Only in My Arms (3 page)

She wondered how he could give that single word so much meaning. His voice had not changed at all. The smooth, husky quality of it made her think of her father's best bourbon. His light gray eyes were still like frost, yet it wasn't a chill she felt but searing heat. For no reason that she could understand she was drawn to him and the sensation of being pulled in was unnerving.

She knew she was the better swimmer, but it no longer mattered. Here, in the familiarity of the placid little pool where she had spent so many enjoyable summers with her sisters, Mary Francis Dennehy acknowledged that she was out of her depth.

"I have to go," she said. She wished her voice did not sound regretful or uncertain.

"Not yet."

She didn't reply. She struck off for the bank of rocks that held her clothes. He easily caught her by the ankle as she swam past and pulled her back. Her instinctive struggle brought her within inches of his slick, wet chest. She calmed herself to keep from being brought flush to his naked body. "I want to go," she said clearly. This time there was no mistaking her resolve.

"All right." As he held up both hands to surrender to her wishes he sank a little in the water.

She watched him warily while he sputtered. When she was sure he wasn't in need of rescuing, she swam for the stone stairway. Before climbing out, she darted a look over her shoulder. The eyes that met hers were certainly predatory. "Turn around," she said, making just that motion with her index finger. "Or go under the water while I get out."

"You weren't always so shy."

"I didn't know you were here, and you knew I didn't."

"Guilty." There was no remorse in his tone. If he had it to do again, he wouldn't do it differently. However, he saw she was willing to wait him out this time and now he was the one tired of treading. He ducked under the water and counted to ten before resurfacing.

She was sitting on the sun-baked slab of stone wearing a plain white cotton shift. Her knees were drawn toward her chest, and she hugged them with her arms. The shift was damp in places as it absorbed the water she hadn't had time to towel off. "You could have surfaced with your back to me," she told him. "How could you know I'd be covered?"

"I trusted you to be quick about it even if it meant diving into the brush." He realized she was feeling a little more confident now that she was clothed. He was not going to disabuse her of that notion by pointing out that the sunlight made her shift an ephemeral covering at best. If she stood up now she would be more exposed to him than she had been in the water. "Is the house I passed on the way here yours?"

"No," she said truthfully.

"You're a guest?"

In her parents' home? Hardly. "No," she said. "Not a guest."

"A servant, then."

She had a serenely quiet smile, and she graced him with it. "No. But it's a mistake that's been made before in my family." She saw him working out another question and saved him the trouble by asking one of her own. "What's your business with Walker Caide?"

"No business. Just reestablishing an old acquaintance."

She regarded him steadily, weighing his words. "Walker Caide has enemies. How do I know you're not one of them?"

"You don't."

She considered that. Her sigh was audible as she came to a decision. "Walker Caide is my brother-in-law."

One of his dark brows arched slightly. "Then Mary Schyler is—"

"My sister."

His eyes narrowed now as he studied her, and he felt his skin prickle with the sensation of wariness. "And you're... Mary Michael?"

The serene smile returned. She shook her head. "In Denver."

The water seemed several degrees colder than it had moments before. "Mary Renee?"

"Laying track for Northeast Rail somewhere in the Rockies." The smile had now reached her forest green eyes.

"Mary Margaret?"

It seemed that Walker had written to his friend about the whole family. She cautioned herself that she shouldn't be enjoying this stranger's comeuppance quite so much. "Recently graduated from the Philadelphia Women's College of Medicine and back home on the Double H in Colorado."

"I see."

She gave him credit for masking his discomfort so well. She smoothed her cotton shift over her knees and looked at him expectantly.

"That makes you Mary Francis," he said finally.

She couldn't help it that her smile widened. "That's right."

"The nun."

"The nun," she confirmed. He surprised her again by turning the tables. In spite of the fact that she now commanded the high ground, had solid footing, and was wearing the clothes this time, he was able to stare her down.

"I don't think you have any shame," he said. Turning in the water, he swam with strong but awkward strokes toward the opposite bank.

Mary Francis sat as still as stone. Several moments passed before she got to her feet. She was reaching for her own clothing when she heard him climb out of the water. Knowing that he wasn't looking in her direction now, she began to dress. The black habit was creased by her earlier carelessness, and she made a halfhearted attempt to smooth it. She adjusted the stiff white collar. Out of her pocket she pulled her rosary and attached it to her waist. She did not have her cornet or veil and her red-gold hair was incongruently bright against the severity of her habit. She threaded her fingers through it quickly, squeezing out the last of the water droplets.

He was fastening his gun belt when he heard her voice coming to him quietly from across the water hole. He paused, raising his head, and looked at her. She was standing there in her plain black gown, both somber and simple, and he was thinking about a flash of rose-tipped breasts. She was standing there with the serene features of an angel, and he was thinking about kissing that mouth. She took a step closer to the water, the movement making the habit shift against her legs. Suddenly he was remembering the undulating rhythm of hips and thighs and calves as she parted the water with her body.

"Did you hear me?" she asked.

His eyes never leaving hers, he shook his head.

"You're welcome to come to breakfast at the house. If you're hungry, that is."

He was. The train from West Point had deposited him in Baileyboro long before any boarding house was serving a meal. He'd chosen to walk the five miles to the Granville mansion rather than cool his heels at the station. Now, not only was he hungry, it seemed he hadn't walked far enough. "No, thank you," he said. "I think I'll go straight to Walker's."

She could have said, "Suit yourself." God knew as well as she did that it was what she wanted to say. Mary didn't, however, believing she might as well behave with charity in her heart right now rather than confess a lack of it later. "Walker and Skye have returned to China," she said. "They left soon after Maggie's graduation. There's no one at the mansion except the groundskeeper and his wife." She took the path that led into the forest and then to the summerhouse, leaving it to Walker's friend to follow her or not.

He drew abreast of her more quickly than she would have thought possible. His passage was both swift and silent. She made no comment about his decision to join her. The fingers of her right hand ran absently along the length of her rosary.

"My name's McKay," he said. "Ryder McKay."

Mary acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod. "I don't recall Walker mentioning you, but then I haven't spent much time with him. It's unfortunate he's not here to greet you."

"I doubt he'll think so," Ryder said. "He wanted to return to China."

"My sister was excited as well. Skye imagines herself to be some sort of adventuress."

"Then she married the right man."

Mary glanced at him sideways. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think she did." They walked along in silence, their path shaded by the sweeping boughs of pine and oak and hickory. When it rose more steeply, she raised her gown and revealed she was still barefooted. She had no difficulty crossing the uneven ground. "What led you to the pool?" she asked as they came over the rise. The summerhouse was in front of them now, a hundred yards distant across an open field. Black-eyed Susans, columbine, and daylilies dotted the green. "Why didn't you come to the house if you thought Walker lived there?"

"It was too early. I looked around, but no one was up. It seemed more polite to wait."

"But what led you to the pool?"

"The scent of water."

"The scent? But—"

He shrugged, cutting off her question. It wasn't something he could explain and it wasn't something she could understand. She probably wondered why he hadn't gone directly to the river, but that had a different scent than the place she called the pool and he called a watering hole.

Mary didn't pursue her question. The summer home beckoned her, its newly painted, white wooden frame gleaming in the sunshine. The windows winked at her. At the entrance to the enclosed back porch, she wiped her feet on the hemp mat and then slipped them into a pair of soft black leather slippers. She picked up a pail of raspberries she had picked earlier in the morning. Raising it in front of her, she said, "I was already up when you came by. I just wasn't home."

"I stand corrected," he said somewhat stiffly.

She hesitated a beat, fighting the urge to look away. "I'm sorry about what happened at the pool," she said quickly, before the apology stuck in her throat. "I should have told you at the beginning. I knew it would make a difference."

There was a hint of roughness in his voice and an intensity about his light gray eyes. "Why didn't you?"

Mary didn't respond. She preceded him into the kitchen, knowing it would take a lot of soul-searching to answer that question honestly.

The kitchen of the summerhouse was spacious. A large, solid rectangular pine table dominated the center of the room. Kettles and skillets and cooking utensils dangled from iron hooks on a wooden frame that was suspended from the ceiling. One of her sisters—she couldn't say now which one—had christened it the pan chandelier and the name had stuck.

"Will pancakes be all right?" she asked, reaching for one of the cast iron skillets.

He nodded shortly and looked around for something that he might do. Her hospitality confused him. Ryder McKay wasn't used to a welcome mat. An invitation into any home was rare, and the circumstances of this invitation were most unusual.

"Just have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the six chairs gathered around the table. "Unless you'd rather eat in the dining room? You could wait in the parlor while I cook."

He nudged one of the chairs out with the toe of his boot. "No," he said. "This is fine." More than fine, he thought, but he didn't say the words. He was conscious of his dusty boots, of his clothes that looked as if he'd slept in them, of his dark, damp hair that was just beginning to dry at the back of his neck.

"You can hang your duster on that hook by the back door," she told him when she saw him hesitate. Mary glanced at his empty hands. "You don't have a hat?"

Ryder shook his head. Most often he wore a bandana tied around his forehead and hair. He had one in the pocket of his duster, but he hadn't worn it since leaving Fort Apache two weeks ago. He touched the back of his neck again. It was when he had cut his hair. He was aware suddenly that Mary was looking at him expectantly, and Ryder realized he'd still made no move to take off his coat. He did so now, hanging up not only the coat but his gun belt as well. Although his hostess made no comment, he could sense her relief.

The black iron stove was a monstrous contraption that generally needed more coaxing than a contentious child. On this occasion it fired up easily, and Mary set the skillet, adding a dollop of butter to heat. She quickly put the pancake ingredients in a bowl and placed it in front of Ryder along with a wooden whisk. "You mix this while I clean the berries."

Welcoming something to do, Ryder didn't object. Butter was sizzling on the skillet by the time he had a smooth batter, and without direction from Mary, he left the table and began pouring the first cakes.

At the sink Mary paused and glanced over her shoulder to where Ryder was working. He was intent on his task and didn't appear to sense her interest. There was nothing tentative about his work. His movements were crisp and efficient as he measured out the batter and, later, when he flipped the saucer-sized cakes. She turned back to her own work, finished rinsing the berries, and sugared them lightly to bring out their own juice.

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, realizing she was remiss in not thinking of it earlier.

"Are you having it?"

"No. I'm drinking milk."

"Milk will be fine." Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk. It wasn't as long ago as the last time he'd been swimming, it only seemed that way. He expertly flipped another cake and placed it on a warming plate. "Do you want me to get it?" he asked before he poured more batter. "I saw the cooler on the back porch."

Mary accepted his offer, reasoning he wouldn't have made it if he minded. It gave her the opportunity to set the table. In a matter of minutes they were sitting at a right angle to one another, unfolding their napkins. Ryder started to pick up his fork when he saw Mary bow her head. His lean fingers released the fork and his hand slid onto his lap. He lowered his head but didn't close his eyes, watching Mary instead as she said the blessing quietly. When she was finished, she smiled encouragingly in his direction.