Always in My Dreams (7 page)

After belting the sash, Skye sat down to compose her response to the ad. It took her several attempts to find the right words. She didn't want to sound too young or inexperienced, afraid that if Mr. Parnell suspected she was young, she might not even be granted an interview. The references from Dr. Turner and Logan Marshall would help, but she had to pass muster first.

Unaware of passing time, Skye looked over her last draft and decided it was worth recopying in her best handwriting. She stretched, arms flung wide, back arched, before hunching over the desk again like an accounting clerk. She had just set pen to paper when she heard a thud below stairs.

Skye paused, cocked her head to one side, and listened. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the clock on the mantel. It was after one, too late for either her father or her mother still to be up. Mrs. Cavanaugh and her husband had long since retired to their apartment above the carriage house. There were no other servants living on the property.

But there was the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Rising gingerly from her chair, careful to be quiet, Skye padded barefoot to the door. She fingered the worn threads of her sash as she moved along the hallway to the backstairs. Below her there was silence again. She waited, barely breathing. Just at the point she began to believe she had imagined it, she heard movement again.

It was not possible to know the precise location of the noise. As Skye stealthily made her way down the stairs, she kept hoping she'd find her father in the kitchen with a glass of warm milk, or Mrs. Cavanaugh returned from the carriage house because she'd had a sudden urge to bake bread. Neither explanation seemed particularly likely, and when she reached the bottom of the steps she learned that neither was true. The kitchen was dark and empty and the sounds were coming from somewhere down the hall behind her.

Skye had not considered a weapon until now. She picked up a butcher knife from the wooden cutting block and went into the hallway. There was silence again and Skye learned firsthand how it was possible for silence to be deafening. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart slammed in her chest, and her imagination was marching ahead double time. Having no clear idea what she would do if confronted by an intruder, she went on, opening one door after another, peeking in each room, then stepping back when she found no one.

Outside her father's study she paused again, this time pressing her ear to the door. She crouched and looked through the keyhole. There was a vague light in the room and it startled her until she remembered there had been a fire in the grate. It was only the dying embers, she realized, and turned the handle.

It took a single step into the room to know she was not alone. She felt the presence of another person, the warmth of a body nearby, the tension of fear, the barely audible hum of controlled breathing.

Skye's knuckles whitened on the door handle. She tried to slam the door with herself safely in the hallway, but a foot wedged itself between the door and frame. She opened her mouth to scream and almost immediately something capped the sound. It took her a moment to identify the thing over her mouth as a hand and the texture and smell against her skin and nose as leather. As she fought for breath, another hand captured her wrist and squeezed. In the same motion she was dragged back into the room, her weapon useless now in nerveless fingers. She dropped it as the door was pushed closed behind her. The knife made no sound when it fell on the oriental carpet.

The realization that no one could hear her, or had heard her, made Skye redouble her efforts. She kicked backward, connecting twice in her struggle, but the hold on her never relented. She tried to bite and actually managed to get the leather glove between her teeth once before she sensed a creeping blackness on the edge of her vision. The pressure in her chest became enormous and she clawed at the hand over her mouth. The last thing she remembered was a voice near her ear, the breath hot and damp, telling her to hush.

She didn't imagine she was unconscious long. When she woke she couldn't move or see and she could breathe only through her nose. It was odd, she thought, that she could recognize the cloth that bound and gagged her as scraps from the robe she'd been wearing. She tested the binding at her wrist and ankles. It wasn't tight enough to eliminate circulation, but it was more than sufficient to keep her from getting free.

"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." She 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."