Always in My Dreams

by Jo Goodman

  "I'm not."

  This time her response didn't really surprise him. "Are you going to tell me why?"

  Instead of answering him directly, she asked a question of her own. "What is it you imagine I want out of life?"

  Walker knew he was in trouble because he had never given it any thought. He did so now, thinking about it carefully because he realized how much depended on his answer. He considered what he knew about Mary Schyler Dennehy, what he had observed, what he had heard. He considered the things she had already told him and the things she had been unable to put into words. He thought about the things that were deeply felt and showed only in her eyes.

  The first time he had seen her—the very first time—she had been marching along a Central Park path, a solitary figure who'd left her friends behind. She had been at some risk that night when he was attacked, but instead of running, she had watched the dangerous drama unfold. Knowing her as he did now, he thought that she might even have come to his rescue had events proceeded along a different line.

  The next time he saw her was in the entrance hall of the Granville mansion. She was in a room full of other women but she was alone on that occasion as well. He had noticed her immediately, first when she pretended to sleep, and then when she waggled her behind in the air as she leaned over the bench. She was sharp and smart in the interview, tempering her wit so she did not cross the line to insolence. She had managed not only to secure a position for herself but one for another woman who would have surely gone without. He didn't believe she had gone into the meeting with Parnell with that intention. It was a notion that had occurred to her at some point in the interview and she'd seized it. Skye was not one to let an opportunity pass.

  She could think quickly, spinning tales that held up under some scrutiny whenever she was caught out. And she didn't shy from danger. Rather, she seemed to embrace it. She was a little reckless, still impulsive, but before he judged her too harshly, he thought back through his own life and realized there was a time he'd have been judged much the same way.

  He thought about her upbringing. It was not so difficult to imagine what it must have been like to be the bastard child of a man as powerful and well known as John MacKenzie Worth. In his mind he saw the photograph of the five Marys and understood the faint smiles were deliberate and the eyes were defiant. People must have watched them all the time, waiting for them to make the slightest misstep. Skye in particular seemed to have taken delight in giving the gossips grist for their mill. She had had four lively, lovely sisters to encourage her efforts.

  Walker's thoughts eventually wandered to this evening, how she had come to him without reservation, honest in her need and unashamed by it. It was excitement that rushed color to her face, not embarrassment.

  Now Walker touched her cheek, tracing the arc with his forefinger and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think that what you want out of life," he said quietly, solemnly, "is not to waste a day of it. I think you want to embrace excitement when you find it and savor the quiet moments as you come upon them. The worst thing you can imagine is to have each day be like the one before it or know that tomorrow will have no adventure."

  Skye didn't speak for a moment. She couldn't. There was a hard knot at the back of her throat that prevented her from saying anything. It was as if Walker had reached into her mind and plucked out her thoughts. In doing so he had touched her soul. "How do you know all that?"

  Her voice was both anxious and breathless. There was a sheen of tears in her beautiful eyes. Walker's hand lay near the curve of her neck and now he drew his knuckle along the edge of her jaw. "We're not so different, you and I," he said. "I'm thinking we have a lot in common."

  She gave him a hesitant, watery smile and drew his hand to her heart. "I suspected it here," she said. "Long before I could understand it. I kept dwelling on the things I didn't know about you instead of concentrating on the things I did. All my life I've wanted to be judged for who I was, not for whom my parents were, not for the circumstances of my birth, not for my address, and certainly not for my fortune. Yet given the opportunity to see you in that light, I found myself not considering your character but wondering about your past. I think I must be the worst kind of hypocrite."

  Bending his head, Walker kissed her lightly on the lips. "You're too hard on yourself," he told her. "In spite of what you don't know, I don't believe you'd have come to my bed on any occasion without concluding something about my character."

  It was true. "Yes," she whispered. "But what if I've concluded all the wrong things?"

  "Tell me," he said. His grave tone was at odds with the glint in his eyes. "I suppose I'll have to try to live up to them."

  She was smiling as she threaded her fingers through his. "I don't think you take yourself too seriously," she said. "You're more casually confident than arrogant. I think you take a position on the important things and shrug off the rest. I think you're secretly amused by most of what you see in others, but you're careful not to patronize. It's interesting that you genuinely don't seem to care what others think of you."

  With one exception, he thought. He cared very much, perhaps too much, about Skye's opinion. He almost wished he hadn't encouraged her to talk, and yet he couldn't bring himself to stop her.

  "I don't think you enjoy confrontation, but you certainly don't run from it," she said. "You know your own mind. You can listen to others and accept their opinion without trying to change it." Skye was searching his face, studying the line of his slightly crooked nose, the shape of his serious mouth. His brown-and-gold-flecked eyes returned her regard without expression, but this was one time when she thought she understood what was on his mind. Her hand squeezed his gently. "Did you suspect I was going to confine myself to cataloging admirable qualities like bravery, intelligence, and fortitude?"

  His low laughter was tinged with self-mockery and his tone was dry. "It's a good thing I don't take myself too seriously." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. His brows were raised and his smile was wry. "Though I really hadn't given any thought to fortitude."

  Skye would not be waylaid by his humor on this occasion. "I think you're all those things," she said soberly. "I think you can be protective and patient, kind and cunning. You see more than you reveal and share less than you know. That's both annoying and frustrating." With uncomplicated frankness, Skye added, "It's also intriguing." She watched the shutter close over his expression once more. He was rubbing her knuckles across his mouth again, the gesture more absent than sensual. "But perhaps it doesn't really matter what I feel about it. It's who you are. I can't change it. I can accept it or not. For now I can accept it."

  "Tomorrow?" The single word was almost uttered against his will.

  "I don't know."

  Walker let Skye's hand fall away. He reached for the lamp and turned it back, then lay down fully beside her. He felt her turn toward him, stretch out her body so that she was flush to the planes and angles of his long frame. Her head rested on his shoulder and her arm went around his waist. "You'll stay here tonight?" he asked.

  "Until daybreak."

  He wondered if it would be enough time. "I'm glad you came," he said after a moment.

  "I thought it could turn out very badly for me," she said.

  "You mean if you were caught?"

  "I mean if you hadn't wanted me. Or worse, had wanted me then called me a whore for it."

  His fingers had been stroking her hair. He paused now. If Skye was confident about some aspects of his character, she also harbored doubts. "That comment is hardly flattering to either one of us," he told her. "Have I made you feel like a whore?"

  "No," she said softly. "You made me feel desired. Real and deeply."

  "You are desired."

  "I think I'm beginning to believe it."

  Walker didn't understand why she'd ever believed otherwise. "I know I'm your first lover," he said. Only lover, he had wanted to say. Last lover, he was thinking. "But surely the
re were—"

  "Boys," she said. Then, because she did not want him to feel too smug, she added quickly, "And men." She could imagine he was smiling anyway, seeing right through her, even in the darkness. "I never wanted for an escort, but they weren't lining the sidewalk in front of my house. Some of them were handsome, some were plain. Most of them had an eye on my money. The ones who didn't had an eye on something more intimate."

  "What about Daniel? Where did he fit in?"

  Had she mentioned Daniel? She supposed she had, because Walker wouldn't have known the name otherwise. He didn't seem to forget anything. "Daniel is my friend. He invited me into his circle, or perhaps he was the one who accepted me when I first barged in." She sighed. "It's been so long I'm not certain I know anymore. Maggie and I were close, but she didn't enjoy joining where she wasn't wanted. I, on the other hand, made it a mission of sorts. Daniel was both my passport and my confidant."

  "He loves you?"

  Skye shook her head. "No, not at all. Oh, from time to time he got it into his head that he did. He even kissed me once, but we decided we just didn't suit." Her voice lowered confidentially. The husky timbre settled sweetly over Walker. "Daniel wanted to try again, but I think it was just to prove to himself that he could do it better than before. He really likes someone else."

  "And you?" he asked after a moment. "What are your feelings?"

  "I like him. I hope he'll always be my friend."

  Walker winced a little. He never wanted to hear those same words in reference to himself. "There was no one else?" he asked. "No one special?"

  She shook her head, wondering why he didn't understand yet. "I'm not very conventional, Walker," she said plainly, without bitterness. "I'm a bastard. I'm Catholic. I'm the daughter of a robber baron and an Irish housemaid. My hair looks as if it's been set on fire, and I'm not particularly accomplished in any of the usual feminine pursuits."

  "And those would be..." he prompted.

  "Needlework, painting, singing, dancing, playing an instrument, or playing the hostess."

  "I see." He could think of one or two feminine pursuits she had mastered, the least of which was flirting. "And you don't do any of these things?"

  Skye knew she had amused him again, but she had long ago accepted her shortcomings. Her shrug was philosophical. "I can do them all, but I'm not passionate about any one of them. Sometimes I wish it were different or at least that I could accept mediocrity as my standard."

  Walker's fingers paused in her hair again. "That would be death for you." And he meant it.

  "Yes," she said softly. "That would be death." She turned her face slightly so that she could kiss his naked shoulder. It was comfortable to be in his arms, to feel the warmth of his body, the rhythm of his life in the heartbeat beneath her palm. "My sisters feel the same way, but then, they all have some talent that was tapped out by the time I was born." Walker's low and throaty chuckle vibrated his chest. Skye could feel it against her cheek. "It's true," she said. "A nun. A writer. An engineer. A doctor."

  Walker didn't fill the silence that followed immediately. He considered his words carefully, not trying to convince, but simply stating a point of fact. "Your talent is not what you can do," he said quietly, "but what you are."

  "Then I'm—"

  "Splendidly, devastatingly unconventional."

  Skye shifted her position slightly so her leg stretched along his. She raised herself to get a better look at Walker. He let her touch his face with her fingertips. There was no laughter at the edge of his mouth, no dark irony in his eyes. His features were as straightforward and honest as his words. "You don't mind it?" she asked.

  "It would be like minding the sun for putting color on the horizon when it rises and sets," he said. "Or minding that the tide lays shells along the beach in the course of its flow. How can I mind what is? It's your gift, Skye. I appreciate it." Something wet dashed his cheek and he realized it was her tear. It was followed by another. His fingers sifted in her hair as she burrowed against him. He held her in the circle of one arm and stroked the fiery strands of her hair.

  Walker was hardly aware of when the cadence of her breathing changed or when her heart began to thrum more loudly between her breasts. He was only aware that those things were happening and that his body was absorbing the same life rhythms. She was moving sinuously against him, kissing his mouth, his chest, the flat plane of his abdomen. His skin retracted. He could feel the hot course of his blood and the tension in his muscles. Her hands were on his thighs, her fingers on the smooth line of his buttocks. She captured him intimately with her mouth.

  Sparks of pleasure licked at his skin and pulsed in his groin. Her mouth was hot, insistent, but not hurried. She kept urgency at bay, drawing out the sensation with slow deliberation until he showed her otherwise. His fingertips pressed hard on her pale skin and tangled in her hair. He came in a volley of shudders sinking deep inside her.

  Skye sat up slowly. With the slightest tilt of her head, her hair fell backward behind her shoulders. Her right hand lingered on Walker's thigh as she put her legs over the side of the bed. Without a word she padded to the adjoining room and returned with a basin and damp cloth. She washed them both, a ritual as tender as it was intimate.

  Skye crawled into bed again. Walker's body instantly curved to accommodate hers. This time when the cadence of their breathing changed it bore the stamp of sleep.

  * * *

  "Open this door," Jay Mac said. His voice was meant to brook no argument, but one was coming anyway.

  The hapless desk clerk was protesting even as he was reaching for the key. "Sir, this is the St. Mark. If you'd just let me speak to the manager, I'm certain—"

  Sometimes it was a considerable advantage to be John MacKenzie Worth. He had only to say his name to quell the objections. The key was placed in the keyhole and the doorknob was turned. "That will be all," he said, blocking the clerk's entry to the room. He pressed some money into the clerk's hand and waited until the man had turned at the stairs before he let himself into room 309.

  Walker was sitting upright in bed by the time Jay Mac entered. Skye was only turning on her side, still buried under a mound of covers, her smile vague as the interruption dislodged her from pleasant dreams.

  Beneath his thick, sandy brows and large side whiskers, Jay Mac had a ruddy complexion. He stared hard at Walker, his eyes darting only once to the mound of moving blankets. "Is that my daughter under there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The blankets went completely still. "She's not awake?" Jay Mac asked.

  "I think she is now," Walker said. He lifted one corner of the blanket. Skye's eyes were no longer bleary. Her expression was stricken. He lowered the blanket. "Yes, sir. She's awake."

  Jay Mac closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Although his color was fading, just above the neck of his starched collar his skin was still markedly red. His cheeks puffed as he blew out a hard sigh. His hand dropped away from his face and he took out his spectacles, unfolding them with great care. "She missed breakfast this morning." His mouth was grim. "It appears she slept in."

  Walker said nothing. The mound of blankets did not stifle Skye's groan and he let it pass for a response.

  "You'll marry her, of course," Jay Mac said.

  "I told you those were my intentions yesterday," Walker said. "They haven't changed."

  Skye kicked at the blankets, but she didn't come up. "Nooo!" she fairly wailed.

  "It isn't your choice any longer, Mary Schyler," Jay Mac said flatly. He regarded Walker. "Come by my office at ten. We'll discuss details privately."

  Walker nodded and watched Jay Mac turn sharply on his heel. His shoulders were braced stiffly, his spine was rigid. He could have slammed the door on his way out, instead he closed it quietly. Walker winced anyway.

  "He's gone," Walker said.

  Skye sat up and pushed hair out of her eyes. Her expression was feral. "How could you?"

  "How could I what?" he asked
calmly.

  "Just sit there!"

  Walker raised the blankets enough to slip out of bed. He was naked. "I didn't think my current state of dress would do anything to change your father's mind." He picked up the discarded clothes from last night and went into the dressing room. A pillow slammed between his shoulder blades as he crossed the threshold. "Good aim," he said, without pausing.

  Skye threw off the covers and got out of bed. She put on Walker's dressing gown again and belted the sash tightly. "I'm not marrying you," she told him sharply, pacing the floor at the foot of the bed. Her feathered brows were furrowed and she worried her lower lip between her teeth. "Didn't you hear anything I said last night? Didn't you believe the things you said about me?"

  Walker came to the doorway of the dressing room to finish fastening his trousers. "What are you talking about? Of course I listened. I believed everything I said."

  Her eyes pleaded with him. "Then you didn't understand!"

  Walker reached behind him and picked up a shirt. He shrugged into it. "I suppose I don't."

  She stopped pacing. "I'm not going to marry you," she said. "I'll be your mistress, your lover, but I won't marry you."

  He supposed it was about love, but with Skye, one never knew for sure. So he asked, "Why not?"

  "Because I want to be an adventuress!" she almost shouted at him. "I can shoot and ride and fence and sail. Those are the skills I've been mastering. I've studied history and geography and art and architecture. I want to go places, Walker. That's my purpose. I can't marry you!"

  The silence that followed her words could not have been more profound. Unmoving, Walker merely stared at her. His thumbs rested in the waistband of his trousers. His head was tilted slightly to one side. He only blinked once. "An adventuress," he said quietly, "is someone who schemes to marry a rich man, not someone looking for adventure. At dinner last night, while you were sulking in your room, your father said he hoped you would go back to school. Perhaps you should, Skye, and learn the difference between what you want to be and what you are."