Every Time I Love You (27 page)

“Please let me go,” she whispered. “Percy, this is the ballroom.”

“Ah, yes, the ballroom. And you are a prim and proper wife now, my love? Tell me, does it matter to you when you go to him? Does it matter if it is a barn or a cornfield, a ballroom or a shabby garret within a tavern? Does it matter then?”

“I don't know what you're talking about!” she shouted.

“You cannot deny it. James was here when the ship came up the river. He was hiding with his troops out in the field. You gave them supplies and quinine, and he met with you here.”

“No!”

“Was it in this room, dear wife? Tell me that you did not take him to my very bed. Ah...were you in the kitchen, perhaps, or the little parlor or upon the rug in the music room when you finished with your entertainment?”

“Percy, you are mad! Let me go!”

“I cannot. You are my wife.”

“Have pity, then!”

“Did you dance with him? Did you play for him?”

“No. Percy—”

He was on his feet again, dragging her up. To some distant music only he could hear, he began to swirl her around and around the room. She grew dizzy and she held on to him for dear life. Darkness settled heavily upon them. She could almost see it as it would have been, years and years ago, damask on the windows, a player at the spinet...

They turned and turned some more, and then she was back in his arms and they had burst out onto the balcony and he took her chin into his hand, lifting her face to his. “By heaven, I love you! Fool that I am, I love you!”

She cried out as his fingers brushed her throat again and he whispered against her earlobe, “Dear God, that you could betray me so!”

“Never!” She assured him, trembling. “Please, please, don't hurt me again.”

“Then love me, my wife. Love me.”

Trembling still, she set her palm against his cheek and she kissed him. He caught her hand and kissed it tenderly and swept her into his arms again carefully, as if she wore voluminous skirts. He sank to the floor, holding her.

Her tears mingled with each kiss. He caught her lips again and again, playing with them as he eased his hands beneath her hem and along her thigh. He had seldom been more erotic—his mouth never leaving her lips, his eyes never straying from hers—as he slid his fingers against the lace and elastic of her panties, then swept them away to plunge his fingers inside of her, his breath hot and heavy against her face. She bit her lip and cried out softly in sweet excitement and shame. She shouldn't feel it, she shouldn't want it, she shouldn't have it, this was not right at all...

He swept her skirt above and ravished her flesh with his lips and teeth and tongue, and she did nothing but feel the rising pulse of anticipation. When he rose from her at last and stripped, she reached for him eagerly, coming to him on her knees. A merciful blankness filled her mind. The body belonged to Brent McCauley, and she loved him. Had she loved him before? Was this then the same person? She didn't know. She only knew that he was hers and she was his and that he did not hurt her now, but held her and swept into her with tenderness and love.

Until the end, until the very end. He stroked her hair and he lay beside her, damp and glistening. Then he looked up at the ceiling and then he stared at her in horror. He jumped up. “Oh, my God! It's here! It's right here, witch, that you betrayed me!”

His raised his hand as if he would strike her.

He never did. He fell to the floor, in a cold, dead faint.

CHAPTER 18

It was three a.m. when he woke up. He could tell by the luminous dial on his watch. He was horribly disoriented, having no idea where he was.

He had another headache. It was god-awful, pounding mercilessly against his skull. He tried to roll over, expecting the softness of his bed, but the ground was hard; and he realized that he was lying on a floor, and a blanket had been thrown over him. He winced and blinked, and then the moonlight trickling in through the long windows and sheer curtains began to allow him to see. He looked around the room and saw that he was alone. He was naked and alone beneath a blanket on the ballroom floor. Shaffer was wrong; he
was
losing his mind.

He staggered to his feet, wrapping the blanket around him. He went out of the ballroom and through the passage to the kitchen, desperate for some water and some aspirin. When he had washed down a couple, he came back to the passage and looked up the stairway. A light was on somewhere. He almost dreaded going up those stairs. He had to, though. He had to face her sometime.

He felt old, old and heavy, walking up to the landing. He turned and went toward his bedroom. The door was ajar and the light was coming from there. He pushed it open and entered.

She was dressed in a thin white gown, and her head lay on the pillow. For all the world, she appeared to be the purest, most innocent, and most beautiful of golden goddesses. He bit into his lower lip and walked over to the bed and tried very hard to get into it without waking her. She started, though, as soon as he touched the bed.

“It's just me,” he said, trying to sound light. It was probably a dismal attempt anyway. After all, he had no idea why he had been asleep on the floor of the ballroom.

“Brent?” she murmured sleepily, rising.

He slipped beneath the covers and would have set an arm about her to pull her close, except that she seemed to flinch. “Who were you expecting?” he tried to tease.

She stared at him levelly. She didn't demand to know where he had been the night before. She just stared at him so solemnly that fear streaked through him.

“I don't know,” she said, and she meant it. “I don't know who to expect anymore.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” he demanded defensively.

“You can't slough it off, Brent. Come on, ask me what you were doing downstairs.”

He sighed, and he managed to put a measure of impatience into it. “Okay, I tied another one on. It won't happen again, I swear it.”

“Oh, will you quit!” she said disgustedly. She threw off the covers and rose, coming down to the foot of the bed to stare at him. “You did it again, Brent. You went Jekyll and Hyde on me.”

His heart quickened. “Did I—did I hurt you?”

“No,” she said, but it was a word laden with sorrow and bitterness, and he swallowed miserably. He lifted his hands, searching desperately in his mind for something to say. “Where did you sleep last night?” she asked him.

He was able to smile ruefully. “I'm sorry, Gayle. I'm sorry, really. I just slept out in the old spinning house, that's all. In the servants quarters there. You had me alarmed with all that mumbo jumbo. Really. I just couldn't imagine being part of a séance, you know?”

“I stayed up all night. Waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you; I just needed to be alone.”

She lowered her head. “I went to see her yesterday, Brent. I went to see the parapsychologist.”

“You did
what?”
His tone thickened furiously and he shoved the sheets aside to bound down to the end of the bed and confront her. “You know how I felt about it, and you went anyway?”

She backed away. “Sure, yes, fine! I know how you feel! Don't you care about how
I
feel? I can't take any more of this!”

His jaw tightened. “You were the one trying to claw my eyes out the other night. I didn't hate you for it.”

“Brent! You're bigger than I am; you're stronger. You have some kind of defense—”

“I'll remember that when you pick up a knife,” he said coolly.

“You son of a bitch!” she flared. “You with your stinking ego and your callousness.”

“You just said that I didn't hurt you—”

“I hate it! I hate it. No, I'm not mortally wounded, but I hate being thrown around, and I hate being threatened. And I hate being—”

“Raped?” he said acidly. He rubbed his eyes. “I still don't think I believe all this.”

“You saw the bruises you gave me.”

“All right, all right. What did the witch doctor say?”

Gayle stared at him a long moment, then took in a deep breath. “She thinks that we—met in a previous life. That we were lovers about two hundred years ago. My name was Katrina, and yours was Percy. Something must have happened then that causes this now.”

He looked at her. He just looked at her; then he burst into laughter. “You made me go to the shrink when you're falling for complete rot like that?” He crawled off the bed, laughing so hard that he reached for her. She sidestepped him and continued to glare at him in fury.

“It isn't rot! Good Lord, do you think it was easy for me to believe it? But I think it is true, tonight more than ever. Damn you, Brent, you know you go into total blackouts, but you won't believe what I tell you! If you would just see this woman, you would understand. Tina and Geoff—”

“You took Geoff with you? And Tina? You made idiots out of both of us in front of your dear old friends?”

“They care, Brent. Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Gayle, Gayle, Gayle!” He sank down wearily to sit at the foot of the bed. “Something is wrong, yes. But I wish to hell you wouldn't air our problems in front of everyone else. And I wish you hadn't resorted to a witch doctor. If Shaffer is no good, we can try another reputable doctor. It has to be something in our minds, don't you see?”

“No, I don't see. Dr. Clark wants to see you.”

“Dr. Clark?” he said skeptically.

“She's a real doctor. Dr. Marsha Clark. And so help me, Brent, if you love me, you've got to work at this.”

“That isn't fair. I love you, and you know it. But I will not see a witch doctor!”

“Please! Just meet her, talk to her.”

“Umm. And we can play weird music and rent a fog machine for the house when she comes out. Sure. Haven't you checked into possession and exorcism yet?”

“Stop it! Your sarcasm is way out of line, Brent.”

“Gayle! I've never hurt you—”

“Oh, no, it's just great. In fact, I'm having a ball. Let's just live like this forever and ever!” She planted her hands on her hips and whirled away from him, her eyes flashing and her hair flowing. “There is no Percy; that's all in my head. Shaffer is wrong. You have this hidden hang-up. You're Percy, and Percy is you. In fact, you know, Brent, Percy is good. Percy is damned good.”

“Gayle, quit this—”

“Maybe I could even prefer him as a lover. Of course, he doesn't exist. He's that thing in your mind that some shrink will find for you. What if you don't like the answer, though, Brent? What if it's sick? What if it's the rough and tough and macho side of you coming out? The side that just has to beat up a little on the old wife before really getting down—”

“Stop it, Gayle.”

“But what the hell. I mean, I said Percy is good, didn't I? I should live with it. Really good—”

She broke off with a sharp, startled cry because he had slapped her. The only saving grace to it was that he looked as horrified as she felt, and he was immediately contrite.

“Gayle, I'm sorry. I lost it there, I'm sorry. You wouldn't stop. God, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—come here, please, Gayle—” He reached out for her, and she screamed at him.

“Leave me alone, just leave me alone!”

“Gayle, please, I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, sweetheart—”

“No!” She wrenched from his hold. Her cheeks were damp and she was struggling for breath and she drew the cool side of her hand against her chin where he had hit her. “Maybe I was wrong—maybe I shouldn't have said that. But no, not this time, Brent. Not this time!” She spun away from him and strode for the closet, throwing it open. It took him several seconds to realize what she was doing.

“Gayle!” He walked over to her quickly, locking his arms around her so that she couldn't move. She wouldn't even look at him. “Gayle, please—”

“I'm going, Brent,” she said dully. She felt as stiff as a poker in his arms, cold as ice. “I'll be at my house on Monument Avenue if you want me.”

“You can't leave me!”

“I have to leave you!”

“Please, God, don't you know how I love you!”

“Let me go, Brent.”

He didn't let her go. He swept her up into his arms and he sat at the foot of the bed and he held her and he told her again, desperately and fervently, how much he loved her. Tears glazed her eyes at last, some recognition of all that lay between them. “I love you too,” she whispered.

“You can't want to leave me.”

“I have to leave you.”

“Why?”

“We're...we're going to have a baby. And I'm afraid. I'm afraid for our baby.” Her eyes focused on his at last. She looked scared and very, very beautiful. His arms tightened.

“We're having a baby,” he repeated thickly. “You're sure?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“When?”

“In April.”

“You're sure? You're absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I've been afraid.”

“Do you—” he paused, taking a deep breath. It was a painful question. “Do you want my baby?”

The tears flicked off her lashes and her fingers dug into his arms. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”

“Oh, God,” he breathed. “Oh, God, thank you.” He pulled her very close to him and he kissed her forehead, and he breathed out another thank you, a thank you to her. Then he shuddered—because he was afraid. He was afraid of the truth in the answers that awaited him. If he didn't look for them, he would not find them. And now he knew that he had to look.

“Don't—don't leave me,” he asked her again. And again, he forced himself to take a deep breath. “Please, Gayle, don't walk away from me, from us, from our future. I'll see this witch doctor of yours. I'll do anything if you'll stay.”

She looked up at him and she seemed to wilt then against him, exhausted. She touched his cheek, and it seemed that an easy flow of tears would come to her eyes again. She swallowed them back. “I love you, Brent. I just need you to help me.”

He caught her hand and kissed it. “I don't—I can't—believe in reincarnation. But I'll see the doctor, Gayle. And I swear, I'll try. I'll do whatever you both want. But we've got to make it together, okay?”

She nodded. She sighed and leaned her head against him, and in a few minutes he knew that she had fallen asleep, worn and exhausted. He picked her up and laid her on the bed, and then he lay down beside her, watching her as she slept.

Loving her.

He touched her cheek and he softly stroked the length of her arm, and he ran just the tips of his fingers, lightly, low over her abdomen. They were going to have a child.

It hadn't really sunk in, but it gave him a thrill of gladness. He had been afraid there that...she wouldn't want a baby. Not his baby.

He leaned over and kissed her belly through the flannel fabric. “I'll make it right,” he promised her softly. “I swear, I'll make it right.”

But when he lay back to sleep, he felt bleak. He didn't know if he could make it right or not. He still couldn't understand what the hell it was that was wrong.

When Gayle wearily opened her eyes in the morning, Brent was fully clothed, sitting down by her side, and wearing a rueful smile.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” she returned.

He kissed her forehead. “You need to get dressed. I called Marsha Clark. She's on her way over.”

“What?” Gayle demanded, propping herself up on her elbows.

“I said—”

She didn't let him finish. She threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Brent.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Hurry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Gayle came down the stairs. She smiled, seeing that Marsha had arrived already.

She was even more striking on a second meeting, Gayle thought. She was so very finely built, with such delicate features, fair skin, that fashionable mop of hair, and her mammoth dark eyes. She and Brent were down in the ballroom; Gayle heard their voices and quickly found them there.

She was glad that Brent instantly slipped an arm around her shoulders to bring her against him as she greeted Marsha. It would have been easy to have felt a twinge of envy. Marsha was so beautiful, and Brent was at his tall, dark, handsome best in a navy pullover and new jeans. But watching Marsha's warm brown eyes fall over the two of them together, Gayle was glad. She felt that the woman had shrewdly and quickly assessed them, and that the assessment had been a good one.