Every Time I Love You (32 page)

“Please—” she began. Palmer was walking toward her, still smiling. Henry was ignoring them both, having drawn a knife from his pocket to clean his nails.

Palmer came toward her and she started to scream. He kept smiling and picked her up, laughing when she beat against his shoulders and chest. He kicked the door open and bore her across the hall to the ballroom. She slapped him hard. Then her head reeled, for he returned the blow, and she was breathless and in pain when he dropped her to the floor. He towered above her, staring down at her while he removed his scabbard and sword.

Not again. She could not bear it. If there were a God in heaven, surely He would do something now.

The door to the ballroom burst open. “Charles! Wait, leave her!”

Henry was there, with a dust-covered panting scout standing behind him. “It is imperative!” Henry added.

Scowling, Lord Palmer strode over to the pair. Dismally, Katrina rolled on the floor, praying that they would not take her aboard their ship. She heard a flurry of whispers; then she cringed and stared up dully as Palmer towered over her once again.

“Katrina...” He swept off his hat in a gallant gesture. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

“Dear sister!” Henry came, knelt upon one knee, and kissed her hand.

And then they were gone.

Miserably, Katrina struggled to her feet. Dazed, she wondered at her good fortune and was actually afraid of it. She hurried through the passage to the door and out to the veranda.

But it was true. The Redcoats were leaving. Leaving her and the manor untouched. Katrina came back into the parlor, and she sank into one of the chairs. Nathan, one of the downstairs servants, came to her. “Miz Katrina, are they gone?”

“Yes, Nathan, they are gone.” She could not move. She felt weary. He walked softly into the room and poured her a glass of sherry, bringing it to her. She accepted it in grateful silence.

“I'll see you're not bothered, Miz Katrina,” Nathan promised her as he left the room. She sipped the sherry and shuddered because it was all with her again, the shame of those days back in Pennsylvania, the misery. A fly buzzed against the windowpane, and she listened lethargically to its drone. The sun began to fall, casting shadows across the room. She could not rise to light a candle.

Then suddenly the door burst open and Nathan was there again. “Miz Katrina, he's coming! The master's coming home.”

Katrina leapt to her feet, her heart pounding, and she raced out to the veranda. It was true. Percy was riding down the path to the house. Thunderous hooves brought him at a gallop. He was in uniform—tight white breeches, blue frock coat, dark tricorn. The tail of his frock coat flew out behind him in his wake as he rode, and he was swift and gallant and fine.

She tore down the steps of the veranda to greet him. He had dismounted before she could reach him; he called to Nathan coming from the house behind her. “Take him, Nathan, please. And see that my wife and I are not disturbed.”

She should have heard it. She should have heard the stark and hateful tone of his voice. She did not. The day had been too harrowing; she was too joyous to see him. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and clung to him.

“We shall go inside,” he told her curtly.

“Percy—?” she said in bewilderment.

“Inside!”

He caught her arm and dragged her up the steps. For the second time that day, she was wrenched into the parlor, and the door was closed. He eyed her as if she were a snake, while he strode for the table to pour himself a drink. He swallowed it down, still damning her with his eyes, eyes darker than the night, darker than any pit of everlasting hell.

“Percy, for the love of God—”

“Aye, for the love of God, Katrina.” His glass went down so hard it shattered, and he was across the room, pinning her against the wall with his hands at her sides.

“I ought to kill you. I ought to strangle you right here, this very second. You beautiful, treacherous slut!”

“Percy, what—”

“Tell me, Katrina, does the name Charles Palmer mean anything to you?”

She was afraid that she would faint. She could barely stand there, and she did not think she could ever speak fast enough to explain herself now.

“He is a British officer. He is—”

“He is running around Virginia, swearing to friend and foe that the toddler son claimed by Percy Ainsworth is his own seed.”

She gasped in horror. “It is a lie, I swear it!”

“Is it a lie, Katrina?”

“Yes!”

“Men have claimed—good men—that you struck a bargain with this man. That you went to him willingly, again and again, to buy our freedom in Pennsylvania.”

She looked down. She could not answer him.

“Katrina!”

“I did it for our lives!”

He inhaled so sharply that it sounded like a cannon shot. Then his hand flashed out with startling speed, catching her hard across the cheek. She cried out, and twisted past him. “It was for our lives, Percy, my God—”

He was striding toward her, and he looked furious and sick and ravaged. “I would rather die a thousand times over than have my wife bargain for me!” he thundered. She was afraid of him. She turned again to run, but his fingers caught her hair, dragging her back. He pulled her down to her knees, and he lowered himself too.

“And what of this very day, Katrina? Your note reached me. You knew I could not come before they did. They were here again, I know. James and a small band were out in the field. He came again, Katrina. Palmer was here. In my house! Tell me, my wife, what were the stakes this time? Did he have you here? In the ballroom? In the bedroom? Did you bring him there, Katrina? To our very room?” His hands were upon her shoulders; he shook her with a rising fury. She knew that he was heartsick, and yet fury rose within her. “No!” she cried. “No!”

“Liar! Before we were married, before the war ever began, you rode to him straight from me, time and time again!”

She gasped, stunned by his knowledge. He smiled at her slowly and bitterly. “It is true. You married me; you came to me; you lay with me; and you ran back to your Tory lover every time.”

“No, no! You're wrong, Percy! I had to play their game, yes. He could have sent me away! I never gave him anything. I—you fool!” she cried to him. “You and your honor and your manly idiocy! We are alive, Percy. We are alive!” She pushed away from him and got up, hating all the males of the species at that moment.

“They told me,” he muttered. “They told me time and time again. I even heard the way he spoke to you...”

“Stop it!” she shrieked, and she ran for the door, as heartsick, as miserable, as he. He was after her in a flash, pulling her back, then grabbing her into his arms. “What is this, Katrina? Even now you would race to your British lover? Supply his ship from my stores? Warm his bed from then on?”

“Stop it! Stop it!”

She tried to fight him. They fell against the ballroom door and rolled together across the Persian carpet and the hardwood floor. She grew hysterical and she kicked him and fought him. He caught her wrists and secured them high above her head, and at last, she saw his eyes, and the emotion within them.

He hated her. Despised her. Abhorred her. She had never seen such reproach or such a glittering, absolute scorn.

“Percy!” She cried out his name in terror.

“You will not!” he told her. “You will not run to your lover, not this night!” Then there was something like a sob that caught in his throat and he stroked her cheek. His fingers trembled and they were hard and taut, yet somehow gentle still.

“God, how I loved you! All these years, all these years you have tricked and deceived me, and still...I love you. Love you, desire you, need you...”

He kissed her hard. Blood caught in her lip and tears welled up inside of her. “No!” She tried to wrench herself away from him. She had to explain; she had to make him believe her.

“Tonight, Katrina, you will not tell me no.”

He didn't understand, she realized bleakly. He thought that she was fighting him; he did not see that it was only his hatred that she battled. “Percy, please—”

“I do not please!”

“I have not betrayed—”

Hot, fevered, and brutal, he was upon her. She could not breathe for his kiss; she could not twist or roll for the weight of him. Fabric tore and was wrenched away, and she struggled with greater ferocity; and then tears washed down her face because he was her husband and she loved him, and it should never, never be like this.

She went still, and she felt then only the softness of his breath against her cheek, and then the feather-light stroke of his fingers on her naked flesh. A strangled sob sounded from him again, and he whispered that he loved her. He rose above her and plunged deep, deep inside of her, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, deliriously glad of him then.

Twilight fell to night. Worn and ragged from the expenditure of emotion, they slept. Dawn came. Katrina became vaguely aware that Percy was up, that he padded silently, agile and naked, to the window.

“My God!” he swore. And he turned and stared at her, even as she struggled to rise and cover herself with her torn clothing. “It was a trick! Betraying whore! It was a trick! They are out there now! The British are out there now!”

“No...” He stumbled into his breeches, watching the window. Then the door to the ballroom burst open, and not just Henry and Charles Palmer stood there, but at least a dozen British regulars in uniform.

Percy looked from the men to Katrina. He smiled, and she would never forget that smile. She screamed; she tried to reach him.

“Whore! Leave me!” he railed, and he sprang for his sword. Charles Palmer accepted the challenge, leaping into the room.

They clashed again and again. Katrina screamed once more.

Percy had the advantage. He clearly had the advantage. Parry after thrust, thrust after parry. He was the stronger of the two men. In a matter of minutes, Palmer's sword flew high into the air. Percy spun about to meet the next challenger, but he was not to be afforded the opportunity. A pistol shot rang out and he cried out, caught in the shoulder.

“Don't kill him!” Henry flared. “He musn't die in battle; he must die a spy's death, hanged until dead!”

Men rushed around him to take him. Percy tried to jerk away. “The Patriots hanged Major Andre,” he reminded his captors, “but he died as a gentleman, in full uniform!”

“Take him out!” Henry commanded.

Katrina called Percy's name as she hurried toward him. He turned and saw her, and for a moment, he shook off his captors. He touched her cheek and he smiled and told her softly, “A kiss, and it is death, Katrina. My God, if I could but avenge myself for this betrayal!”

“I did not—” she protested, but they were dragging him from the room. Outside, a noose already hung over a tree; a horse stood beneath it. They dragged Percy along until he shook them off, and he walked of his own accord, rising to the wagon himself.

“No!” Katrina flew to Charles Palmer's side, wrenching his pistol from its leather holder. She raced toward the boy at the reins of the wagon. “No!” she screamed again.

But it was too late, for the whip had cracked, and the horses bolted and tore.

And Percy fell, hanged by the neck.

She screamed one more time and pain ripped through her. Pain, like a million swords piercing her heart. She grew instantly cold; she turned.

Henry stood behind her, his pistol was raised, and smoke wafted from it in a lazy curl.

He had shot her, she knew. Her own brother had shot her in the back. Death was imminent, and what did it matter, for Percy was gone, swinging from the rope.

Her life was seeping away from her, into the ground with the spill of her blood.

CHAPTER 22

Rap, rap, rap.

Gayle had started to scream. She screamed and screamed, and then the sounds of her voice had cut cleanly away. And she was now silent and deathly pale. Marsha rapped again, trying to bring her back.

“Gayle!” Marsha Clark commanded. “Gayle, wake up now. Wake up, and feel refreshed!”

“What's wrong?” Geoff's voice rang with alarm; he left his chair, running to Gayle's side.

Marsha Clark shook her head in distress, following Geoff to kneel beside Gayle. She searched for a pulse in Gayle's wrist. It was weak, nearly nonexistent.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she murmured.

“Dear Lord!” Geoff repeated in alarm. Gayle's breathing was faint and shallow. “Do something! Bring her out of this!”

From the couch, they heard a groan. Brent McCauley threw his feet down to the floor and tried to sit. “Headache,” he muttered to himself. Geoff swung around to look at him. Brent eyed him blearily. “Geoff? What are you doing here? What's going on?”

He broke off, realizing that Gayle was unconscious in the wing chair, that her face was as pale as parchment, and that Geoff and Dr. Clark looked alarmed. He tried to rise. He stumbled. “Gayle?” He whispered his wife's name uncertainly, then carefully made his way to her. Geoff moved to allow him room beside her. “Gayle!”

There was no response. She looked dead. So beautiful, almost peaceful. Pale and silent with her eyes closed, her hair about her in a golden halo. Like Sleeping Beauty, she was there but she was gone from him. He touched her fingers, and they were deathly cold.

“What has happened?” Brent demanded hoarsely. Then he swore. “I said no more of it, I said no more—”

“She had to!” Geoff snapped. “She had to, because of you. Because of the violence, because you collapsed, because she didn't know if...”

“If what?”

“If one day you would regress to your previous existence as Percy and stay there, stay there embedded in time and in death, and leave her again.”

“Leave her again?”

“You son of a bitch! She never betrayed you! She tried and tried to explain. She begged your forgiveness and you—”

“Stop!” Brent clutched his head again, laying it upon his wife's lap. He gasped desperately for breath. Geoff and Marsha both backed away, staring down at Brent's dark bowed head. His fingers wound around hers. “I know!” he whispered.

“What?” Marsha said softly.

“I know. I know, I know what happened!” he groaned. “I've—I've relived it with her. I don't know how. It's vague and the memory fades now, but I know...”

He swung around with such passion that Geoff jumped to his feet, wary of violence again. But Brent's only violence was in his desperation. His handsome features were ragged; a pulse ticked furiously in his throat; and his eyes seemed like dark fire. “Take me back to her, Marsha. Take me back now. I have to reach her.”

“I—I don't know if I can,” Marsha murmured. “You're at the point of death. You're both at the point of death—”

“Then rouse her!”

Marsha shook her head desperately. Tears glazed her eyes. “I can't Brent. I've tried. Maybe in time—”

“In time! She has no pulse now! She'll die again, in time. I cannot lose her, Marsha. Not again! Take me back there, and if you should lose us to death, so help me God, lose us both! I have to get back there, Marsha! I can't get there on my own! Damn you, help me now!”

He rose, glaring at Marsha. He bent and tenderly swept his wife into his arms and cradled her against him, then sat in the chair, holding her. He kissed her forehead, smoothing back her blond hair, and he whispered, “I love you! Oh, God, Gayle, I love you...”

He glared at Marsha again. Geoff stared helplessly. “Damn you...please!”

“All right,” Marsha murmured, her voice trembling. “Relax,” she said, and a sob caught in her voice. “Relax, Brent. Lean back and relax, and think of a peaceful river and a gentle day. Think back to a quieter time. Think back to innocence. Think back to love. Think back to a time when you were Percy Ainsworth, and Katrina was your wife. Think back to a time when you believed that she betrayed you. Think back...

“Think back to a time when the British dragged you out of this house, humiliated you. Go back, Percy, and see Katrina. Touch her. She loved you. She did not betray you.

“Forgive her, let her know you love her. Touch her, somehow. It is your only chance....”