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Excerpt...
Sinfully Scottish
Chapter 1
Lust. Seduction. Sin. At last, everything Emily Sinclair had been
searching for was only a few footsteps away, just behind the thick stone
walls of an ancient Scottish fortress.
The
last one off the tour bus, she ambled across the emerald green lawn and
up the cobbled garden path. While others talked about the riotous purple
and yellow flowers that surrounded them, it was only the Gothic castle
that caught Emily's eyes. It loomed over her, its dark turrets and
spires a menacing yet majestic display of grandeur, unlike anything
she'd ever seen.
Amazed by the unexpected opulence, she drew in an awe-inspired breath
and with wide, wonder-filled eyes walked through the first of several
archways that led to the formidable stronghold. She'd never dreamed
Dunbar Castle would be so...so unfairytale-like. Nor had she ever
imagined it would be so...perfect.
"Our
beloved castle, unlike others in Scotland," the tour guide said, "is not
rich in glorious tales of Bonnie Prince Charlie feasting in our great
hall or Mary, Queen of Scots slumbering in one or more of our bedrooms.
Nay, Dunbar Castle canna boast about its lineage of heroes or braw
warriors because, if truth be told, honor and virtue have not run
rampant within our crenellated walls."
A
definite understatement, Emily thought, especially if the incredibly
wicked tales she'd heard in the village pub this afternoon could be
believed.
"While other castle tours give visitors a glimpse into history with talk
of war and political intrigue and possibly offer a few brief tales about
a headless ghost or hauntings by a Green, Grey, or maybe a Pink Lady, we
prefer to give our guests a fascinating taste of our castle's infamous
past."
Infamy. Insatiability. Indulgence. That's exactly what Emily wanted to
hear about, but the docent's voice came across as barely a whisper at
the back of the gift shop, where the tour of the castle's interior
began. Getting stuck behind forty-three other castle visitors would
never do, Emily decided, and squeezed through the crowd for a better
vantage point.
Not
for the first time she wished she was five-foot-ten rather than
five-foot-two--a height she achieved only by stretching on her tiptoes
when being measured. She pushed past elbows and backpacks and emerged at
the front of the group just as Gillian, their guide and the woman who'd
driven them here from the quaint Highland village of Dunbar, led them
through an impressive stone hallway lined with ancient tapestries and
shining armor.
"Please follow me and remember, no food, no drink, and no cameras, flash
or otherwise." The black-haired, blue-eyed beauty in a green-and-blue
tartan jumper winked. "Black Andrew, our first laird--who, some say,
still watches everything that goes on in and around the castle--would
not approve."
No
one mentioned tape recorders not being allowed, but just to be safe
Emily kept hers hidden in the pocket of her blazer, and made sure her
right side stayed fixed on Gillian so she could catch every intriguing
word the young woman uttered in her soft, rolling burr.
"Andrew Dunbar was born in the thirteenth century. He was a very wealthy
merchant who bought--and oftentimes took--whatever he wanted."
"You
called him Black Andrew," one of the tourists said. "Why?"
"For
his temperament, of course. And for the color of the blood that ran
through his veins." Gillian grinned, obviously enjoying her tale as she
led them up the circular stone staircase to the top of the keep. "It's
said that Black Andrew lured puir wee lassies from the village to his .
. . bed, and he had many, many beds within the castle walls. Then, when
he tired of the lassies, he'd bring them here." She turned her palm
upward and gestured at the scenery around them. "Bonnie, isn't it?"
It
was magnificent. Emily shaded her eyes from the sun peeking through the
early evening clouds and surveyed the ruins of the nearby abbey and its
graveyard, the serene pastures where woolly, long-horned Highland cattle
grazed, the cultivated pastures they'd been told were planted with
barley, and the rolling green lawn that stretched from the castle to the
placid, dark blue loch. It was hard to believe that anything wicked had
ever happened in these pastoral hills, but she was very glad it had.
"If
Black Andrew was tired of the women," one of the female tourists said,
"why did he bring them up here?"
Gillian strolled toward the stone parapet and looked down, down, down at
the ground below, as did every tourist, even Emily. "To kiss them
heartily." She smiled mischievously. "To whisper sweet nothings in their
ears. Then he'd lift them in his big, strong arms, and . . . fling them
over the side."
A
few women gasped. One slapped her hand to her chest in astonishment. The
man standing next to Emily smirked as he shook his head, obviously not
buying any of this. Emily didn't know if it was true or not, but it made
for great storytelling, and that's exactly what she was looking for.
"I've heard tales," Gillian said, "that even though the women's bodies
were shattered in the fall, each died with a smile on her face."
Black Andrew must have been quite a man, Emily thought. An attentive
lover who believed in pleasing a woman, almost till her last breath.
Andrew was a dying breed, at least that's what her somewhat limited
experience with lovers led her to believe. For good reason,
business--albeit a sexy business--was her only concern anymore.
"Tell me," a timid tourist asked, raising her hand slightly, "do the
women Black Andrew killed haunt the castle?"
"Nay. He made their last days on earth such pleasurable ones that they
had no reason to hate their killer or to come back and haunt the halls.
Black Andrew is our only ghost, doomed to walk the earth until a Dunbar
laird marries and lives happily ever after. He's been dead for eight
centuries now and, sadly, still haunts the halls and the abbey."
With
that bit of information dished out in a bubbly tone, as if the mostly
American group visited haunted castles every day, Gillian headed back
down the stairwell, a flock of attentive sightseers following behind.
"I
heard Black Andrew had a bedroom hidden behind a secret passage," Emily
said, catching up with Gillian. "I heard the room's magnificent, that
the ceilings and furniture are gilt, and that the bed is draped in
velvet, satin, and fur."
"I've heard those tales, too, but if the room exists, I haven't seen
it."
Too
bad, Emily thought. A secret room, especially one with a lascivious
past, where unspeakable bliss took place, would provide the perfect
backdrop for one or more pages of her next Sinfully Delicious cookbook.
Already she could see something decadent, like Seduction, a frothy
concoction of white and dark chocolate mousse capped with a swirl of
rich ganache. The luscious dessert would float in a kaleidoscope of
raspberry and dark chocolate sauces and be presented atop an antique
gold platter nestled amidst the rumpled pillows and satin sheets on
Black Andrew's bed.
And
the caption: The allure of silken smoothness and sublime pleasure
tangled in a mysterious web of . . . Seduction. She'd follow that with a
tantalizing tale of sinful delights, leaving out, of course, the sordid
endings to Black Andrew's many romps. This new cookbook would definitely
be another best-seller.
However, she'd have to get access to the secret room before she could
photograph anything, a difficult task, indeed, since this tour was the
closest she'd been able to get to the castle or its owner in three
months of trying. Colin Dunbar, the current laird, was elusive, not to
mention rude. He'd ignored every one of her letters and all of her phone
calls. What he didn't realize was that she could be just as determined
as he was difficult.
This
tour might last only an hour and an audience with the laird was not on
the itinerary, but she didn't plan to leave with the rest of her group.
She planned to find the enigmatic heir of Dunbar Castle and photograph
the interior of his home--something that had never been done before.
She
might be short, but she was extremely tenacious--and in business she
always got what she wanted.
At
the moment, however, she settled for being a regular tourist, gawking at
the magnificence of the furnishings and antiquity as they passed through
the great hall and moved on to the chapel, where the wives of the lairds
had prayed for their husbands' fidelity--"An impossible feat for a
Dunbar male," Gillian said--and finally entered a massive,
high-ceilinged room paneled in dark walnut with a floor of flagstone.
"It
was in this very room--the game room--that Black Andrew played chess
with the devil," Gillian told them. "It's a tradition that has continued
through the ages, although successive lairds have often chosen different
games."
Fascinating, Emily thought, as she studied the room, wondering what
dessert would be most appropriate here. Blissful Victory? Hmm, not a bad
name; not a great one, either; but oh what fun she could have creating
an incredibly decadent yet playful dark chocolate confection to
photograph atop the ornate billiard table. Naturally she'd drape
something sinful over the table. A lacy corset. A silk stocking. Maybe a
pair of men's white dress gloves, an ebony walking stick, and a long
rope of luxurious pearls.
There were any number of terrific photo backdrops in this room, which
was a mishmash of centuries and styles. A scattering of elegant Louis
XVI sat on a colorful oriental carpet in front of the long and narrow
windows that looked out across the loch. In one of the corners was a
table set for chess with baronial chairs on either side, and at least an
eight-foot-long plush black leather sofa rested in front of a fireplace
so big she could drive her rented car inside.
Emily couldn't help but wonder what games the current laird played in
this room, on that sofa, and if he played with the devil, his wife, or
with puir wee lassies from the village. Surely he was just as wicked as
his ancestors, the men in the portraits Gillian was pointing to now.
"Which one's Colin Dunbar?" a tall, buxom blonde asked. She wore
three-inch red spikes, as if she needed any extra height, a tight,
low-cut white tank top, with a lacy red bra underneath, and even tighter
jeans. She'd been silent throughout the tour, as if she found the
legends and history of the castle boring, as if she'd come here for one
reason only--to see the castle's owner. Of all the nerve!
"Our
current laird is a private man," Gillian told her. "You'll not find his
picture here."
"Too
bad." The blonde sighed. "Is there any chance we'll get to see him?"
Emily's ears perked up.
"Unfortunately," Gillian said quite emphatically, "he likes his
privacy."
Darn!
"Are
there any portraits of Black Andrew?" the woman who'd clapped her hand
to her chest earlier asked. "I'd love to know what it was about him that
was so fascinating to women."
"Our
first laird lived long before portrait painting was fashionable, I'm
afraid. But it's said that Alexander Dunbar, the man whose painting
hangs above the fireplace, could have been his ancestor's twin."
The
blonde stepped between the portrait of Alexander and Emily, as if she
were invisible. Most people were courteous and realized that Emily
didn't have X-ray eyes that could see through their backs. The blonde,
however, was anything but courteous. Emily stared at the woman's tanned
shoulder blades for less than a second, then took two steps to the right
and gazed up at the gilt-framed portrait that had caught everyone else's
attention. Her jaw nearly dropped to her knees. The man was absolutely
gorgeous! Sexy and gorgeous! Wickedly gorgeous!
"He
was a swarthy fellow with hair as dark as the night," Gillian said about
the man in tall boots and riding attire, sitting astride a magnificent
black stallion. "And even in the painting it's hard to miss the
intensity of his eyes."
Or
the color, Emily thought. The same deep, fathomless blue as the loch
outside. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic, as if one brief glance from the man
could make you his forever, could make you do anything he asked, make
you do even things he didn't ask, and enjoy every moment of it.
His
half smile was magnetic; his lips were slightly parted and glistened in
the beam of sunlight the painter had swept across his face, making
Alexander look as if he'd just licked them, as if he'd just kissed a
woman and wanted more. A lot more.
"Castle records tell us that Alexander had a special bed made for him by
craftsmen in France," Gillian said.
"Special?" Emily asked, immensely curious. Immensely enthralled. "Why?"
"He
was too tall for any of the beds in the castle, even the bed that Black
Andrew reputedly . . . used. Alexander ordered a bed that would
comfortably accommodate a man of his height, for you Americans that was
about six-foot-five. Dunbar lairds have been quite tall ever since and I
daresay they've all looked quite similar."
"How
lovely." The bosomy blonde moved so close to the portrait it looked like
she wanted to climb right into Alexander's arms. The woman was obviously
on the make, and more than likely she planned to sneak away from the
group to find Colin Dunbar herself.
Well, Emily had first dibs on the laird. Once her business with him was
successfully completed, the blonde could have him. She wasn't interested
in anything more. Sex, as Emily knew all too well, wasn't one tenth as
satisfying as hard work.
"And
now if you'll accompany me to the gift shop, you may sample our very own
Dunbar whisky."
"What about the arched hallway?" Emily asked, wanting to see the place
that held nearly the same intrigue for her as Black Andrew's secret
bedroom. "Won't we be seeing it?"
"I'm
afraid the arched hallway isn't on this tour. If you'd care to come back
to Scotland on Halloween, we give a special ghost tour. It's quite
exclusive. A two-hour exploration of the castle dungeon and, of course,
the arched hallway . . . the place where the wife of each laird is said
to have been buried or, I should say, walled up alive." A grin touched
Gillian's face. "Wives have always been expendable at Dunbar
Castle--after they've delivered an heir, of course--and mistresses have
always been plentiful."
Again she smiled, definitely enjoying her job. "Now, to the gift shop."
Emily wanted to hang back, then slip away from the group when no one was
looking and hide in the game room, but she'd seen the minuscule security
cameras and alarms. The current laird had taken every precaution to keep
trespassers from violating his space, to keep his treasures from
disappearing.
Obviously Colin Dunbar trusted no one. Tourists couldn't picnic on the
grounds or browse on their own, the way she'd done at other castles in
Scotland. Sightseers couldn't even drive their own vehicles to the
castle. Instead they were herded into a cramped bus and driven nearly
three miles over a rutted, winding road, through a towering gate set
inside a tall and thickset stone fence, to the castle grounds. It would
be a long walk back to the village once she accomplished the first part
of her mission, but it would be worth it.
Colin Dunbar wanted to make his home impenetrable, but Emily was
determined to stick around and see more--and more included seeing the
laird himself.
Colin stood in front of the bank of security monitors, hands folded
casually behind him as he watched the leggy, long-haired blonde sneak
through the game-room door and enter the Regency Room. She ran a
delicate hand over the gilt harp and the harpsichord. The same hand
trailed over the French writing table and the elegant Grecian-style
sofa. She moved languidly, her hips and breasts swaying provocatively
beneath her skin-tight clothes, which left little to his imagination.
Too bad. He'd tired of women who blatantly showed off every facet of
their personality, and this one might as well have GREED tattooed across
her chest.
Losing interest in her, but not the security of his possessions, his
gaze darted momentarily toward the monitor that gave him a clear view of
the tourists milling about the gift shop. A gray-haired woman pocketed a
Dunbar Castle souvenir magnet, a trinket worth not much more than a
pound, and then she proceeded to the register and paid nearly two
hundred pounds for a bottle of Dunbar Whisky. As long as he lived, he'd
never understand tourists.
Again he caught a glimpse of the blonde, lounging now in one of his
chairs. If she thought she'd get to meet the laird of the castle if she
hung around long enough, she was mistaken.
Looking back at the scene in the gift shop, Colin searched the group for
the one woman who'd caught his eye when the tour began. Ah, there she
was, the short redhead with the curvy body she tried to conceal beneath
an altogether too masculine looking suit. She was trying to conceal
herself now, too, halfway hiding behind a rack full of whisky jiggers
and silver spoons imprinted with the words DUNBAR CASTLE.
The
redhead knew about the cameras. He'd seen her scanning the gift shop and
hallway when the tour group entered the castle an hour before, and it
hadn't taken her long to spot the security equipment. Of course, it
hadn't taken him long to figure out that she had something hidden, too,
but what she had secreted away in her coat pocket was still a mystery.
The
woman intrigued him. Intelligent. Wary. Clever. From her movements he
could tell she was after something, but he didn't know what. He couldn't
read the redhead as easily as he could the leggy blonde, and that made
her all the more interesting.
He
wondered how long it would be before she figured out that if she were
just a few inches shorter there would be a lot of places she could go
where she wouldn't be seen by the cameras. He'd find her again, however,
because the monitors not only protected the castle's interior but its
grounds as well. The secrets and legends surrounding Dunbar castle, not
to mention his exclusive, highly sought-after whisky, had helped to make
him a rich man, and no expense had been spared to guard his privacy and
those things he wanted to remain a mystery.
The
blonde in the monitor to his left wasn't much of a mystery. She'd
finally spotted the camera and walked toward it now, her hips and
breasts swaying even more provocatively than before. A smile touched her
wide, sensual mouth as she looked directly into the camera and motioned
him, or whoever she thought was watching, toward her with her little
finger.
"You're pretty, sweetheart, but it'll be a cold day in hell before I
join you."
He
chuckled as his gaze drifted back to the gift shop and searched the
crowd again for the petite redhead. Maybe he'd stroll down there and
make an uncharacteristic visit. Of course, the last time he'd done that
one of the tourists had fainted at the sight of him, sure that the ghost
of Alexander Dunbar had materialized before her. Strong genes had made
him the spitting image of his ancestor, just one more Dunbar curse he
had to contend with.
Contending with tourists could sometimes be just as big a blight on his
existence, especially when they disappeared. "Blast!" Colin jabbed at a
few keys on the security equipment and zoomed the camera in for a closer
look at the people milling about. The redhead was nowhere to be found.
He
quickly scanned the hallway leading out of the gift shop. Empty. Even
the rooms she could access off of the hall showed no signs of life. And
then out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of red behind the
hedgerow leading to the distillery. Smart. Definitely smart. She'd
figured out how to get out of the gift shop without being seen, even
knew that the cameras didn't cover the strip of ground behind the
hedge--a problem he'd have to remedy before someone else tried to
outsmart his security system.
But
what the redhead had failed to realize was that even though she was
crouching as she walked, her wild curly hair continually bobbed over the
top of the hedge.
What
did she want? he wondered. Was she a spy sent to find the recipe for
Dunbar Whisky? He laughed cynically. Others had tried and failed and
she'd be unsuccessful, too, no matter how much she fascinated him. The
recipe was in his head and nowhere else, locked there for safekeeping.
It was tradition for father to hand the recipe down to son and no one
else; that tradition, however, would end with him.
"Excuse me, Colin."
He
turned at the sound of Gillian entering the room. "What is it?
"Two
of the tourists failed to get on the bus."
"I
know. I've been watching them."
Gillian crossed the room and stared at the monitors. "I see the blonde,
but where's the redhead?"
"On
her way to the distillery."
"Good. I was worried she might have gone looking for the hidden bedroom,
since she was asking about it during the tour. I'll go after her now and
make sure she gets on the bus."
Colin found himself frowning. "What about the blonde?"
Now
Gillian frowned. "What about her?"
"Aren't you going to take her to the bus?"
"And
why would I do that? She's tall. She's a bonnie lass, exactly the kind
of woman you usually date." Gillian folded her arms across her chest. "Dinna
tell me you're not interested in her."
"That's exactly what I'm telling you."
"But--"
"How
much did you wager that she'd stick around and that I'd invite her to
stay?"
"A
week's labor! If I lose, I have to clean the Devil's Cup and you've seen
what that pub looks like on a summer morn. I'll be sweeping and
scrubbing half the day . . . for seven days in a row. You canna do this
to me, Colin Dunbar."
"If
you and the rest of the villagers would quit betting on my love life,
you wouldn't end up in these predicaments."
"And
if you didn't flit from one woman to another we wouldn't bet."
Colin shrugged and turned away from Gillian's nagging to look at the
distillery monitor, where he caught a quick glimpse of the redhead
knocking on the door, then unsuccessfully trying the handle. Don't waste
your time, he wanted to tell her. It's locked good and tight, and no one
goes inside but me.
Gillian cleared her throat to catch his attention, and he tilted his
head to look at her annoyed frown over his shoulder.
"Meg
bet on the redhead," Gillian said. "I told her she wasn't your type, so
please dinna tell me you're going to let her stay."
Colin grinned, then turned his eyes back to the monitor. "Do you know
her name?"
"Aye." Gillian drew in a deep breath then let it out in a huff. "Emily
Sinclair. Age twenty-eight. Single, American, and never been married."
"You
found all that out during the tour?"
"She's staying at the Devil's Cup and Meg--dear, sweet Meg whose pub
I'll have to clean for two weeks, not one, if you let the redhead
stay--plied her with stories this afternoon. If you give Meg a call, I'm
sure you can find out an endless number of facts."
"All
gathered for my benefit. Right?"
"If
you dinna get married, if you dinna produce an heir--"
"The
village will fall apart. Yes, yes, I'm well aware of your worries."
"You
might take it lightly, Colin Dunbar, but there are forty-three people
living in the village of Dunbar who take your love life quite
seriously."
"And
there are an equal number of people on the tour bus, plus a blonde in
the Regency Room, that you should be taking back to the village. As for
the redhead . . . she intrigues me. I'll watch her a while longer, and
I'll make sure she gets back to the village . . . sometime."
Gillian harrumphed, spun around on her sensible shoes, and stalked out
of the security room.
Again he turned his gaze to the redhead who was still trying to find a
way inside the distillery, but his mind wandered back to Gillian's
words.
Marriage. He shook his head at the miserable thought. In eight hundred
years only one Dunbar laird--Alexander--had had a successful marriage,
and that had surely been a fluke. It was certainly not a fact anyone
living in the village of Dunbar wanted to discuss or even believe,
because it would tamper with their blasted legend about every Dunbar
laird doing away with his wife in one lascivious way or another.
If
truth be told, too many wives had run away from their philandering
husbands, too many had died giving birth to an heir, and too many, like
his own mother, had married only for wealth, and once they'd produced
the obligatory son, took the money they were offered to get out of their
husbands' lives, and moved on.
No,
he would not marry, and sadly, he would not produce an heir. Never. It
was time the cursed history of the Dunbars came to an end.
To
read the further adventures of Colin and Emily,
pick up a copy of MY SCOTTISH SUMMER
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