man had that view to look at outside, and you in his bed inside, he'd have to wonder if he'd died and gone to heaven."

Her mouth was dry as Young Fergus's bones. "I cannot go to your bed, sir."

He arched a brow. "I don't intend to ask you."

She took it like a slap to the face, flinching backward as she said, "Oh."

Jake grimaced and waved a hand. "No, I didn't mean it that way. Believe me, Gillian Ross, I want you in my bed. I want that very, very much."

His deep, resonant tone rang with truth, soothing her hurt and stoking the still smoldering coals of her desire. "I don't understand. Why did you...?"

He raked his fingers through his hair. "You questioned my honor earlier. Well, my own personal code has a paragraph or ten about how a man should treat a lady. I won't stay in Scotland, Gillian. I have plans... dreams... and for the first time in a very long time, I'll be free to pursue them as soon as I wrap up this business with the Declaration."

He spoke to her at length, then, about his travel plans. He painted pictures of tropical flowers and sugar-sand beaches. He spoke of deserts and pyramids and jungles. "I want to see a tiger in the wild. Don't know why exactly, but it's something I've always dreamed of seeing. With Chrissy settled and my mother happily established in London Society, I'll be able to board my southbound ship in good conscience. Do you understand now, Gillian? Do you see why this can go no further?"

"Aye, I believe I do."

He took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. "I will not take advantage of you, princess, no matter how much I'd like to do just that."

"Well." Gillian picked up the sporran and smoothed down the fur adorning the flap. "Not every man feels as you do, Texas. I think I like you."

"I know I like you." His laugh was rueful. "Too much."

She handed him the sporran and instructed him how to fasten the strap around him so that the bag hung in front. It would have been easier to do it herself, but she had learned the danger of that. When he had arranged it to her satisfaction, she asked, "So, where does that leave us?"

Jake sat on the bed and donned the stockings, then slipped the sgian-dhu in the right one at her direction. "This is one part of the costume I agree with."

"I thought you might."

Then he took a deep breath and added, "Since becoming lovers isn't in the cards, how about we give being friends a shot? I can always use another friend, Gillian."

Friends, not lovers. Yes, that was better. She tried to ignore the sinking in her stomach as she nodded and said, "All right, friends it is."

"Good. All right, then." His gaze stroked over her and he winced. "I think we'll be able to manage it, don't you?"

"Aye."

"As long as we don't touch. Touching is... dangerous."

"Aye. No touching." Carefully, she handed him a pair of leather shoes with buckles on the top. "I hope these are not too small. They were the largest I could find."

Jake attempted to squeeze into the footwear, but the fit was simply too tight. "Don't worry about it," he said as Gillian clicked her tongue in concern. "I'll wear my boots."

At that, she hung her head and sighed. "No. That will not do at all." After a moment's thought, she continued, "Agnes Armstrong might have some to fit. Her man Ronald wore the feileadh mor in a theatrical production a few summers ago, and he and you are of a size. The arrangements have all been made for the churching and baptism in the morning, and all is ready for Lord Harrington's arrival tomorrow afternoon. A trip across the loch today will be most welcome."

"Across the loch?" Jake asked. "How? Will you sail? Who will take you?"

"I shall take myself, but I will row. It is a relatively short trip, and I am better with oars than sails."

"I'll go with you, then. Maybe we can steal an hour or two to fish. I have a couple of Castaway Bait Company fishing lures I've been wanting to try out in your Scottish lakes. Think you can rustle up a pair of poles to take along with us?"

She frowned. "You want to fish? With me?"

"It's a decent substitute. Besides, fishing is a good activity to share with a friend. What do you say, friend? Wanna go fishing?"

Friends. Simply friends. Gillian licked her lips. What would it hurt to spend a little time with a friend? Slowly, she nodded. "On the way back to Rowanclere. First we must find you shoes."

"It's a deal. When do you want to go? Right away?"

"I need to see Robyn settled into her lessons. Plan to meet me down by the water in, say, half an hour?"

"All right. It may take me that long to get out of this dress and back into my pants."

She rolled her eyes at his choice of words, then turned to leave. At the doorway, she paused. "You might want to stop and ask Mrs. Ferguson for scraps to use for bait in case you have little luck with your artificial lures."

"I reckon I could." Jake dragged a hand along his jawline. "Though I doubt I'll use anything else. I've a feeling the ice cold waters of Loch Rowanclere is just the place to drown my Throbbing Bob."

* * *

Jake wore two pairs of socks inside his boots and his wool coat as he rowed the small boat out onto the loch. They weren't fifty yards offshore before he stripped off the coat. A hundred yards out, he'd lost the extra pair of socks, too.

He tried to tell himself the exercise warded off the chill he had expected. He knew he was lying to himself. He knew responsibility for his unaccustomed warmth could be laid at his fishing buddy's deliriously bare feet.

He'd groaned aloud, then blamed it on the rowboat's hard seat when she took off her shoes and stockings. If she'd been trying to be seductive, he might have had an easier time resisting her appeal. But Gillian was all innocent delight in the "warm" summer afternoon and the attraction of a new-to-her pastime—fishing with artificial bait.

She was giving Jake's Musky Wriggler a workout.

"It's been months and months since I fished," she told him. "Uncle Angus used to take us out often, but his puir joints pain him too much now to get in and out of the boat. I have forgotten how much fun fishing can be."

"It's fun because I'm being a good sport about taking your catch off the hook for you."

"Hah. You would rather do it yourself because you are afraid I will lose your lure."

What he wished was that she would lose her allure. Instead, with every giggle or wriggle or flex of her toes, she reeled him in a little more. What an idiot he'd been to think he could look at her as only a friend.

The hours they'd spent together since leaving Rowanclere had made the situation worse instead of better. Sure they had laughed and talked as friends do, but learning about one another served to increase the air of intimacy between them rather than erecting a wall like he had hoped. When she dangled a toe over the side of the boat, testing the temperature of the water, he found himself fantasizing licking it dry.

Desperate, he searched for a distraction. He offered her an apple from the picnic lunch they'd brought with them, and took another for himself. Sinking his teeth into the sweet, crisp fruit, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment before asking, "So, why do you want to sell your home?"

"I don't want to sell it. I love Rowanclere."

Jake changed lures from the Castaway Bait Company's Texas Doodle Spring Hook to their Scalloped Spoon. "If you love it, why sell it?"

"Because it's Uncle Angus's decision, and he is too stubborn to know when to come in out of the cold. He thinks this is the right thing for me and Robyn."

It was a mistake to give her the juicy apple. Every time she licked her lips, Jake wanted to howl. He cleared his throat. "Why would it be good for you and the squirt? Y'all seem happy here."

"We are happy." Gillian lowered her half-eaten apple and scowled. "Actually, Uncle Angus is doing this more on my account than for Robyn. He fears if he doesn't sell the castle, I will someday find myself in a situation like David's. It's his way of preparing to gae doon the brae."

Jake deduced that "gae doon the brae" meant to die, but the rest of what she said remained a puzzle. Who the hell was David, what was his situation, and why did she have a bite in her voice when she said his name? "You've lost me."

Gillian set her apple aside, then flicked her wrist sharply and sent her fishing line sailing. "You've been up to my grand-uncle's room in the past few days, have you not?"