Always in My Dreams (30 page)

What followed was an account of their years together. They faced disputes over their land from the Dutch and the Indians, droughts that killed the crops, floods that ended the droughts. Lady Emma proved to be no hothouse flower, bearing Robert eight children, five of whom lived well into adulthood and had children of their own.

The history expanded there, but in detailing each of the descendants' lives, there was mentioned the tantalizing notion that Edward Granville's lost ship had never been relieved of its treasure.

Walker was not particularly quiet when he entered the room, but Skye didn't give any indication that she was aware of his presence. Struck by her concentration, he leaned back against the door and took advantage of the moment.

Skye was lying on her stomach, her head propped on her elbows. Her unbound hair fell across her shoulders and curtained a portion of her face. She had turned completely around on the bed and was now pointed toward the foot of it. With the tangled bedclothes as indicators, Walker could see that in the last several hours she had been sprawled in all possible directions.

One of Skye's legs was bent at the knee, with her bare calf and foot raised toward the ceiling. She rotated her ankle in small circles as she read. Sometimes she would simply let her calf drop back to the mattress, where it would rebound to its starting point and her small foot would begin the circles again. The hem of her gown was bunched up at her knees and there was more petticoat showing than dress fabric. The stiff collar must have been uncomfortable, because she had undone the buttons. Walker found the tiny glimpse of the hollow of her throat as enticing as the bare length of her legs.

It was that glimpse of skin and his reaction to it that reminded Walker that Mary Schyler Dennehy wasn't so young as her posture made her seem, or at least so innocent. It occurred to him that he didn't even know how old she was. Walker was more disturbed by the fact that it bothered him than by the fact that he didn't know.

As he pushed away from the door, it clicked into place behind him. It was that small sound that captured Skye's attention. She looked up, blinked owlishly, and said the first thing that came to her mind: "You're scowling."

He made a low sound that could have been agreement or surprise.

Skye shrugged, changed her position, and went back to reading. It took her only a few moments to become immersed in the Granville account again. She was oblivious to Walker as he added logs to the fire and poked around the flames. She didn't see him remove his jacket or hang it up in the armoire. She wasn't aware he had stepped out on the balcony until she felt a draft on her legs as the doors opened and closed. Her first instinct was to cover up, not to join him, but the tangle of blankets thwarted her efforts.

Skye closed the book and rolled on her side. It was too dark outside to see what he was doing. The glass panes merely reflected back the interior of the room. Sitting up, Skye pushed off the edge of the bed and padded softly to the French doors.

"Go back," he told her, when she stepped outside. He was sitting on the edge of the railing, his arms across his chest and his legs stretched out before him. Wind ruffled hair at his nape. "It's too cold out here."

"For you as well as me," she said. Her teeth had begun to chatter, and the cold balcony floor was like ice on her bare feet. She did a little dance, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to keep warm.

"For God's sake," he said. "You don't have any shoes on."

"Or stockings, either," she said, hugging herself. "But then, you don't have—"

He opened the door with one hand, scooped Skye up with the other, and deposited her inside.

"A coat on," she finished lamely.

"And that's just the way I wanted it," he told her. A swim in the Hudson would have suited him better. He pushed her toward the bed. "Hop back in there before your feet freeze to the floor."

Skye didn't have to be encouraged twice. She fairly dived into the bed. She thrust her feet under the mound of bedclothes and rubbed them back and forth against the mattress. "Why did you go out there?" she asked.

Walker turned the chair by the fire so it faced the bed. He sat down. "It's not important."

Disappointed, she didn't look at him. Did he think she couldn't understand or did he just not want her to know? Either way, it seemed something of an insult. "I've been reading," she said, changing the subject.

"I noticed. You were absorbed when I came in."

"Absorbed?" she asked, puzzled. The small vertical line between her brows deepened as she considered this. She remembered looking up as soon as she heard him. When she glanced at Walker, he was smiling faintly.

"I was here a minute, maybe two, before you noticed me."

Skye wasn't certain she liked that. "You should have made yourself known," she said.

"I wasn't hiding."

That was true enough. She also remembered he'd been scowling when she'd looked up. She hadn't considered until now that his mood could have been related to something she'd done. Skye looked at him more closely, but his features revealed little about the nature of his thoughts. Even his smile had faded. "What did you do with your day?"

Walker removed the studs from his cuffs and carefully rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows. "I delivered some letters to the post in Baileyboro for Mr. Parnell."

Her brows rose a fraction. "You left me alone here?"

"I didn't have much choice. I told you I had the only keys to this room. You were safe."

"I didn't think I wasn't safe," she said, a trifle stiffly. "I can take care of myself. I'm just surprised you thought so."

He didn't try to humor her. "I also asked Hank to keep an eye on things. Parnell knew it, too."

Knowing that it was a predictable response didn't stop Skye from bristling. Her back stiffened, her shoulders straightened, and her eyes flashed as she prepared to challenge him. None of it had the desired effect. Instead of putting Walker in his place, it drew him right out of his chair. His long-legged, rolling stride covered the distance to the bed in the space of a heartbeat. Skye raised her face, but the defiance vanished from her posture and the expression in her eyes softened.

Walker grasped her upper arms and pulled her to a kneeling position. He bent his head and kissed her. Skye offered no resistance. Her lips were soft and pliant, returning the fullness of his kiss measure for measure. Her hands had fallen naturally against his chest and now they stole higher and clasped him at the back of the neck. Her fingers tugged on the tawny strands of hair at his nape and the kiss hardened as if she'd pulled on some responsive cord. She murmured her pleasure against his mouth as he lowered her to the mattress.

Walker pushed aside the mound of blankets. Most of them fell on the floor as his body covered Skye's. She arched against him. The sole of her foot rubbed along the length of his calf. Her hands left his hair and slipped between their bodies again, this time at the level of his waist. Skye's fingers drew out Walker's shirttails until she could slide her hands under the fabric and rest her palms against his skin.

He pushed at her gown, raising it to her thighs. The petticoats bunched and Skye moaned softly, sharing his urgency when he tugged at her drawers. She lifted her hips and then she could feel the heat of his hand on her inner thigh, on her bare flesh. He was pulling at his own clothes then and she was undoing buttons on her bodice. Her breasts were laid open to him, the nipples hard and aching. His mouth closed over one. Skye cried out with the fierce pleasure of it. Her thighs parted, and when he raised his head to look at her, she nodded once and drew her palms along his arms as he came into her.

He watched her closely, saw her draw in her lower lip as he settled against her. He knew he should withdraw, pleasure her in another way, but he wanted her now, like this, and he didn't think he had the strength to be anything but selfish in taking his own pleasure. He held himself still as long as he was able. She gripped him so tightly, so smoothly, and so much without seeming to be aware of it, that she contracted around him. He raised his hips and thrust into her again. He heard her breath catch, felt the tips of her fingers press into his back, and he willed her to look at him and tell him it was no more than she could bear.

She knew what he needed to hear. "It's all right," she said, on a thread of sound. "I want this."

Walker realized he was incapable of protecting Skye from her own willfulness. His mouth lowered over hers and engaged her tongue in the same intimate dance as their bodies. He felt her rise up to meet him, arching into his thrust and giving to him what he could not give to her. She held him tightly, and when pleasure shuddered through him, she continued to hold him though he was certain she had known none of it herself.

His breathing was still ragged when he moved away from her and sat up. He was surprised that she seemed reluctant to let him go. Walker righted his trousers, made a haphazard attempt to tuck in his shirttail, then slid off the bed.

He ran a hand through his hair as he turned to look back at her. Skye was sitting up. She had already pushed her gown modestly around her curled legs and was fastening a few buttons on her bodice.

"I'm sorry." They said the words simultaneously, then frowned at each other. "Why are you sorry?" Again the words were spoken at the same time. They both opened their mouths to answer, then closed them abruptly. Neither of them spoke for a moment.

Walker was able to draw out the silence longer than Skye. She lifted a pillow and hugged it to her chest, using it like a shield. Her nervous fingers plucked one corner. "I
did
want to," she said quietly, not looking at him now. She added quickly, "So don't think that I didn't." She risked a glance at him. "But I don't think I'm very good at it. So... that's what I'm sorry about. I'm not sure I'll be wanting to do it with you anymore." She looked at him frankly now, her embarrassment fading in light of her admission, and thought that confession was probably good for the soul. "Do you know I haven't the faintest idea what to call it?" she said. "I mean, making love is a bit presumptuous—not the act, though I'm sure it can be presumptuous also—but I was referring to the phrasing. And the other descriptive words I know are either scientific or vulgar. That doesn't make it easy to discuss, does it?"

Walker simply stared at her, fascinated.

"Obviously it doesn't," she said, "or you would have something to say yourself."

Still staring at her, Walker sat down slowly.

Skye rubbed her nose with her fingertips. "You're doing it again," she said. "Staring at me. Do I have something on my nose?"

He shook his head.

A strand of hair had fallen across Skye's forehead. Exasperated, she blew it out of the way. "Well, what
is
it?"

Walker felt poleaxed by emotion. He could have bent double with the power of it and still not have relieved the stunning pressure in his chest. He had never struggled harder to hide his hand. "You," he said finally. The single word was lightly said, almost tossed out, with none of the intensity he felt framing it. "Just you."

Skye considered again that she must seem very young to him, what with her mouth running ahead of her thoughts. She sank back a little and hugged the pillow tighter.

"You make me forget that you're not so experienced as you would have me believe," he said.

Skye didn't blush. She flamed. It was all she could do not to press her hands to her cheeks.

"I know you wanted to make love," he said. Unlike Skye, Walker didn't digress on the appropriateness of the word. He could have told her it fit perfectly for what he had had in mind. "I should have thought that you might not be ready. You were still tender from this morning, and I shouldn't have pressed. I didn't mean to hurt you. That's why I said I was sorry—not because you did something wrong." He raised one eyebrow and gave her a lopsided, self-effacing smile. "You should expect less of yourself, Skye Dennehy, and a little more of me."

"Oh," she said softly, blinking once as if coming out of a trance. Her cheeks were still warm but the color was fading nicely. Her grip on the pillow loosened a little. "The beginning is always very good."

"The beginning," he repeated drily.

"The kissing."

"Aaah," he said. "You like the kissing."

She nodded. "And the touching."

He considered that. "You've changed your mind. It wasn't always that way."

"I know." She frowned, puzzled by the revelation herself. "Perhaps it's because I'm touching you, too."

Thinking about it made Walker shift uncomfortably in his chair. It was sublime torture to be halfway across the room from her and listen to her talk about what she had done to him. He could feel her hands on his skin, the hard muscles of his abdomen retracting as her exploring fingers dipped below his trousers. He forced himself to meet her eyes and not watch the absent, idle movements of her hands on the pillow. "Perhaps," he said.

Skye's hands stilled a moment. "Not long before I came here, in fact, the same night we had our encounter in the park, a man—a robber—broke into my home. He tied me up while he searched for some things, and before he released me, he knelt beside me on the couch and... and touched me. His fingers were very light on my face, then my neck... my breasts."