by Jo Goodman
A slight smile hovered on her lips. "Is that a rule?"
He remembered she liked the kissing, and he very much wanted to do it. Walker pressed his mouth to hers and let it linger just a fraction too long to be a peck. "It should be," he said. He wanted to hear more of her story. "What happened when he let you go?"
"He only untied my hands. I suppose I should have pulled the blindfold off or taken away the gag to scream, but I wasn't thinking about either of those things. All I could think about was wanting to hurt him for taking those liberties with me. I drew back my hand and slapped his face. I don't think he was expecting it, because I found my mark."
Walker heard the satisfaction in her voice. "I could teach you to do a little more damage with the flat of your hand," he said, "than simply deliver a slap."
Skye remembered the blows he had struck to the men in the park and how he had disarmed Parnell. "You'd teach me that?" she asked.
He nodded.
"When?"
The question caught him off guard. "Someday."
She turned her head a little toward him, wondering if he meant it. It didn't matter. Skye had sworn to herself she wouldn't ask for anything beyond the hours they had remaining. His agreement to teach her "some day" held the promise of a future, or perhaps it meant nothing at all. "I'd like to learn," was what she said.
He imagined her completing Tai-Chi's Great Circle. She would be graceful, every gesture flowing into the next, her body lithe and supple. In the beginning she would want to rush the movements, hurrying to Touch the South Wind or Take the Blossom. She would have to cultivate patience and let her spirit flow in harmony with her surroundings, rather than in opposition to it. And in the end, she would be the stronger for it. "Someday," he said again.
Walker's hand rested lightly on her shoulder. His thumb massaged the curve of her arm. "Did the intruder ever come back?" he asked.
She wished he would kiss her again. "Not that I know of," she said. "Not while I was there."
"Did it have something to do with why you left the Marshalls'?"
"Some," she said. Her mouth flattened a little and signaled her refusal to answer more questions. It wasn't fair, she thought, that he was able to ask so many and she could barely get one in edgewise. "What time do I leave tomorrow?"
"The train leaves at ten. That's something else I did in Baileyboro today." When she looked at him questioningly, he explained, "Purchased your ticket." He didn't add that he had bought a fare for himself. Her seat was with the other passengers. He had had to make special arrangements to ride in the mail car. He couldn't risk her moving through the cars and running into him.
"Then I owe you some money," she said.
"No. Parnell paid for it."
Under the circumstances, it was the very least he could have done, Skye thought. She was silent, considering what her father would say when she arrived on the doorstep. He would be pleased about the engine, of course, and probably surprised that she had accomplished the thing so swiftly. He would be disappointed that she didn't have it with her and perhaps even a little frustrated that her success had not been at the price of sheer boredom. She sighed. There was no predicting Jay Mac's response. When he discovered she was not returning to school, he was likely to consider his grand scheme one of his few personal failures. He wouldn't thank her for that.
Walker watched the play of emotions on Skye's face. "What is it?" he asked, wondering at her troubled expression.
"Hmm?"
He repeated his question.
"Just thinking," she said, shrugging a little. "Just because you have lived in my pockets doesn't mean I will let you live in my thoughts."
He knew what she meant, but there was a deeper meaning to her words that she wasn't denying, either. It was as if she was planning intentionally to wipe him from her memory. Was he so forgettable, or would she have to work at it?
Walker's fingers shifted from the curve of her arm to her collarbone. Tugging at the fabric of her gown, he was able to pull it aside to sweep his fingertips along her bare skin. He felt her small shiver and recognized it wasn't one of pleasure. "Does this bother you?" he asked.
It did. "A little," she said.
Walker's fingers stopped their light trailing across her skin. Twisting away he lighted the lamp at their bedside. When he returned he laid the back of his hand against her cheek. His caress was soft, barely a touch at all, and he watched Skye's reaction. She turned into him like a kitten. He didn't have to ask if the light made it better for her. His answer came in the way she responded to his touch.
His knuckles brushed the line of her jaw, the underside of her chin, and dipped to the base of her throat. He bent his head, his mouth hovering just above hers, but when he kissed her, it wasn't on the lips. She made a small sound of distress and desire as he ducked his head and touched her neck with his mouth, just below her ear. The heady fragrance of her hair mixed with the fragrance of her skin.
His lips trailed along her throat, rested in the curve, and sipped gently, tasting and teasing. Her fingers moved restlessly through his hair, hesitating only once as his attention shifted lower.
At the open collar of her nightgown, Walker tracked kisses between her breasts. He didn't work the gown off her shoulders to kiss her breasts. When his mouth closed over her nipple, it was through the fabric, his tongue laving a damp circle over the rose tip and the material causing its own unique sensation of pleasure against her skin. She moved restlessly under him, impatient for the suck of his mouth on her other breast. Her fingers curled harder in his hair and her breath caught when his lips closed over the distended rosebud.
The bedclothes tangled in their legs again and were pushed aside. She rubbed her leg along the length of his and he laid his hands on her hips, raising her nightgown while his mouth moved to the underside of her breast. He paused there briefly, then moved lower still, trailing down across her abdomen, making a small indentation in the fabric of her gown at her navel. Her flat belly contracted in anticipation of his touch. Her fingers drifted from his hair to her sides and caught the sheet beneath her, twisting it hard when he laid his mouth on the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.
He raised his head as he felt sensation jolt her. "Open for me, Skye." She was tense and tight and not sure she wanted him to do this thing to her. Watching her, gauging her reaction, he stroked her thigh with soft, sweet insistence. "Open for me," he said again. He raised himself up and kissed her breast, then her throat. His hand slipped between her thighs as his mouth brushed her lips. "Open."
Her mouth parted and she accepted his kiss. Her legs parted and she accepted the caress of his fingers. And later she accepted the caress of his mouth, the stroking of his tongue, and the pleasure that came with this new intimacy.
He held her while she shuddered in his arms, liking the flush that stole across her skin and the dark, sleepy arousal that widened the centers of her eyes. When she was aware that he was staring at her, she turned away and pushed down her nightgown, embarrassed by her abandon, a bit shamed that she had let him do the things he had. He touched her chin and drew her face back to him. "You didn't do anything wrong," he said, lifting the blankets over them.
The expression in her green eyes was anxious. She worried her lower lip wondering how to explain it to him. "I'm not certain I should enjoy it quite so much," she finally blurted out. "And I have no idea what to call it."
He blinked. After a moment, repressed laughter became a pressure in his chest and a wide, wicked smile deepened his single dimple. He kissed her hard on the mouth. "It's part of making love, and you can call it that." He laid his mouth near her ear. "Or you can call it this." He whispered in her ear, then raised his head to watch her expression. She was screwing up her face with a charming lack of guile.
"I can't say I like the sound of that," she said.
"I didn't think you would," he said gravely. "I simply offered it as an alternative."
Skye knew he was laughing at her, but she f
ound she didn't mind. She had never taken herself quite so seriously as Mary Michael or Mary Renee. She was also more likely to see the humor in everyday situations than either Mary Margaret or Mary Francis.
"What are you thinking?"
Skye wondered why he asked. Then she realized she was smiling. "About my sisters," she said.
"Sisters," he repeated. "Perhaps I should be worried about your brothers. Do you have any of those?"
"No. And that's the last thing I'm telling you." She snuggled against him, curving her body to his. "Besides, you should be very worried about what the Marys will do to you." She brought his arm around her waist and held it there. Skye closed her eyes.
The Marys. He wondered what she meant by that.
* * *
In the morning, Walker left Skye alone while she prepared to leave. Annie brought her breakfast, but most of it remained uneaten on the tray. The ache in Skye's throat made it difficult to swallow, and the knot in her stomach, like a fist clenched around her middle, made her think she couldn't have held food down anyway.
No one else came to see her, not that Skye expected it. She was rather surprised Walker had entrusted Annie with the key to their room. She doubted he was going to give it to anyone else.
It was while Skye was packing that she missed her small notepad. It wasn't so important, she thought, because it had only information about the house. She'd never really had time to explore the way she wanted to, or complete her drawings. Once Walker had become her shadow, she hadn't even given much thought to proving or disproving her theory about the house's peculiar design. But it bothered her that she couldn't find the pad. She couldn't recall keeping it anywhere but in the pockets of her aprons, and she had only two of those.
After checking both, Skye made a thorough search of all her gowns. She ran her hand along the bottom of her valise and her trunk, thinking it might have fallen in a rip in the liner. The last time she remembered having it she had still been staying in the other bedroom. If it was anywhere, it was still in there.
In spite of that, Skye looked under the bed, in the dresser, beneath the hearth rug, and in Walker's armoire. That was how she found Parnell's gun. The Colt was lying at the back of the wardrobe and Skye's fingers froze when she touched the cool blue-gray steel. She pulled it out cautiously and checked to see if it was loaded. It wasn't.
Releasing a breath she hadn't known she was holding, Skye began to put it back. She stopped halfway, drew her hand out again, and placed the gun at the bottom of her valise. She had no particular use for the Colt. Her own preference was a five-shot Remington .22, but removing the Colt from the Granville mansion seemed a better idea than leaving it behind.
Skye's sketch of the engine was in the pocket where she remembered leaving it. She stopped worrying about the notepad, thankful she hadn 't lost what was truly important, and unfolded the paper with her picture. It still didn't look like much of anything, but her father had men working for him who might understand what she had drawn. Her sister Rennie would probably be able to figure it out.
Skye refolded the paper and noticed now that it closed neatly along creased lines. Staring at it, she frowned. She thought back, trying to recall the circumstances of drawing it. Skye rose from her kneeling position in front of the wardrobe and sat at Walker's desk. She took out another piece of paper and went through the motions of sketching on it. Her head jerked up as she remembered Walker's approach, his hand on the door, and the sound of the key in the lock. She grabbed the paper and thrust it hastily into her pocket.
Skye looked down at her hands. The paper wasn't folded like the one she had found. She had been in too much of a hurry to crease it neatly. She looked at her drawing again. It was her sketch, her writing. That, at least, wasn't different.
The only conclusion Skye could reach was that someone else had seen it. Someone else had folded it and put it back in her pocket.
Walker Caide was that person. He had to be.
Skye wondered how concerned she should be that Walker had seen her work. He hadn't thought it was important enough to take away from her; on the other hand, she didn't know who else he might have shown it to, or if he had copied it himself. If Parnell had entertained any doubts about sending Skye away, the sketch would have tipped the scales against her.
Skye placed the sketch in the bottom of her trunk beside the gun. She replaced her folded clothing in the trunk and closed the lid. Skye was finishing with her valise when Walker came in. The mantel clock had just struck nine.
"We should be going," he told her.
Skye nodded, glancing around the room for anything she might have missed. Her hairbrush was still on Walker's dresser. She picked it up by the ebony handle and dropped it into her valise. The top of his dresser looked strangely bare without her pots of cream and scents and powders.
"That's it, then," he said after a moment.
"That's it." She felt awkward. She smoothed the folds of her dove-gray day dress.
Walker's weight shifted from one foot to the other. "You take the valise," he told her. "Hank's outside with the carriage. Send him up to help me with this trunk."
"All right." She picked up the valise. He handed her her coat, hat, and muff. Skye found she couldn't meet Walker's eyes as she hurried out of the room. She was fighting the urge to cry.
Skye had composed herself by the time Walker joined her in the carriage. It swayed as he climbed in and took the seat opposite her. A moment later she heard Hank command the horses, and then they were under way.
Skye stared out the carriage window. The glare of cold winter sunlight made her squint. It helped her keep tears in check.
"Where are you going to go?" Walker asked.
She had been dreading this moment. It was a double-edged sword. His question proved that he cared something for her, perhaps that he would even want to find her someday, and she had no choice but to lie to him. "It won't take me long to find another position," she said. "I have a little money. I'll probably stay at the St. Mark's."
"A hotel?" he asked. "Not with your sisters?"
"No, not with my sisters."
"Won't they take you in?"
"They would, but I won't ask them. There are some things I need to do on my own."
Walker felt her closing the subject on her family and he still hadn't learned enough to suit him. They rode in silence for more than a mile. "Don't you have anything you want to ask me?"
A dozen questions and not one that she would give a voice to. She shook her head.
He frowned. "Is it so hard for you to ask something of someone else?"
"Not so hard," she said. "But I promised myself I wouldn't and I won't." It was all part of being an adventuress. She had to be able to walk away.
Walker knew that he was going to see her again, and he knew how soon, but she didn't know that. Her stubborn streak was infuriating. "What if there's a child, Skye? Had you thought about that?"
She stopped staring out the window and turned to look at him. "I'm a bastard," she said. "Of course I thought of it."
"And?"
"And what?" she asked. "I don't know what you want me to say. I knew the possible consequences of lying with you." Of lying to you, she could have added. "I chose to do it anyway."
"So did I. If there's a child, I want to know about it."
"So you can do what? Give me money? Marry me? Set me up in a little apartment? Or maybe you just want to keep track of your bastards."
He flinched a little at her cold analysis. "I don't have any children," he told her. "And I don't intend to have any bastards."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not having your child, because I wouldn't have your name."
Walker managed to hold onto the threads of his temper. "This is ridiculous," he said under his breath. "It will be weeks before you know one way or the other." He looked at her sharply. "Won't it?"
She shrugged. "I'll know when I know. It doesn't have to be your concern."
"Where do you get the
se ideas?" he asked. "Why would you think I wouldn't want to know?"
"The point is, I don't know what you think. I don't know much about you, and you haven't done anything to encourage me to find out." She paused, waiting to see if he would tell her something now. "In fact, you've done quite the opposite."
Knowing that she was right didn't make it any easier to take. "I told you before I was more used to keeping secrets than sharing them."
"And I accepted that," she said calmly, quietly. "Now it's for you to accept that I may want to keep some secrets of my own."
He didn't like it, but there was nothing he could do about it. Baileyboro came into view as the carriage rounded the last curve in the rutted road. The train station was at the far end of the village and out of Walker's line of sight. He suspected there would only be one or two people waiting on the platform. Most of the traffic for the line came from the north at Albany and south from the city. Baileyboro was an insignificant stop on the route but vital to the villagers.
Walker handed Skye her ticket. Parnell had told him to give Skye his compliments, but Walker hadn't relayed the message. He tried to put himself in Skye's place and wondered if uncertainty would have driven him to press an argument the way she had done. Did it make parting easier for her?
Hank Ryder opened the carriage door and put out his hand to Skye. "Sorry it's come to this," he told her as he helped her down. "Didn't think you were given a fair shake."
"Thank you, Hank." She smiled. "I'd like one now, though."
At first he didn't understand what she meant, then he felt her squeezing his hand. He chuckled, showing this wide, gap-toothed grin and pumped her hand enthusiastically.
"When you're finished..." Walker said drily, not bothering to complete his sentence.
Hank flushed and removed his hand. Skye pressed her own into the muff she carried and hurried toward the platform. The wind was strong enough to make whitecaps on the river. Chunks of ice dotted the surface and were trapped by outcroppings of rock. As they traveled along the river's edge, the view from the train would be bleak. It would fit Skye's mood perfectly.
