Always in My Dreams (42 page)

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.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

"Mmm."

He knew how to interpret that. He kept threading his fingers through her hair. Fire crackled in the hearth. It gave sound to the fire crackling in her hair. The strands of gold and orange and red that were like slivers of flame wrapped around his fingers. "You're going to have a sore head in the morning."

Skye didn't open her eyes. She nodded agreeably, unconcerned. The crown of her head rubbed against his hard midriff. "I suppose you'll think I deserve it."

"I'll think you earned it."

"Like I earned this marriage?" she asked.

He didn't reply immediately. "I don't want to argue about it, Skye. What's done is done."

Opening her eyes, Skye sat up and pulled her hair forward, away from Walker's exploring fingers. In the silence that had preceded his words, she imagined she had heard his answer. In every way she had made her bed and would be forced to lie in it. Honor. Love. Obedience. 'Til death.

Skye picked up her brush and ran it through her hair with rough strokes. Her activity was clumsier than she would have wished, and after only a half-dozen ragged passes, she pitched the brush hard at her reflection.

The angle of the toss, more than the anger behind it, shattered the mirror. Glass cracked and splintered. It sparkled as it fell away from the silver paper backing and landed on the top of the cherrywood vanity.

Stricken, Skye stared at the damage she had caused. She raised her eyes slowly and sought out Walker. His reflection had disappeared. Panic caught her breath. In her lap her hands twisted once until her fingers found the plain gold band he had given her to seal his vows. She bent her head, breathing easier. After a moment tears gathered in her eyes, then dripped soundlessly onto her lap. They spiked her lashes. One splattered the back of her hand.

"Take this," he said.

The silk handkerchief that had accented his black tailcoat was placed in the line of her blurred vision. Skye took it, though she hadn't any clear idea what to do with it. She clutched it instead of raising it to her face.

Walker knelt beside her. There were a few shards of glass on the floor, but he ignored them. One crunched beneath his knee. "Like this," he said patiently. He took the handkerchief from her and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks. The prompting helped Skye take over the task but did nothing to stem the flow of tears. Her shoulders heaved once. She was wretchedly unhappy.

Watching her, Walker's own heart was gripped in a vise. He stood up slowly, brushed glass dust from his knees, and went to the adjoining dressing room. "You have a daybed in there," he said when he came out again. "I can sleep on it."

Skye's knuckles whitened as she clenched the handkerchief more tightly. A small hiccup interrupted her sob. She stared at him out of wide, glassy green eyes. "Why?"

"I think it would be better."

Her brows furrowed. "Better?"

A muscle worked in his jaw but he spoke calmly. "I thought you would prefer it."

"You mean you would."

"If I meant that, I'd have said it. I was trying to be considerate."

"I don't want you to be considerate." The last tear spilled over the rim of her eye. She wiped it away impatiently and came to her feet. "You haven't taken my feelings into account before now. Why should you start?"

"I've always taken your feelings into account. It's your thinking I don't much credit." He watched as his retort simply took the wind out of her sails. Skye was visibly deflated. Her shoulders sagged a little, her eyes dropped away from his. She looked alone again, all at once at sea. Alcohol had had a mercurial effect on the emotional tide. The ebb and flow of anger was as difficult to predict as it was to follow.

"I'm going to get ready for bed," she said wearily. She rubbed her right temple with her fingertips. What had happened? she wondered. Minutes ago she had been resting comfortably against Walker, his fingers in her hair. For as long as it lasted, his touch had been soothing. "Sleep wherever it suits you."

Taking Skye at her word, Walker returned to the dressing room.

Chapter 13