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however, she delights in mischief. She loves to play tricks by moving things around. Another is My Lady Greensleeves, who legend tells us threw herself from a tower window after her father murdered the man she loved, a stable hand here at Rowanclere. Last, of course, is the Headless Lady of Rowanclere. She, too, is full of mischief. She dresses all in white and likes to frighten people by popping up in unexpected places at unexpected times. She carries a head that is but a wood model, and often leaves it behind following a haunt. I have seen the Headless Lady myself. She left a head in my room the day I departed Rowanclere to marry Mr. Dunbar."
    "Really," Jake drawled, making no attempt to hide his skepticism.
    Her chin rose a little higher. "Did your spirit resemble either the Headless Lady or Lady Greensleeves?"
    "No, more like Lady Godiva."
    The woman blushed red as the tartan that hung in Rowanclere's entry hall. "Well, 'tis neither here nor there. None of our ghaists are dangerous. Well, except for the bogles. They have been known to cause injury, although only to obnoxious men. As long as you are kind to the women of Rowanclere, you should be safe."
    "That's reassuring to know," he replied, his lips twisting in a half-smile. The woman was full of spirit. Downright feisty. Funny, she hadn't struck him that way at all yesterday.
    She hadn't loaded his pistol yesterday, either.
    It was, of course, the heat he sensed in her today that did it. Jake did like his women with some sizzle to them.
    Again, his conscience gave him a rap on the skull. She's married, Delaney . What's wrong with you?
    Giving his head a quick shake, he pushed to his feet. "I reckon I'll see to breakfast now."
    She didn't rise, but simply flashed him a brilliant—and relieved—smile. "Be certain to sample Mrs. Ferguson's haggis. It is a prize-winning recipe."
    "So I've been told."
    He was halfway back to the dining room when the drawing room door closed and he heard the snick of a lock. Hmm. Friendly one minute, ill-tempered the next. Maybe that has something to do with the pregnancy.
    In the dining room, Jake headed for the buffet. He lifted a fancy, blue china plate from a stack and began to pile it high with Texas-size portions of scrambled eggs, ham, stewed pears—he'd been wrong about the apples—and haggis, which experience had shown him tasted like a dully spiced sausage. He skipped the porridge and black pudding, and added an Arbroath smokie as recommended by the cook. Jake liked this Scottish custom of having fish with breakfast.
    His plate filled to near overflowing, he reached for one last item, a roll. But the basket moved.
    Jake blinked, certain he had imagined the movement. Once again, he reached for the bread.
    Once again, the basket moved.
    What the...?
    Abruptly, he grabbed for the basket. This time, his fingers brushed the straw before the basket scooted beyond his reach. He set down his plate, torn between annoyance and anticipation. Obviously, his "ghost" was up to her tricks once more. Unless, of course, these hijinks were the effort of Mrs. Dunbar's brownie and Jake didn't much believe that.
    Shoot, he would suspect Mrs. Dunbar of being the culprit had last's night's seductive shade not proven beyond a shadow of doubt that she was not far gone with child. However, someone was making this breadbasket dance.
    Jake stood still as a fence post, visually examining the sideboard for sign of a line, which was the most obvious explanation for the shenanigans. He saw nothing, but then a dark thread against the dark wood would be difficult to spot. "You know," he said aloud. "This effort is juvenile compared to last night's."
    At that, the basket jerked and slid completely off the cabinet, sending rolls tumbling onto the floor. Jake tucked his tongue firmly in his cheek and said, "Yes, flying bread is definitely amateurish. Now, the naked bosom showed promise. Among other things." As he spoke, he bent and picked up the basket, fully