Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  She'd forgotten all about posing. It was probably just about five a.m.

  She had come over here to pose for him, she reminded herself. And she had been so very unsure about it all.

  But she didn't feel in the least uncomfortable with him anymore. She could still feel a little shy with him, awed perhaps. But she had enjoyed everything that had happened between them. First she had been fascinated by Brent, then she had been drawn to him, and now she was falling in love with him. She felt awake and alive with the sweet excitement of falling in love. If he wanted her to pose, she would gladly do so.

  “Sure.”

  “Wonderful! Come on.”

  He took her hand and led her back through the living room to the stairs. She panted by the time they reached the upper landing, but he didn't seem to notice. He led her straight to the studio, where he released her to set up a table. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then chose a royal blue velvet throw to place over it. Then he looked to her, reaching out for her hand.

  “I want your back, seriously—”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Funny, sweetheart, funny. Now, if you'd bring your—buttocks—right here, curl your toes beneath you, then just look over your shoulder...”

  He slipped the robe from her and swept her up, lifting her to the table. Gayle glanced at him, a little lost, then tried for the pose. “Toes under...now twist, just slightly. Perfect! Now wait—wait just a second.”

  She did so, barely daring to breathe. This wasn't easy. She had barely arranged her body, and already she was feeling stiff and sore.

  He came bursting back into the room, a brush in his hands. “No, stay, stay, I'll take care of it,” he told her.

  She held still, lowering her eyes, smiling to herself. Well, there might have been a great deal of passion between them at the beginning of the evening, but now she was just a body to him. He was quick and deft with her hair; he knew just what he wanted done with the drying tendrils.

  “You okay?” he asked her.

  “I have been better.”

  “Good, good,” he muttered.

  From her position it wasn't easy to see him once he'd gone back to his easel. All she could do was sense his motion. He called out a few more instructions to her—lower her head, raise her chin—then he was silent.

  The sketch seemed to take forever. Her toes began to cramp, and then her lower back. Her neck was stiff. When would he call it quits?

  She realized somewhere along the line that the light around her was no longer all artificial. Dawn was breaking, breaking beautifully. The sun was playing patterns over the room, over her. It sent out little rays of warmth that touched her flesh and danced upon it.

  “Cramped?”

  She nearly jumped at the question. “Yes.”

  He was coming toward her. He didn't give her permission to move, and so she didn't. He stopped behind her. And then she felt a touch of true warmth. His lips against her nape. His kiss there. A kiss that fell and departed and came again. Upon her nape, upon the next vertebra, and then the next. Down the entire length of her back.

  She turned to him, moving at last, circling her arms around his shoulders.

  “It's day,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she buried her face against his neck. He ran his hands along her torso, encircling her breasts.

  “Feel the sun.”

  “I do.”

  He lowered her down to the floor. The patterns of the sun slashed gold and crimson over her flesh and his. She closed her eyes, smiling as she heard the rasp of his zipper. She shielded her eyes, then stared up at his form, loving the way the light fell over him too, an artist's light, the crimson of dawn against the bronze of his flesh, the dark hair on his chest, and the fullness of his arousal, hard as a shaft, fascinating...

  This was falling in love.

  She smiled and opened her arms to him and he came to her, there on the floor. She locked her arms around him, and she marveled again at the impetus and the urgency and the energy. She barely noted the hard floor beneath her. All she felt was the piercing warmth of the sun, and it seemed that it was the sun itself that throbbed and pulsed inside of her, making her feel delicious.

  Taut and strained, he lay over her, hands at the sides of her head, the muscles on his arms like cords. She slid her fingers along his back.

  “Love me!” He urged her.

  “I am,” she whispered, moistening her lips for they were dry, shuddering, for he rammed deep.

  “Love me!” he repeated.

  “I do!”

  Perhaps that was the right answer. His face tensed further in exquisite passion; she cried out something; and he fell against her.

  Then she felt the floor. The hardness of the wood beneath her. She felt his weight and the thrust of his kneecap against her ribs.

  “Brent,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

  “Hmm?”

  “You're—you're killing me,” she told him as sweetly as she could.

  “What? Oh?” And then he laughed and shifted and pulled her against him and stroked her back carefully. He touched the two little dimples. “Wouldn't want anything to happen to these,” he muttered. She smiled.

  “They're really there, huh?”

  “Want to see them?”

  “What?”

  He stood and lifted her against his chest. She threw her arms around him. “I could walk.”

  “Sure. Ruin my image,” he said. He strode over to the easel, turning so that she could see the sketch. She gasped softly, amazed at the image he had created with his pencil.

  It was beautiful. She was beautiful in it. The long line of her back had been made achingly graceful; her hair just fell to the side, over one shoulder, like rays of sunlight. Her head was bowed to the right, her profile just caught, her lips just parted, her lashes rich and long on her cheek. Just the hint of the swell of her breast appeared, peeking out from the smooth line of her arm. She couldn't have completely described this image any more than she could have described the painting of the entwined lovers.

  Maybe that was it. He had caught her inner feelings. He had caught everything in her heart. The feelings of being entirely feminine, of needing him, of being...in love.

  There seemed to be a flush on her face, a special sensuality to the curve of her back, to her look. She was a woman who waited for her lover. She was completely beautiful.

  “Like it?”

  “It's...lovely.”

  “It's just the sketch.”

  “Is that really how you see me?”

  He stared down at her. He smiled slowly, ruefully.

  “No. No, I could never paint or draw everything that I see in you. I can try. But it's far deeper than anything visual.”

  He kept smiling. She didn't reply but reached up to touch his cheek, awed.

  For the second time since they had come, he carried her from the studio. They came to the bedroom and he allowed her to slide down against him, her breasts raking his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and she trembled, wondering if she had always known.

  They were entwined themselves, embracing, sexual, sensual, and desperately in love...

  The very image of the painting that had attracted her from the very first.

  CHAPTER 6

  Katrina

  Williamsburg, Virginia June 1774

  She slipped quietly into the entryway of her brother's townhouse and set her hat upon the tree. She could hear her sister-in-law in the parlor with her friends, laughing softly over tea. Katrina didn't want to see anyone yet. She was trembling from head to toe, dizzy. Inside of her it seemed that her very blood was racing through her body.

  And it was just from the sight of him.

  She had seen him today on Duke of Gloucester Street. He hadn't made way for her, and when she had tried to walk around him he had touched her, holding her. He had stared down at her with his laughing eyes and bid her a good day.

  Oh! She could remember his
smile and she could remember his laughter. She could remember every plane and ridge of his handsome young sun-bronzed face. She could remember the strength of him, the scent of him...

  She leaned against the fine French grass paper that covered the walls and brought her hand to her heart, willing it to calm its frantic beat. Her breast rose and fell—so quickly! Surely this was no way for a decent woman to behave. But then, she mused with quick inspiration, how could something natural be indecent? She could not control her heart's beating, nor could she control these feelings from raging inside of her like a hot and furious summer storm.

  She pushed away from the wall and pursued an opposite train of thought. The nerve of him, the very nerve of him! She went to the glass in the hallway and she turned to survey her reflection. Her cheeks were very red—she was blushing shamefully—and her eyes were brilliant. She touched her midriff and felt the bone of her corset and remembered how he had held her, and she burned anew. Brash, uncivilized Yank! Backwoodsman, that was what he was. At the Governor's mansion she had learned that he was a landowner with a vast spread near the Washington residence, Mount Vernon, a manor in the Tidewater region, also near the lands belonging to Lord Fairfax. In fact, it was said, young Percy Ainsworth was something of a protégé to the distinguished gentleman.

  Katrina's brother, Lord Henry Seymour, despised Washington—“a yokel who thought himself an army man”—but he was fond of Fairfax, who was avidly loyal to the Crown of England above all else. Katrina was personally bored with the subjects of states' rights, independence, and war. Men—they all tended to be little boys who wished to play soldier; wasn't Patrick Henry himself such a one? Hadn't the Boston colonists dressed up like Indians just to throw a bunch of tea into the water? It all seemed very silly to Katrina. She was an Englishwoman; she was loyal to the King, and though she sympathized with many of the colonists' complaints, she could not imagine anyone really wanting to break away from the mother country. She tried to understand the Stamp Act that had seemed to start it all so many years ago, and she did believe that taxation should be linked with representation. But they were all behaving so badly! If they would just negotiate and compromise, surely it would all work out.

  Men like Percy Ainsworth were the hotheads causing the problems, she knew.

  And yet, she thought, her breath catching in her throat even as she gazed without seeing at her own image, she was quite fascinated by the passions elicited by all the talk. Nay, she was fascinated by the man. Percy.

  “Percy...” She said it aloud, then smiled, seeing her image again. She smoothed back a lock of her hair and wondered what he had seen. She was sixteen last fall, surely a woman, yet had he seen a woman or a child? Henry had nearly promised her in marriage to that stuffy old General Olmsby, so surely she was old enough...

  Percy. She bit into her lower lip and smiled again and dreamily dipped to pick up the front of her spring-flowered blue muslin skirt. Dreams danced in her head along with her feet as she moved, imagining herself with Percy.

  He would want her; he would burn for her! Alas! She would be so cool, so disdainful. She would break his heart surely, for he must pine for her romantically.

  Ah, she could see it so clearly! She could hear the musicians playing in the ballroom. She could see Percy. His breeches would be taut doeskin, his boots high and buckled. He would wear an elegant white waistcoat beneath a very fashionable frock coat, and the ruffles on his cambric shirt would be the height of elegance. He would be ladling himself punch from the bowl when his eyes would catch hers across the room.

  All thoughts of punch would vanish. He would set down his glass, nearly tossing it aside. He would stride across the room to her, giving heed to no other.

  And of course she, well...

  She would play with her fan. She would laugh melodiously and answer the question of another young beau. Then he would touch her. He would turn her into his arms and demand the dance.

  And while they were on the floor, he would worship her. He would tell her that he could not live without her. He would say that she had filled his moments, waking and sleeping, since he had first set eyes upon her.

  “Why, Mr. Ainsworth,” she would say coolly, “please! Such behavior is quite unseemly. Do cease, sir, so that we might enjoy the dance—and nothing more.”

  “I must have more!” He had the darkest eyes and they would flash, full of passion. His voice would be deep and raw with emotion. “A token, something, let me hold to the dream of thee, dear lady!”

  Katrina turned to dance into the hallway and crashed straight into her sister-in-law, Elizabeth. “Oh! Excuse me!”

  Elizabeth was a plain girl with brown hair and a wide mouth, but when she smiled she seemed to light up a room. Katrina loved her. She was sweet and gentle—and Henry was not. Henry had married Elizabeth for her money. The Seymours might have a title and social prestige, but the Barringtons had supplied the gold for Henry to live in the style to which he had quickly become accustomed. Katrina was not terribly fond of her own brother. He was fifteen years her senior and far more severe with her than any natural father would have been, she was sure, but alas, hers had been dead—along with her saintly mother—for the last ten years, and therefore, Henry was her guardian. She knew that he frequently saw her as nothing more than a pawn in his power game, but thanks to Elizabeth, he had not been able as yet to marry her off to any rich old gentleman.

  “Did I not know better, Katrina,” Elizabeth teased, “I would say that you are in love.” She smiled. “Come into the parlor, my dear. Lady Walthingham and Mistress Tether are here, and they have brought the latest fashion dolls from France.”

  “I'm rather tired, Elizabeth,” Katrina tried to excuse herself. “I've been busy running errands all day.” She realized that her sister-in-law's friends—the very portly and proper Mistress Tether and the very lovely and terribly sly Lady Walthingham—could hear her, and not wishing to show Elizabeth any disrespect, she came into the room and quickly acknowledged the women. Mistress Tether was quick to ask about her health; Lady Walthingham asked no questions but assessed her carefully.

  “You must see the newest fashions!” Mistress Tether insisted, and though she attempted to demur, Lady Walthingham was up, taking her arm and leading her into the room.

  “My goodness! Look at the hair!” Katrina said and then laughed. The French were known for being terribly ostentatious, but really! It was quite absurd. “Why, a whole flock of crows could nest in that wig, it rises so very high!” Katrina marveled.

  Even Lady Walthingham laughed, but then she sighed. “Katrina, God knows, only the French would dream of such an absurdly high hair style, but look at the dress, child, look at the dress! It's quite, quite lovely.”

  Katrina could see that the hoops were very full, arching high at the waistline; the neckline was excessively low. The gown itself was beautiful, though, rich in color, a sky-blue overskirt covering a white, frill-trimmed underskirt. The little doll carried a reticule and a green silk fan, and she was indeed lovely with her half-length laced sleeves and white lace cap with ribbons and feathers.

  “It is indeed lovely,” Katrina murmured, but at that moment, even as they chatted so inanely over the current state of costume, there came to them a loud ruckus from the street.

  “'Tis the home of Lord Seymour, gents, 'tis, 'tis! The home of Lord Tory!” men cried out loudly. Then something flew and the window shattered, spraying glass into the very room where they sat. Mistress Tether screamed; Elizabeth gasped. Katrina ran to the window, heedless of the danger, her cheeks turning pink.

  “Cowards!” she screamed. “Sniveling cowards! To seek to harm women!”

  But the men were already gone—boys, surely, Katrina thought, behaving like drunken cowards in truth and then realizing that they had really wrought violence. But then, violence was in the air these days. The Commonwealth of Massachusetts was already in revolt, and it seemed highly likely that Virginia would follow. Everyone spoke of war, and Katrina
was aware of the great events that whirled around her. Patrick Henry spoke here, and when he spoke, the House of Burgesses grew agitated. Some men claimed that they longed merely to make the King see to their rights and their needs; others claimed that things had gone too far now, that all that remained was the inevitability of war. Henry laughed at such things. The colonists were backwoodsmen, he claimed. Barely literate. The King had trained soldiers. There could be no real revolution, but life could become unpleasant.

  “Come away from the window, Katrina,” Elizabeth begged her. “Please come! You shall get hurt there!”

  Katrina pulled her head in but told Elizabeth contemptuously, “They are gone. They are afraid to face their deeds.” She started for the hallway. “Elizabeth, I will go and see Mr. Rothenberry and tell him that we must have new panes made for the window.”

  “Katrina! You should not go out—”

  “I'll be back soon, Elizabeth!” Katrina promised.

  She could hear them talking about her as she left. Lady Walthingham warned Elizabeth that Katrina was trouble and that she should be married off quickly. Elizabeth demurred. Mistress Tether commented on her youth. Katrina smiled as she carefully picked up her skirts to avoid the mud and walked toward the green. Lady Walthingham was very eager for Katrina to be married off to Lord Olmsby, an officer in the King's dragoons. He was very short and very portly and three times Katrina's age. Katrina thought grimly that Lady Walthingham was anxious for the match only because of Lord Charles Palmer, a much younger man, a peer of the realm. Lord Palmer had been coming to the Williamsburg townhouse more and more frequently over the last months. He was a tall man, well muscled, blonde and handsome. Yet Lady Walthingham had little to fear from Katrina as far as competition went; Katrina despised the man. He had a way of smiling that was frightening, as if an evil lived in his heart. Katrina did not like him to so much as kiss her hand.

  She sighed, walking along, because she was smiling herself and her mind was on Percy again. He was so very audacious. He deserved a good switching, she told herself. But there seemed to be a lump in her throat and that drastic beating of her heart had begun all over again. She did not care about the broken glass. Or perhaps she did, but that was not why she had left the house.