Always in My Dreams (15 page)

"It's quite all right," Parnell said. "I don't mind in the least."

"Mr. Parnell," Walker said warningly. "I don't think—"

Parnell's head swiveled in Walker's direction and his blue eyes were as severe and frosty as his tone. "I was
going
to say that as much as I enjoy discussing my work, in this case—at this stage of the invention's development—it simply wouldn't be wise." He looked back at Skye. "This is not meant to reflect badly on you," he told her. "It's simply a rule I have regarding my work."

"Perfectly understandable," Skye said. "I've heard that obtaining a patent is quite a competitive endeavor."

Parnell nodded. "There were 13,000 patents a
year
issued during the seventies. I've heard the number has climbed to 21,000."

"Goodness," Skye said. "'Competitive' hardly describes it."

"Exactly so."

Skye resolved then and there that she was going to see what Parnell was working on. If it looked in any way like an engine, then it supported her father's story and his reasons for sending her to Baileyboro. If it didn't exist, then she was right to think Jay Mac was up to his old tricks.

Getting to see the inside of Parnell's workroom wouldn't be nearly so difficult if it weren't for Walker Caide. She had begun to see that he functioned as some sort of protector for Parnell. She would have to get past him to view the workroom. Skye was philosophical about it. She supposed every junkyard had its guard dog.

"You might let us in on the joke," Walker said.

Belatedly, Skye realized she was smiling at the image of a snarling, mangy stray answering to the name of Walker Caide. Skye put down her glass quickly and blotted her smile with her napkin. "I assure you," she said, "it was not worth sharing." She saw that Parnell accepted her words at face value. Walker, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she added, "I have to excuse myself, Mr. Parnell. Thank you for the lovely invitation to dine."

He was on his feet immediately, helping Skye with her chair. "Of course you'll join us again."

"Oh, no. I couldn't. Really. It's very kind of you, but it's not my place at all. I'm sure you can see that." Her eyes pleaded with him not to make the invitation a second time.

"Very well, Miss Dennehy. You must do as you see fit." His hand brushed her shoulder lightly as she rose from her chair.

His touch startled Skye and set a small shiver through her. She quickly ducked from under his hand and avoided his inquiring gaze. "Thank you again," she said softly. It was a strain not to flee the room.

Parnell watched her go. When the door was closed behind her he said, "She's very curious." It was a statement about her personality, not about the fact that she asked too many questions.

Walker knew Parnell was thinking out loud, that he didn't expect a comment. It didn't stop him from responding anyway. "I don't trust her," he said tersely.

Parnell sighed. "So you've said. You can't fault her work, though. Mrs. Reading reports she has everyone jumping."

As it came from Corina, Walker suspected it was more of a complaint than a compliment. "All the same, I'm going to keep an eye on her."

Parnell's brows rose slightly and his voice was somber. "See that it's all you do."

* * *

Skye was preparing for bed when there was a knock at her door. It was already quite late, a few minutes after midnight, but she had stayed up to prepare a list of things she wanted to do the following day. Compiling the tasks took longer than she had expected. As was often the case with Skye, her mundane thoughts were interrupted by her imagination—the bane of her existence, her father would have said.

Parnell's workroom continued to intrigue her. She wondered what a tinkerer's sanctuary might look like. Her own vision of it included a table cluttered with thingamajigs and whatchamacallits. A scrap heap of tin whirlykabobs was piled in a corner. Dusty reference books on the physical laws of nature were stacked near the door. The walls were gray and the small casement window had had its panes painted a sickly pea green shade so no one could see in. There would be hammers and nails and levers and awls. There would be magnets and iron filings, copper and lead pipes, jars of acids and salts.

Parnell himself would sit on a stool in the middle of the chaos, his distinguished, handsome features remote as he considered the weighty problem of harnessing the elements. He'd probably lightly stroke the bottom of his chin and his blue eyes would gaze at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. He'd be seeing something else entirely, something in his mind's eye that no one entering the room could possibly fathom. His brows might draw together and the indigo centers of his eyes would darken with his deep thoughts.

Suddenly he would jerk upright, his wide shoulders braced as though he'd felt a blow. A hand would come up and he'd be moved to speak aloud:
"Eureka!"

Skye wondered if people really said that when they made a discovery. She certainly never had. Then again, she reminded herself, she had never really made a discovery.

The knock at the door came again, this time with enough force to rouse Skye from her musings. She put down her pen and slipped into her robe. "Who is it?" she asked, coming to stand near the door.

"Walker," came the low, laconic reply.

Skye was frankly shocked. Did he really believe she was going to give him entrance? She'd been privy to the scandals involving her sisters, and if she'd learned nothing else, she'd learned that trouble usually started when one let a man into a bedroom. "I'm not opening my door to you," she said. Her eyes fell to the door handle as Walker twisted it. "Go away!" she told him. Frantically she tried to remember if she'd locked the door or if the key rattling in the keyhole had never been turned. Bracing one shoulder against the door, she threw her weight into it just in case.

The handle fell back to its original position. "I need to talk to you," Walker whispered.

Skye didn't respond immediately. His hushed voice unnerved her for a moment. She felt an odd rise of panic and couldn't precisely name its source. He wasn't going to hurt her, was he? He hadn't made any threat, yet she felt threatened. "Go away," she repeated. "I'll scream—I swear I will!"

On the other side of the door, Walker paused in reaching for the key to her room. Her reaction was all out of proportion to his request. She no longer sounded as if she was concerned for her modesty or her reputation. One would think she was concerned for her life. "For God's sake," he muttered, "I believe you. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

Skye didn't relax until she heard his footsteps recede down the hallway. She fell back against the door, her heart slamming in her chest. Looking down at herself, she could have sworn she saw the front of her nightgown flutter with each wild beat.

Skye caught her breath and returned to the small writing desk by the fireplace. She had no more work to do, but the thought of climbing into bed now was unappealing. She didn't think she could sleep.

Her fingers idly traced the crisp edge of the writing paper she had been using. It was a tempting notion to write to her father and tell him that whatever scheme he had up his sleeve, he hadn't counted on the likes of Walker Caide. Skye found a measure of satisfaction in knowing her father hadn't thought of everything.

She abandoned the idea of writing at all. A letter to her mother, even if she used her mother's maiden name, wasn't safe from Walker. Skye wouldn't put it past him to read anything she wrote before posting her letters. Correspondence would have to wait until she could send mail herself.

Skye's gaze drifted toward the door again. She wondered why he had come. "No doubt he thought he'd steal that kiss he wanted earlier." She placed two fingers against her mouth as she realized she'd spoken aloud. The fingers were pressed to her lips for a moment, long enough for her to consider what his mouth might have felt like against hers.

Outside, the deep of night had made the french doors a mirror of black glass. Skye caught the movement of her hand in the window. She turned and stared at her reflection. She could almost feel the heat rising in her face. Walker Caide wouldn't have had to steal the kiss. She would have given it to him.

"I'm mad," she said softly, turning away from the windows. "Absolutely mad." Shaking her head, finding humor now in her reaction to Walker's knock at the door, Skye promised herself she'd apologize in the morning. She would have to do it carefully, without allowing him to glimpse how perfectly confused he made her. She'd never been so uncertain of herself as she was around Walker Caide.

Skye could scarcely believe it when there was another knock on her door. "I told you to go away," she called, raising her voice. There was a long silence, then a hesitant knock this time, more like a scratching than knuckles rapping against the wood. That certainly didn't sound like Walker. He was not so tentative.

"Who is it?" Skye asked cautiously, approaching the door.

"Annie. I've brought you—" She gave a little start as the door was flung open and Skye practically pulled her inside. The tray in her hand bobbled and she had to juggle it to keep the contents from overturning.

"Goodness," Skye said. "What do you have here?" She shut the door behind them and took the tray from Annie's hands. "Did you really bring this for me?"

Annie nodded. "I mentioned to Mrs. Reading that I saw a light under your door earlier. We thought you might like something. I was already on my way to the kitchen to get some milk for Matt. He's restless this evening."

"Aren't we all," Skye whispered drily.

"What?" Annie tilted her head.

"Oh, nothing. It wasn't important." She elbowed aside the papers on her desk and set the tray down. "I'm surprised you saw my lamplight. I'd have thought you'd use the back stairs. Certainly they're a more convenient route to the kitchen from your rooms."

Annie blushed and dropped her eyes. "You won't say anything, will you?" she asked quickly, giving Skye a furtive glance. "I don't like using the back stairs.
He
used to use them, you know."

"He?"

"You know," she insisted. "The ghost."

"Oh,"
Skye said, drawing out the word. "You mean Hamilton Granville."

"Yes. That's the one."

Skye explained patiently, "Annie, Mr. Granville was the master of this house. I doubt he used the servants' stairs much. He probably considered it demeaning."

"That's what I said when Rose told me. But
she
says Mr. Granville had a particular reason for using the stairs." She didn't elaborate but waited for Skye to guess her meaning through a show of brow wiggling and suggestive glances.

"I see," Skye said slowly. "You mean he was intimate with one of the servants."

"Exactly so!" Annie said triumphantly.

Skye found it difficult not to laugh. "So his ghost haunts the staircase, is that it? He's looking for his lost love?"

Annie nodded hard. Her gray eyes were wide and quite solemn.

"Well, that's a relief," Skye said, tapping her heart with her palm. "I was worried he'd be in here." Annie's brows went up in question. "Didn't Rose tell you?" Skye asked. "This is where he blew his brains out."

Chapter 5

After Annie left, Skye moved the tray to her bedside and climbed in under the comforter. She regretted teasing Annie, but the opportunity was too delicious to pass up. The poor woman couldn't leave the room quickly enough. Skye thought it was especially thoughtless of her since Annie had been so nice to bring the tray of warm milk and buttered bread. Annie had even remembered cinnamon and sugar. Mentally adding Annie Staplehurst's name to the list of apologies she was making in the morning, Skye settled back against the headboard, surrounding herself with a pillow throne.

She broke the warm bread heel into small chunks and dropped it in the milk. As she added cinnamon and a pinch of sugar, her eyes strayed toward the door. The chair she had propped against the handle appeared to be quite secure. Skye laughed a little uneasily, feeling something of a hypocrite for teasing Annie, then barring her own door.

It's not ghosts I've a mind to keep out, though, she thought. In her mind she could hear her mother's comforting accents. "Sure, but he's a flesh-and-blood man." Wrapping her hands around the mug, Skye raised it to her lips and pressed its warmth against her smile.