Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  “Oh, Percy!”

  “What, my love, what?”

  “We're to leave! Henry is to join the British in Boston; I am to be sent back to Kent with Elizabeth.”

  “No!” He pulled her hard against him, fiercely hard.

  “Oh, Percy! This is it, and it cannot be! We'll never see each other again. Never.”

  “No!” He cried again hoarsely. His heart pounded fiercely. He had known it would come to this. He drew away from her, holding her shoulders and staring demandingly into her eyes. “You cannot go back.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened. “I must go back. He is my guardian. He will search for me—”

  “But he will not find you. My God, girl!” He shook her suddenly, hard, fiercely, until the hood of her cloak fell away, until her hair tumbled and fell down her back in a golden riot of wild curls. “I love you! I love you! Don't you know that?”

  She sobbed out something and threw herself against his chest. “I'm afraid! I'm afraid, Percy. If he were ever to find me—”

  “He will not. We will run away, this very night. We will find a priest right away and he will bind us forever. I'll take you home, across the river. Katrina! Marry me! He will never come between us again. Marry me!”

  “Marry...” she murmured in a daze.

  “Yes, tonight, now!”

  “Yes, oh, yes! Oh, Percy!” Suddenly vibrant and radiant, she threw her arms around his neck and clung to him and began to murmur little lost words. “I wondered sometimes, I had to wonder, if you would want me for your wife, if it could ever be, and then I dared not wonder, for it could hurt so badly.”

  “Hush, love, I've always wanted you for my wife. I adore you—you know that. My heart has lain at your feet since the day my eyes first fell upon you.”

  “Oh, Percy!”

  She clung to him again; they kissed passionately. Then Percy jerked away from her, listening. He could hear the pounding sound of hoofbeats against the road again. “Hide!” He commanded her, pulling her into the shadows of the foliage as his heart slammed hard, responding to the danger.

  The horse came into view. “Percy!”

  “'Tis only James,” Percy said with relief.

  “Percy, he comes! Henry Seymour with a troup of his lackeys—he comes. He is suspicious. He hopes to take you and bring you to his general in Boston and trump up spy charges against you.”

  Charges did not need to be trumped up. Percy was a spy. He had infiltrated the British ranks in Boston to provide information to the core of the resisters in Massachusetts. He was quick and nimble with his accents and his manners, and had done very well.

  “Thank you, James. He will not find me.”

  “I will take Katrina back—”

  “No, she will come with me, James.”

  Silence followed his statement. Then the men clasped hands and held for several seconds. “Ride then, my friend,” James advised. He smiled at Katrina, waiting anxiously in the shadows, then kissed her cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  Percy whistled for Goliath; James helped Katrina onto her horse. Percy waved to James, and then they struck off at high speed into the darkness and dangers of the night.

  They rode hard. They dared not stop until they had traveled far inland, far into the west. But Percy knew where they were going, for they came to a churchyard, and beyond it rose a steeple, high in the sky. There was no one about, and so Percy ran to the rectory next door and pounded upon the door until someone answered. An aging priest with flyaway gray hair called out gruffly and appeared at last.

  “What, ho! Percy, son, what is it that you're about, waking an old man at this time of night—” He broke off, seeing the woman with him, nay, the beautiful girl with the dazed and frightened eyes.

  “Katrina Seymour, Father McCleary. Father, you must make her my bride. Tonight.”

  “Percy, the hour is late! This is improper. It cannot be done, there are proprieties that must come before a wedding—”

  “No, sir, there are not! In truth, we need only God's blessing, sir, and that you can provide.”

  Father McCleary looked from the young man to the younger woman, and his heart seemed to warm and melt. They were brash and bold and beautiful together, and though he didn't know why they ran, he knew that they were fleeing.

  And he knew too, deep in his soul, that they loved each other.

  “Come in,” he told them. “Come in, come in.”

  And an hour later, with his wife and his eldest son at his side to witness the ceremony, he led them over to the church. By soft candlelight he performed the rite and the mass. They swore to love and to honor, and she to obey, and he to cherish. There were no rings to exchange and the bride's bouquet was a handful of daisies from the churchyard, yet it was a lovely and solemn ceremony. The priest was proud to pronounce them man and wife, and he asked God's blessing upon them with all the love in his old soul.

  They were radiant; they were dazed. They kissed with such tenderness that Father McCleary knew he would never perform the ritual for such a love match again. His wife found some mulberry wine for a toast, and when he asked Percy if he had a place in mind to spend the night, Percy said that he did not.

  The priest's wife smiled and nodded to her husband, then led the young couple out to the sexton's cottage, since the sexton had left last week to bury his old mother in Culpeper County. It was drafty and it was cold. The fireplace smelled of stale soot and the blankets were even somewhat moldy.

  Yet when they were alone, the bride and groom noticed none of these things. They saw only each other.

  It could have been different, Katrina knew. She could have married a British lord, a Tory, and she could have spent her wedding night in the midst of rich luxury.

  Yet she did have luxury, the greatest luxury. Percy was all the richness she desired. The bed on which she lay did not matter, the man who lay beside her did. She loved him; she adored him. She was certain that God had never created a finer man, and she was deeply proud to be his wife.

  She was so very happy. So deeply in love.

  She came to him that night, shedding her clothing with grace and falling before him to kiss his hand, in awe that they could still be together.

  “Percy, I love you so. And we are man and wife now. We are one! You have honored me so.”

  The fire burned nearby, casting golden light upon the beauty of her flesh and form. Humbly he knelt down to meet her there and kissed her palm in turn.

  “No, my love, my wife, you have honored me,” he whispered. “You have given up everything to ride at my side. I love you. I will love you with all of my heart, for all of my life—and beyond.”

  She smiled and their fingers meshed and their kisses were as hot as the fire. And all through the night they lay there, in that hovel that was a palace to them; and when they were not loving each other, they dreamed of a glorious future.

  For that one night, no clouds of war rode over them to mar the pure and simple innocence of their love.

  CHAPTER 13

  “And you said it would never last!” Liz fingered the gold-leafed invitation and smirked over at Tina. “Look at this—an invitation to the McCauleys' six-month anniversary dinner.”

  “I didn't say it wouldn't last!”

  “You did!”

  “You said it would never last?” Gayle stared hard at Tina, who lifted her hands, palms up, and screwed her face into a sheepish expression. “You hadn't known each other very long. I think I might have said it at the wedding. There was an awful lot of champagne flowing at that wedding.”

  Geoff, sitting behind Gayle's desk in the gallery, leaned forward suddenly, fingering his own invitation. He grinned. “Are you two sure that you can keep your hands off each other long enough to have a party?”

  “Oh, funny, funny,” Gayle retorted, jumping off the corner of her desk. “Neither of us happens to be into public displays.”

  Geoff lowered his eyes, grinning as he absently
doodled on his calendar. “You two have the knack of turning a handshake into an intimate display.”

  “Geoff!”

  “It's not an insult. I envy it,” he told her casually. He stood, reaching around to retrieve his jacket from the back of the chair. “Six months, huh? Congratulations, kid. This is Friday night? I'll be there with bells on.”

  “Will Boobs be coming?” Gayle inquired sweetly, idly tapping a pencil against her chin. She smiled secretively as she noticed that Geoff paused, casting Tina a quick glance before responding in kind. “No, sweetheart, I won't be bringing Boobs. Who else is coming?”

  “It's a very small affair. The three of you, Chad, Gary McCauley, and Trish. And his folks might drop by. It depends.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Geoff murmured. “Can we all go home now?”

  “Gayle, I can take you,” Liz offered. “I'm dropping Tina off. I don't mind the drive.”

  “Thanks, Liz,” Gayle told her friend. “But Geoff wants to see the latest paintings.”

  Geoff frowned, wondering what Gayle was up to. He didn't really need to see any paintings. Brent had agreed to another showing, but they were going to wait for winter to roll back around, and there was no question as to whether the work would be fine or not.

  She wanted something, he figured. In a way, Geoff knew Gayle a lot better than even Brent McCauley could because he had known her for so long and through so many stages of her life.

  “Yeah, thanks Liz,” Geoff said, “but I need to take a ride out there anyway.”

  After Geoff locked up the gallery, he and Gayle started across the street for his car.

  He slipped a friendly arm through hers. “So, kid, what's up?”

  She shot him a quick glance. They reached his car. He arched a brow, opening the passenger's door for her. Gayle slid in and Geoff walked around. She still hadn't said anything when he had moved into the traffic. He couldn't begin to imagine that there was anything wrong; that probably would have been girl-talk. If she had been having problems in her marriage, it seemed ten times more likely that she would have wanted to discuss them with Liz and Tina than with him.

  Once they were on the highway and the traffic had thinned, he glanced her way. She was really one of the world's beautiful people, he thought. She looked as comfortable in fashionable clothing as a Vogue model. Her features were fine and delicate and perfect, and to frame that beautiful face was a magnificent mane of golden hair. A little pang touched his heart. Why didn't we ever fall in love with each other? He wondered.

  “So how is life in Eden?” He asked her.

  “Geoffrey,” she said, with a little note of impatience. “Life is fine, and quit teasing me.”

  “I'm not. I told you—I'm completely envious.”

  She looked his way. He could see she was worried about something. “Everything is fine, Geoff, really.”

  “Then why did you want to talk to me privately?”

  She hesitated a moment, staring out the window. The autumn breeze picked up her hair and blew it around in sunlit strands. “It's Brent,” she said at last. “You know that he finished the set of sketches he was doing of me, and most of the oil work he was doing.”

  “You mentioned something about it, yes.”

  “Well, he's been painting something different.”

  Geoff sighed. “He's an artist, Gayle, and he paints nudes. You knew that when you married him. I can't believe you would be foolish enough to be jealous of a model.”

  “I'm not jealous of a model, Geoff. He hasn't brought in any new models.”

  “Oh?”

  She shook her head. “He's started working differently.”

  “Well? Is it good work? Tell me.”

  She hesitated, lifting her hands slightly from her lap, allowing them to fall again. “Yes,” she said softly. “It's very good work. But it's strange.”

  “Why? Come on, Gayle, for God's sake, what is he doing?”

  “War pictures,” she said hesitantly.

  Geoff frowned. “War pictures? What kind? Oh, you mean like pictures of 'Nam?”

  “It started off that way. He did some sketches of GIs running through the jungle. He did one painting. It's wonderful. The soldier is just a kid and there's a bomb exploding behind him, and the expression Brent has caught on the face is heartrending. It's very, very good.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “I—” she started out, caught her breath, expelled it slowly. “I don't know. It just seemed like such a change. And it didn't end there.”

  “No?”

  “He started doing Revolutionary War paintings.”

  “You mean like George Washington?”

  “More than that. Patrick Henry delivering a fiery speech before the House of Burgesses. Battle scenes. Valley Forge.”

  Geoff hesitated then. “But they're good, right?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Then I really don't understand what you're worried about.”

  She smiled. “I guess I'm not really worried. You remember that first painting we were talking about in the gallery. The one in which the lovers are entwined. He's the one who bought it; he bought it for me.”

  “I know. I'm the one who sold it to him. He insisted on paying the commission on it, even though I told him it wasn't necessary.” Geoff glanced her way, then reached across the seat to ruffle her hair. “Can I see the new stuff? Should I mention it, or would you rather that I didn't?”

  “Let's see what he says when we get there, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Not long after that they came to the house. The gates were open, and they drove right past the foliage to the house. Geoff looked up at the facade of the handsome contemporary home as he slammed the door on his Maserati.

  “It's nice, but I would have thought that Brent would have liked your place better.”

  “There's no room for a big studio in my house,” she said briefly. “We spend time there, though. Every other weekend or so.” She led the way on into the house, stopping in the foyer to slip out of her coat. “Mary? Brent? I'm home.”

  The McCauleys' housekeeper—a silver-haired image of apple pie and motherhood—greeted them.

  “Hi, dear, Mr. Sable,” Mary said. “Brent is in the studio. Mr. Sable, will you be staying to dinner?”

  “Uh—”

  “Please, Geoff, stay. Brent and I will be glad to have you.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  After Mary took their coats, Gayle led Geoff up to the studio and knocked on the closed door. Geoff felt like stepping back, suddenly nervous that he was about to intrude on something that was none of his business. But Brent McCauley, handsome and casual in cut-off jeans and paint-smeared T-shirt, opened the door and smiled broadly. He kissed his wife and shook Geoff's hand. Geoff endured the momentary discomfort that always assailed him when he was with the two of them, as if they were politely refraining from jumping on each other's bones because he happened to be there. But they were both so welcoming that he didn't feel uncomfortable for long. He felt jealous then, wishing that he could know what it was like to feel the way the two of them did. To be so damned perfect with someone.

  “Come on in, Geoff, I'm glad to see you,” Brent told him. “Want to see some weird stuff?”

  “You know damned well I want to see McCauley 'stuff'—no matter what it is,” Geoff told him.

  Gayle went over to perch on one of the tables while Brent led Geoff around the studio, pulling off dust covers to show him his works in their various stages.

  Gayle was right: the stuff was good. Damned good. Brilliant, even. As good as his nudes, in a very different way, Geoff thought.

  Once he had caught love on canvas; once he had caught beauty. He had expressed in oils the beauty of feeling and emotion that could never be expressed in words.

  He had done something powerful here too, but he had captured pain, confusion, horror, and death. And more, of course. He had caught valor, honor—and even cowardice an
d fear. The things were so real. So damned real. The 'Nam stuff was good. As real as the hell that it had been. Brent had been in 'Nam. He would know. He had been born an artist, Geoffrey was sure; and his artist's mind had clicked away and memorized marvelous and horrible details for future reference, just like a camera.

  But the Revolutionary War paintings were just as real too. The people were real. In every little nuance. As if he had known them. As if he had seen the mortar flares and the cannonades, the flaming red coats of the British and the bare and bleeding feet of the Patriots as they wintered at Valley Forge.

  “Well?” Brent asked him.

  “It's all fabulous.”

  “You think that the subject matter is okay?”

  Geoffrey weighed his answer carefully. “You might have a different market here. No artist remains static, though. You'd wither away and dry up if you did. I think that you had gone the limit with what you were doing—but these are fabulous in a different way. It isn't the subject matter, Brent. Your special gift is...emotion. You capture emotion. It could make you go down in history.”

  “Thanks,” Brent said. “That's what Gayle told me.” He reached out a hand to his wife. She uncurled herself from the table where she was sitting and walked over to him. He set an arm around her, bringing her in front of him, resting his chin on top of her head. There was nothing especially erotic about the gesture, and damned if they weren't both fully dressed, but as soon as Brent touched her, Geoff felt something constrict deep in his gut and it wasn't so much that he wanted to run out and have sex himself, it was that he wanted to run out and have beautiful sex and be loved like that.

  “Would you two please quit!” he begged.

  They broke away from each other with guilty looks and Geoff laughed and apologized.

  “It's 'cause he broke up with Boobs,” Gayle explained to Brent, who laughed and told Geoff that they needed to find him another woman and Geoff said, sure, that was it entirely.