Always in My Dreams

by Jo Goodman

  "You're awake."

  The voice came to her from across the room. It was only a husky whisper, but she had no problem making out the words. Skye's response was to become still again.

  "I'm not going to hurt you."

  Except for a nearly imperceptible lessening of tension, Skye didn't move.

  "Just so you know."

  She wished he wouldn't talk to her. She couldn't respond, and nothing about the low, sibilant voice was particularly comforting. Turning her head toward him, Skye strained to see through the scrap of thin cotton that covered her eyes. The residual firelight wasn't enough for her to make out more than shadows. The intruder appeared to be in the area of her father's desk. Skye could hear him shuffling papers and opening and closing Jay Mac's drawers.

  What was he looking for? She started to ask and her tongue pressed against the ball of cloth that filled her mouth. Her nose wrinkled as she tried to push it out.

  "There's nothing you can do."

  He was not apologetic. In fact, he sounded smug, as if her helplessness satisfied him. Skye heard nothing from him for several minutes and supposed he was reading. Behind her back she twisted with the binding on her wrists.

  "Is there a safe?"

  Skye heard papers being shuffled again and a drawer was closed. There was a finality about the sound that made her think he was done rifling Jay Mac's desk.

  "A safe?" he repeated.

  This time he was closer and there was agitation and some impatience in his voice. She hadn't heard a chair move or his steps across the carpet. He was so quiet that she wondered what he'd done to draw attention to himself in the first place.

  "You can't see, can't move, can't talk, but I know you can hear."

  He was hunkered down beside the sofa where she was lying. His face was close to hers. Skye instinctively tried to move away, pushing back against the cushions.

  "The safe?"

  This time the whisper was menacing. Skye shook her head. There was no safe in the house. Her father kept his important papers at the offices of Northeast Rail.

  "There's no safe in the house?"

  Skye nodded. She expected him to move away, but he stayed where he was. A hand touched the crown of her hair. Skye flinched. The hand was moved slowly, slipping over her temple and cheek. The leather was cool, and she turned her face to avoid it. "Mr. Worth keeps documents at his office?" she was asked.

  It seemed to Skye that it would have been more natural for him to call Jay Mac by name or refer to him as her father. That he did neither of those things suggested to Skye that he didn't know there was a relationship. Why would he? she wondered. He had no reason to think she was anyone but a servant.

  His hand moved from her face to her shoulder and rested there. She could feel the soft leather of his glove through the eyelet lace. Would he be touching her so freely if he knew she was Jay Mac's daughter? Skye squirmed. The hand was moved to the curve of her breast and now Skye's entire body stiffened. She held her breath, more afraid in this moment than in any time since entering the room.

  "The Worth Building?" he asked deeply, angrily. His thumb flicked the tip of her breast.

  Skye shook her head violently. If he had assumed she was a servant, he couldn't really expect her to know more than the fact there was no safe in the house. She sensed his silence, his thinking.

  "All right," he said finally. He was slow to remove his hand from her breast, letting it glide under the curve, then along the plane of her belly. "But give this message to Jay Mac." He waited until Skye slowly nodded. "He doesn't own me."

  Above the cloth that bound Skye's eyes, her brows lifted a fraction.

  "He doesn't own me."

  There was icy anger in the message. Skye flinched again, this time from the tone. She indicated her understanding with a curt nod, her chin jutting forward aggressively. His low chuckle took her by surprise as did the touch of his hands, now resting over hers. His gloved fingers tugged at the binding. She felt the cloth being unknotted and loosened. When she was free, her wrists were taken and massaged lightly, then the intruder helped her sit up.

  He might have expected her to rip at the cloth covering her eyes or mouth, but Skye touched neither with her newfound freedom. Blindly she swung out with her hand and unerringly found the intruder's face. The force of her blow knocked him back. He stumbled before regaining his balance but managed to come to his feet before Skye yanked at the cloth on her face. By the time she could see again, she could only see him leaving the room.

  Gagging, Skye spat the wad of cloth out of her mouth. She caught her breath, held onto her stomach, and came to her feet. She started to give chase only to be reminded painfully that her ankles were still bound. Her fall was caught by the edge of the sofa and her flailing arms protected her face. She cried out, hoping her mother or father would hear her. The sound that came back to her was the front door opening, then being slammed shut.

  Her fingers fumbled with the knots at her ankles. She loosened them enough to push the bindings off her feet and raced for the front door. At the top of the wide staircase behind her she heard Jay Mac call her name. Ignoring him, Skye threw open the door and charged out onto the icy sidewalk. The front gate was swinging shut. She flung it out and went to the curb, looking up and down Broadway. A carriage was turning the corner onto 49th Street. Two pedestrians paused to let it pass. A milk wagon was heading north, the steel cans rattling on the wagon bed as it passed.

  Skye saw nothing suspicious. No one was running. No one was alone. She forgot the unseemliness of her attire until the milkman turned his head to stare at her and kept on staring. She looked down at her bare feet. In the light from the gas lamp her nightgown had taken on a yellow cast. Wind buffeted her, making the gown swirl about her legs. Her flame red hair whipped across her face. Brazening it out, Skye made an exaggerated curtsy to the driver of the milk wagon before stepping back inside her yard. She danced on the icy pavement as she shut the gate, suddenly aware of the bitter cold.

  Turning around, Skye started back to the house. Her father was waiting in the open doorway. Behind him she could see her mother perched on one of the lower steps of the staircase. Both her parents looked anxious.

  "Skye? What's going on? What are you doing out here dressed like that?"

  Sighing, Skye stepped onto the stoop. She looked at the way Jay Mac was braced in the doorway, one arm blocking her entrance. "I think I'd rather come inside to discuss it." She ducked under his arm. "Mama, we should go in the parlor."

  "Let me get your robe, Skye," her mother said. "And your slippers." She started back up the stairs.

  "Just slippers," Skye called after her. "My robe... never mind... the slippers will be enough."

  Jay Mac closed the front door and stamped his feet to warm them as if he had been outside himself. He hustled Skye into the parlor and started a fire. Moira returned with her slippers and a woolen throw blanket for Skye to put over her lap.

  "There was an intruder," Skye said when her parents sat down.

  Moira could not sit back on the sofa. She was on the edge, her hands clasped tightly together. "Your father thought he heard something. I told him he was imagining it."

  Jay Mac touched his wife's hand. "It's all right, Moira. There's been no injury." His eyes narrowed on Skye. "Has there?"

  She shook her head slowly, wondering what she was being asked, then realizing the intent of her father's question, Skye shook her head more vigorously. "No, Papa, no injury. I surprised him while he was searching your desk. He tied me. That's all." Almost all, she thought. She couldn't bring herself to say more. She could still feel the gloved hand resting lightly on her breast. The sensation was so vivid that she wanted to look down at herself.

  Moira's voice rose shakily. Her brogue was thicker. "Tied you!"

  "Mama, I'm fine. It was something of Jay Mac's that he wanted."

  "There was only one man?" asked her father.

  "Yes. Only one. He never found what he came for." S
he hesitated, wondering what she could or should say in front of her mother. Her father seemed to understand and with the merest glance communicated for her to hold her thought.

  "Moira," he said. "A cup of tea would be nice. Skye looks as if she could use one."

  Moira Dennehy Worth looked from father to daughter. "I'm no one's fool, Jay Mac, and I won't be treated like one now. Sure, and I want to hear what she has to say, same as you." Her tone brooked no argument.

  "There was a message," Skye said. "For Jay Mac." Her father remained perfectly still, waiting. "'He doesn't own me.' That's what the man said."

  Moira frowned, turning to see her husband. "What does it mean?"

  Jay Mac's pale brows were pulled together. He scratched his temple, thinking. "I have no idea." He met Moira's eyes, then his daughter's. "I honestly have no idea."

  "I want you to send for the police," Moira said, looking at the clock. "Liam O'Shea will be another forty minutes making his rounds. I don't want to wait that long for help. Someone should search the grounds now."

  "I'll dress and go out, Mama, if it will make you feel better, but I think the intruder's long gone." Skye spoke to her father then. "It's still a good idea to get the police. Your offices at Northeast may be in danger of being ransacked. He wanted to know where you had a safe."

  "You told him?"

  She shook her head. "I couldn't talk. He gagged me." She saw her mother's horrified look and went on quickly.

  "He didn't really expect me to know. He thought I was a servant."

  Jay Mac patted Moira's hand. "I'll send Mr. Cavanaugh to find O'Shea. Skye, you're not to go outside again, dressed or not." He stood. "Do you have a description of the man?"

  "No. I was blindfolded." She heard the catch of her mother's breath and rushed to reassure her. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine."

  Moira remained skeptical, studying Skye carefully. She pointed to Skye's wrist. "Sure, and I don't remember seeing that bruise before."

  Skye followed her mother's eyes to her wrist. There was indeed a bruise forming. "I had a knife. He forced me to drop it."

  Now Moira sat back on the sofa. She crossed herself and whispered, "Mother of God."

  "I'm getting Mr. Cavanaugh," said Jay Mac. "Skye, don't say another word to your mother. Better yet, make her some tea." He hurried out of the room.

  Skye sat forward. "Mama? Would you like some tea?"

  "A little whiskey wouldn't be amiss."

  She smiled. "All right. I think I could use the same. I believe I'm actually trembling." She held out her hand and watched it quaver. "What a night this has been." Skye got up and went to the dining room. She returned with two tumblers splashed with whiskey and handed one to her mother. "Did Jay Mac tell you what happened at the skating pond tonight? About me being pregnant?"

  "I thought your father told you not to say another word," Moira said drily. "I'm sure I don't want to hear any more."

  Skye smiled. Obviously her mother knew the story. "Well, then, I finished my letter of introduction to Mr. Parnell." Moira's look was blank. "The inventor."

  Moira nodded. "I see. You're going to go through with it. I wasn't certain if you would."

  "It will be fun," she said. "If only to foil Jay Mac's plan."

  "You know he has a plan?"

  "He always does. I can't imagine this would be different." Skye curled her legs under her and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. She sipped her drink. "Is it the inventor? Does Jay Mac think he would make a good husband?"

  Moira found a reason to smile. "That would be like him, wouldn't it?"

  "He hasn't told you?"

  "He never confides those kinds of plans. I didn't know about Rennie and Jarret or about that awful mess with Maggie and Connor until it was much too late. He knows I don't approve of that sort of interference."

  Jay Mac returned. He was holding the butcher knife in one hand. "Mr. Cavanaugh's gone for the police. I've looked in the study. It appears nothing was taken." He held up the knife. "Oh, and I found this on the floor. What were you thinking, Skye?"

  "I suppose I wasn't," she admitted. "At least, not clearly."

  Jay Mac could only shake his head. "I need a drink." He disappeared into the hallway, taking the knife with him.

  The beat cop arrived ten minutes later. He was followed in short order by two more policemen from the station. Mr. Cavanaugh waited on the outskirts of the gathering until Jay Mac assured him he wouldn't be needed again.

  Skye made her statement still wrapped in the throw blanket, then Moira hustled her off to bed. Jay Mac went with one of the policemen to the Worth Building, while another stayed on the premises to guard against the intruder's return. Liam O'Shea went back to his beat, alert now to danger in the neighborhood.

  Skye rubbed her feet against the cool sheets as her mother tucked her in. She didn't protest Moira's fussing. The act was reassuring for both mother and daughter.

  Moira sat on the edge of the bed and touched Skye's forehead with the back of her hand. "You're still chilled," she said, her brow furrowing. "I hope you're not coming down with the ague. Sure, and you were outside in your bare feet without much more than a stitch of clothing on."

  Taking her mother's hand, Skye held it firmly between both of hers. "I'll be fine, Mama. It's been an adventurous night, is all."

  Moira's reply was a noncommittal grunt at the back of her throat.

  Skye smiled. "Good night."

  For a moment Moira didn't move. She studied her daughter's flushed face, the cheeks that looked as if excitement had burned color into them, the contented shape of her full mouth, the brightness of eyes that were so brilliantly green they'd shame a shamrock. Moira did not think blood ties were prejudicing her when she thought her daughter, in the space of a few hours, had transcended mere prettiness, even beauty, and become simply radiant.

  Moira felt the ache of tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. She blinked to hold them back. "Oh, child," she said softly, leaning forward to kiss Skye's cheek. "You're a piece of work."

  Skye started to ask her mother what she meant, but Moira was already removing herself from the bed and turning back the lamps. Rolling on her side, Skye stared at the crack of light beneath the closed door until it, too, was extinguished. She heard her mother's light footsteps recede in the hallway.

  Skye was almost asleep when she realized she hadn't told anyone about the encounter in the park, yet in retrospect, she knew the oversight had somehow been intentional.

  It was the secret knowledge of this stranger, a man whose face she had not seen, whose voice she had barely heard, that she hugged to herself as she drifted slowly to sleep. It was the stranger who became the unifying thread in the fabric of all her dreams.

  * * *

  Jonathan Parnell was an attractive man. His appeal for some rested partially on his very aloof, almost forbidding posture. While not precisely cold, he was nevertheless only marginally interested in what others were doing or saying. Not only could he be alone in a crowd, he cultivated a serious, reserved air that shielded him from incidental or frivolous conversation.

  His hair was a pale yellow color that camouflaged premature threads of platinum and gray. In the sunshine it could still have the brilliance of youth. His blue eyes had dark indigo centers that lent his expression a certain opaque flatness that could be remote or merely mysterious. His features were sharply chiseled, with fine aristocratic lines defining his jaw and chin.

  Parnell's mouth bore a distinctive stamp of disapproval as he entered his suite at the St. Mark Hotel. Walker Caide was sitting on a wide overstuffed armchair facing the door. The perfect stillness of his face, the hard look of slightly narrowed eyes, was the only indication of anger that Parnell could observe. In their brief association he had learned Walker's fury was more like lightning than thunder.

  Walker Caide didn't move. He watched Parnell remove his hat and coat and hang them on the rack just inside the room. "A woman?" he asked.

  Two fingers were
raised. "Plural."

  The shape of Walker's solemnly set mouth didn't change. He said evenly, "This isn't going to work, Mr. Parnell. I can't protect you if you won't follow my instructions." He stood, coming to his feet in a single easy movement. Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew a roll of bills. "This month's wage. I haven't earned it." He held out his hand.

  Parnell didn't make any attempt to take the offering. He studied Walker Caide with dispassionate interest. "You can't quit," he said finally. "There is the matter of my life."

  Walker shrugged. Jonathan Parnell was his senior by fifteen years but tonight he had acted with the sense of a fifteen-year-old. "This trip to the city was made against my advice, but you did agree to certain rules."

  "This trip was a necessity," Parnell said. "I needed supplies for my work... things I couldn't have ordered." He made a brusque, impatient gesture with his hand and brushed past Walker in order to get to the sideboard. "I've already explained that. I hate to repeat myself."

  Walker remained unmoved by his employer's irritation. He thrust the roll of money back in his pocket and turned to watch Parnell pour himself a drink. Walker shook his head when he was offered the same. "Where did you go?" he asked.

  "The Seven Sisters. It's a—"

  "Brothel."

  One pale golden brow was raised and Parnell studied Walker again, this time assimilating different information. "I see," he said slowly. "You're familiar with it." He wondered how Walker satisfied his own needs. He couldn't recall seeing Walker demonstrate any interest in the female staff, but he was aware there was interest in the other direction. He supposed that some women found Walker's slightly crooked nose an intriguing flaw.

  His stare became vague again, introspective. He would never understand women.

  "Not intimately."

  "Hmm?" he asked. "What was that?"

  Walker repeated himself calmly giving no outward sign that he was annoyed by his employer's inattention. "I'm not personally familiar with the brothel."