by Jo Goodman
Skye felt his words like a blow to her stomach. Air rushed out of her lungs. She sat down slowly on the edge of the bed and willed herself not to look away from Walker. To do so would have been an admission somehow that she was as young and willful and irresponsible as he thought she was in that moment.
"Get dressed," he said. "I'll take you home."
"I can take—"
"I'll take you home," he said again. He disappeared into the dressing room.
* * *
In spite of the fact that Walker had arrived at the Worth Building ten minutes early, he was shown into Jay Mac's office without any waiting. He took the chair Jay Mac pointed out to him while Jay Mac himself chose to stand at the window.
"She's my youngest," Jay Mac said, looking out over the city. He had rocked forward on the balls of his feet, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked very much like a captain of industry, only his conversation wasn't about tracks and ties and lines. It was deeply personal and deeply felt. "I don't suppose that means anything to you," he added. "I only meant to nudge her in the direction of going back to school. I wasn't thinking about marriage for my Mary Schyler, not yet. I would have planned better for her than you."
Walker said nothing. He waited.
"I should kill you for what you did to my daughter."
"I thought you were going to," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "You had a gun tucked in your trousers this morning. A Colt?"
"Smith and Wesson." He unclasped his hands and patted his right side. He turned slowly, parting his jacket to reveal the butt end of the weapon. "I still have it, and I still might use it."
Walker didn't believe it was Jay Mac's usual method of handling a conflict. He also didn't doubt that the threat was serious.
Watching Walker carefully, Jay Mac asked idly, "You don't flinch much, do you?"
"Not much."
"Play poker?"
"A little."
"Do you win?"
"Most of the time."
Jay Mac smiled slowly, thoughtfully, the answer just what he expected. "I thought you might." He sat down behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. The Smith and Wesson was still within easy reach. "I'm not going to be fobbed off with those answers you gave me last night. I don't give a damn who your parents were or what they did. It doesn't matter if they brought you up in China by way of Timbuktu or Hackensack. My wife enjoys that sort of thing. I don't care if you were raised by wolves." He paused and let that sink in. Walker appeared to remain unmoved. "There's something you haven't told us, Mr. Caide. Something you've kept from me, from Moira, perhaps even from my daughter. I want to know what it is."
So Walker told him.
Jay Mac's hands were folded in his lap. He tapped his thumbs together as he listened. By the end of Walker's account, they were still. "Does Skye know any of this?"
"No. She suspects something's not right, but she doesn't know what I've told you."
Jay Mac consulted his timepiece. It was almost eleven-thirty now, and still much too early for a drink. For once, he didn't let that deter him. Leaving his chair, he poured himself a small Scotch at the sideboard. "Anything for you?" he asked.
Walker shook his head.
"I don't usually..." Jay Mac's voice trailed off. He looked down at his hand that held the tumbler. It was trembling.
"You don't have to explain." Walker could understand why he was shaken. "You didn't know."
"Did you think I did?"
"I wondered."
He swore vehemently. "I would have never sent Skye there! I had a simple agreement with the man about financing his engine. When I saw his notice in the paper, it occurred to me that Skye might discover the progress of the invention, or if it existed at all. My investment wasn't large—not above twenty thousand dollars—and no amount of money would be a satisfactory exchange for my daughter's life. I met Parnell once. He seemed agreeable enough, not the sort who would—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He knocked back a swallow of his drink instead. "I'd hoped that sending Skye to Granville would ground her feet again. I'm certain she suspected other motives, but as usual, she let her imagination take the place of clear, solid thinking."
Walker found it difficult not to smile just then. Jay Mac did not seem to credit that Skye's imagination was rooted in anything so solid as her father's previous dealings with his other daughters.
Jay Mac returned to his desk. He didn't sit down this time but rested one hip on the edge of it. He looked at Walker consideringly. "You've proved you can keep her safe," he said gruffly, as if the admission were forced rather than willingly offered.
"Yes, sir. I think I've proved that."
"You haven't shown you can care for her though. I'm speaking of finances now."
"Yes. I understood that. I draw a regular wage."
Jay Mac snorted. "That's the only conventional thing about your employment. I can't say that I like it." His eyes narrowed. "Unconventional suits Skye, though."
"Yes, sir," Walker said gravely. "I've come to appreciate that."
Jay Mac's penetrating glance became even sharper. "Why do I think you're laughing about something?"
Walker realized belatedly that a grin was edging his mouth. He reined it in. "I couldn't say, sir."
"More likely you won't say," he said. "Never mind. If it concerns something with Skye, I don't think I want to know." He finished his drink. "And you may as well call me Jay Mac. All my sons-in-law do. My daughters, too. Hell, the whole country does. No reason that you should be an exception."
"Yes, sir." The response was automatic, not an insolent ignoring of the older man's wishes.
John MacKenzie Worth had to smile. "Well, it's easy to see you weren't raised by wolves." He studied Walker Caide again, taking in the crown of thick, tawny hair that was perhaps a trifle overlong, the lines in a young face that made it seem older, and the frank, implacable eyes that could challenge or intimidate or reflect on his own sense of confidence. "Does my daughter love you?"
"No. She's curious about me, perhaps a little fascinated, but I don't mistake it for love."
Jay Mac was thoughtful. "That will make it difficult," he said. "Do you love her?"
"Yes."
Jay Mac nodded wisely. "That will make it easier."
* * *
Walker did not see Skye again until the wedding. The arrangements were made swiftly and quietly, and no one was invited save the family. At Walker's insistence there would be no announcement in the paper or any acknowledgment in the community that the marriage had occurred. Jay Mac understood the reasoning, and he approved. The bride's mother did not. The bride herself simply didn't care.
The wedding took place in the Worth home, in Jay Mac's study. Seventy-two hours had been enough time to assure that the vows weren't exchanged in Judge Halsey's chambers. Moira had insisted on flowers. Cut glass vases filled with orange blossoms and baby's breath were set out on every available surface. The fragrance was sweet but not cloying.
Walker wore a suit that Jay Mac's tailor quickly put together for him. The black swallow-tailed coat and trousers were cut cleanly along the lines of his lean frame. The evening waistcoat was white on white brocade. The shirt was crisply white, with a stiff wing collar and starched cuffs. His hair had been trimmed, but the edge of it still brushed his collar. A silk handkerchief was carefully arranged in the upper pocket of his coat.
"Mama says you've cleaned up quite nicely."
Realizing he was the target of this statement, though he didn't recognize the voice, Walker turned away from the sideboard, where he had been contemplating getting drunk. He was confronted by a pair of large, forest green eyes beautifully framed in a wimple and cornet. "Sister Mary Francis."
"And intelligent, too."
Walker's brows lifted a fraction at her dry, caustic tone. "Have I offended you in some way?" he asked quietly.
Mary Francis had the grace to blush. People usually didn't take her on. They were either in awe of her habit or too d
umbfounded by her straightforwardness. Mary Francis considered her answer carefully, fully aware of her parents talking to the judge on the other side of the study. When she saw Walker's attention stray in that direction, she knew there was a lull in the conversation. She could almost feel their eyes boring into her back, advising caution and an even temperament. "It's this situation I find offensive," she said, keeping her voice low. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled serenely at her parents and the judge. Their anxiety did not appear to lessen. "This is intolerable," she said, facing Walker again. He was regarding her with polite interest and some amusement. "Can we talk somewhere privately?"
His eyes darted to the door. "Since your sister seems to be late for her own wedding, I don't see why not."
"Good." Without any explanation to the others, Mary Francis led Walker to the front parlor. She closed the double doors securely behind them. "There," she said, satisfied. She looked at Walker, considered him at length, but didn't expound on her thoughts.
He returned her regard for a full minute before he broke the silence. "Are you going to tell me that she's run off?"
"Run off?" Mary Francis was genuinely puzzled. "Skye? Heavens no. That's not her way. She'll be down directly. The maid is fussing with her hair right now and there was some problem with her gown earlier."
"I see," he said, but of course he didn't. "You were with her, then?"
She nodded, smoothing the front of her habit. Her hand fell naturally to her rosary and she sifted through the beads. "Skye thinks I can talk you out of this marriage."
Now Walker felt the fog lifting. "Then you're here on a diplomatic mission."
"Yes. That's something you understand, isn't it?"
Walker said nothing. His interest remained polite, but his thoughts were reserved.
"You do play your cards close to the vest."
He shrugged.
"I suppose you're determined to go through with this wedding."
He looked down at himself, then at her. "I dressed for it."
Her full mouth widened in an appreciative smile. "It would be a shame to waste the suit. My father's tailor?"
He nodded. "You're not going to try to talk me out of marrying your sister?"
"I am trying," she said. "It's a feeble attempt, I grant you. My parents and the judge think I'm engaging you in a ferocious argument. Skye hopes I'll break your knees."
If there was a choice, Walker was going to pick physical injury to trading barbs with Mary Francis. "You're not going to do either?"
She shook her head. "But there are always appearances to observe. Which is why I asked you to come in here. Skye wouldn't accept that I didn't want to be placed in the middle. This way she'll think I tried and failed." Mary Francis sighed. "Not that I think this wedding is a good idea. You must know she doesn't want to marry you."
"She's said as much."
"Did Papa really catch you both out at the St. Mark?"
To Walker's way of thinking, Mary Francis's keen interest was not congruent with her habit. He felt uncomfortably warm and wished he had had time to pour himself that drink. He considered simply offering up his kneecaps and finishing the interrogation swiftly. He couldn't answer her questions if he was screaming in pain.
Never one to surrender, he charged. "In bed. In the buff." He watched as her pale, ivory complexion flamed. Under her wimple, Walker suspected she was a redhead just like her sister. "You can blush," he said. "I wasn't certain."
She grimaced. "I suppose I deserved that."
"No supposing about it," he said drily.
"All right. I did deserve it." The next time she asked a shocking question she would be better prepared for a shocking answer. There would be no next time with Walker. He was more than able to hold his own. "I think you should return to the study," she said. "I'll go upstairs and inform Skye that you're intractable."
"She knows I'm intractable," he said. Tell her I love her.
"What?" Mary Francis asked, halting at the door. "Did you say something else?"
Had he spoken aloud? he wondered. The words had been right there, on the edge of his mind, on the tip of his tongue. "Nothing," Walker said after a moment. "It's nothing. Tell her I'm waiting. Tell her that we're all waiting."
"It won't hurry her, but I'll mention it."
Walker understood. To Skye's way of thinking it was a little like informing the condemned that the crowd had gathered at the gallows. When Skye joined them some thirty minutes later in the study Walker revised his opinion slightly. She had a trancelike dignity about her that made him think of French aristocrats and the cart ride from the Bastille to the guillotine.
As he looked around the room, the vision in his mind took full shape. Judge Halsey had the dour countenance of an executioner. Jay Mac, leading Skye forward on his arm, was the wagon driver who carried the doomed to meet their fate. Moira was an anxious bystander, fascinated and fearful, but rallying in the end. Mary Francis was calm in the storm, her serenity a sharp contrast to the madness she saw all around her but was powerless to stop.
Walker's own role was that of the revolutionary soldier, assisting the stoic victim up the final steps to the steel blade.
He took Skye's hand and drew her close to his side. She came without resistance, but her skin was like ice. "I don't want your head in a basket," he whispered. Incredibly, she looked at him and there was panicked acknowledgment in her eyes. That was when he knew she shared his vision. The last niggling doubt he had about carrying out the ceremony evaporated. He squeezed her hand.
Judge Halsey's words were brief, the directions simple. Honor. Love. Obedience. Richer. Poorer. Health. 'Til Death. Skye's voice shook as she offered up the words. Her hand still held no warmth. She couldn't quite meet his eyes. For his part Walker repeated the vows while he searched Skye's face, willing her to hear him out. He said the words quietly, deliberately, but suspected he hadn't been heard at all. A certain distant expression had returned to her eyes and when she looked at him, she looked right through him.
After the exchange of vows there were congratulations. Jay Mac's and the judge's were the most heartfelt. Moira's best wishes were subdued. Mary Francis managed to raise her sister's smile.
"Thank God," she said, when she saw it. "You looked grim as death."
Skye felt that grim. She looked sideways at Walker. He didn't seem at all affected by the changed circumstances of their lives. "Your compliments will turn my head," she told her sister. "Mama and Mrs. Cavanaugh spent a lot of time on this gown." As much as three days and a shotgun approach to marriage would permit, she thought. She considered saying as much, but some cautionary light in her sister's eye made her think twice. Was Mary Francis actually warning her not to push Walker? She wondered about the conversation the two of them had while she was pacing the floor in her own room. Mary Francis would only say that nothing had changed or was going to change and that Skye should determine how to make the best of it. Oh, and there had been a parting shot—something about being two sides of the same page. What had she meant by that?
"You're lovely."
Skye blinked. It wasn't Mary Francis who offered the observation, but Walker. He had called her beautiful once, but she had been wearing considerably less on that occasion.
Wondering what he saw that prompted a comment now, Skye caught her reflection in the gilt mirror above the mantel. Her gown was weighted silk. It had softness and substance and contrasting colors. The bodice was verdigris, the skirt marine blue. The cut was narrow and revealing in the bust, waist, and hips. The back of the gown was drawn up in an elaborately draped bustle. Gold threads trimmed the heart-shaped neckline and tight cuffs. Another band of gold edged the hemline. A cameo rested at her throat, supported by a delicate gold chain. She wore small gold studs in her ears. Her bright hair was almost tamed in a smooth chignon. The most militant tendrils curled near her ears and temples. A wayward strand had fallen softly against her neck.
"Say thank you," Mary Francis directed firmly.
Her eyes darted between the stricken bride and the stoic, impassive groom. "Your husband's made you a very pretty compliment."
Skye hastily looked away from her reflection. Her response was rote. "Thank you."
Mary Francis shook her head and briefly raised her eyes heavenward. She sought both patience and guidance. While Skye appeared to find no humor in her gesture, when she looked at Walker, his faint smile communicated his understanding.
"I hear Irish wakes are festive," he said with severe irony.
That caught Skye's attention. "One could be arranged."
Mary Francis grinned at Walker. "I think she means you could be the dearly departed."
Walker nodded. He hadn't failed to grasp Skye's implication. His attention was caught by Moira, who was talking to Mrs. Cavanaugh at the door. "I believe we're about to be summoned to dinner," he said. Skye stiffened but didn't resist when he took her arm. Walker pretended not to notice. She wasn't prepared to give him any quarter, and now was not the time to take her to task for it.
* * *
"You drank quite a bit at dinner," he said. Each course of the interminable meal was accented with a specially chosen wine. Everyone sipped except Skye. Everyone else also ate between wine tastings.
Skye was sitting at her vanity. She paused in removing the pins from her hair and raised her eyes. Walker was reflected in her mirror. His image seemed soft to her, wavering and blurred at the edges. With some difficulty she searched his features for signs of censure.
"Merely an observation," he told her.
Her eyes narrowed on the slim smile that touched his face. Was it mocking, or amused? Perhaps both. In her off balance state, she couldn't be sure. Skye's fingers returned to the pins in her hair. When they fumbled, failing to pluck out the pin as she wished, she swore softly.
"Let me," he said. He came up behind her and touched her shoulders. He unclasped her cameo and laid it on the vanity. His fingers returned to touch the curve of her throat.
Skye's gaze wandered to his hands on her bare skin. His fingers were long, the nails trim. Next to them the line of her collarbone was delicate. Even the lightest pressure from him was like a brand on her flesh. The length of her neck seemed too slender to support her head. She leaned back, resting the crown of it against his hard, flat belly. His fingertips grazed her throat, sending a shiver through her. Skye closed her eyes and then his hands were in her hair. The pins were removed easily and her hair fell about her shoulders. His fingers combed through it, sifting, releasing the fragrances of lavender and lilac.
