“Brent, let me go! Stop this—it isn't funny, I'm not amused!” She tore from him and turned to run. She didn't know what was the matter with him, only that he was really scaring her. Had he lost his mind? Was he really thinking that she'd had an affair with Geoff? He'd struck her, oh God, he'd struck her—
She screamed. His fingers twined into her hair and he jerked her back roughly into his arms. Throwing her over his shoulder, he strode hurriedly toward the house.
She swore at him then and she fought him. She screamed—but there was no one to hear her. Mary and her husband would be sound asleep in the guesthouse around the back and down the lane. She didn't even have a dog to come help her, she told herself mournfully.
It was Brent! Brent McCauley, her husband, the man she loved more than life itself! she told herself fiercely.
He would never hurt her.
But he had hurt her and he was dragging her through the house and she didn't know whether to be terrified or furious.
“Brent, stop it. Brent, I mean it. Stop this now. You're frightening me.”
“You should be frightened.” He entered the passage and strode up the stairs, and again, she became terrifyingly aware of the tension inside of him. His muscles were flexed and she began to panic.
“Brent!” She slammed her fists against his back and struggled wildly. She was no match for her husband; she never had been, but then, she'd never needed to fight him before. “Brent!” Her voice rose shrill and high, and he didn't notice it or her words in the least. He slammed into their bedroom and threw her down on the bed.
Stunned, she gazed up at him. He was methodically taking off his clothes. She rose up on her elbows, watching him in disbelief. “Oh, no! I don't know what this is, but not this time. Brent! What is the matter with you! If this is all over Geoff—”
He paused, his hand still on a cuff. “Geoff?” His voice dripped bitterness. “So now there is a Geoff too? Tell me, my love, what secrets do you whisper to him?”
She inhaled sharply, staring at him. “Brent—”
“Don't call me that!”
He had lost his mind. Or he was losing it fast. Or he was playing a game?
“Stop it!” She screeched, closing her eyes and squeezing her temples between her palms. She opened her eyes as his shirt fell on the floor. In amazement she stared at him. He had stripped naked and was walking toward her, sure, stealthly, like a cat about to strike.
“Brent, leave me alone—” She tried to jump from the bed. He caught her and threw her back and she gasped, stunned, trying to catch her breath. He fell down upon her then, and when she swore at him and struggled, he laughed.
It couldn't be happening.
But it was.
His laughter faded and he crawled over, and when he stared down at her he was no longer amused in the least. He was ruthless.
“Brent—don't,” she whispered.
It didn't mean anything to him at all. He might have hated her, really, truly hated her. Despised her.
He didn't bother much with her clothing. He set his hands upon her lapels and ripped her shirt. She tried to roll from him, and his hands fell upon the hem of her skirt. He shoved it up about her waist, then laid his weight hard against her.
Somewhere, she stopped fighting him. All of her receded into a little world of shock. She felt him touch and she felt him move, but she didn't really register it anymore. Brent. It was Brent. She loved him and she adored him; she was his wife. She would have made love with him any time of the day and anywhere that they could have been alone.
But not...this.
He was ruthless. He was nearly brutal. As if he wanted to punish her, as if he had no consideration for her. As if it were not an act of love at all.
But an act of revenge.
She bit into her lower lip and she waited.
And then the sound of another scream pierced through the air. A scream of agony and anguish and betrayal, terrible in the pain that it reflected. Gayle froze, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
It wasn't her scream. It was his.
He went tense above her, dead tense, rigid, as rigid as a dead man.
And then he collapsed, a dead weight against her.
CHAPTER 15
Brent awoke with a fiercely pounding headache. He groaned aloud, reached for Gayle, discovered that she wasn't there, and slowly sat up. He opened his eyes carefully.
Gayle was sitting across from the bed on the little Victorian love seat. She was in a white robe and her feet were tucked beneath her. Her arms were hugged about herself and she was staring at him.
He closed his eyes again, wincing. She looked as if she wanted to kill him. What had he done? Damn, he hadn't drunk that much. Two Scotches and a shot of brandy, that was it. But he couldn't remember...The last thing he remembered was telling Chad that they would meet soon about the overseas sales on the lovers series. And then...
Then...he was blank. Somehow, he'd gotten to bed. And now his head was pounding mercilessly, and his wife was staring at him as if he were Attila the Hun.
“Good morning,” he murmured to her.
She didn't respond. He looked at her again, more closely. She wasn't just angry, he realized. Her eyes were full of reproach. And fear.
“Jesus, Gayle, I know I must have been drinking, but...”
She still didn't say anything.
“Gayle?”
Still no reply.
“What the hell did I do?” he exploded, and then his head hurt so badly all over again that he gripped it between his hands once more, falling back to his pillow. “Hangover,” he muttered.
“Hangover!” she said sharply.
“All right, all right, maybe I deserved it! What did I do?”
She just kept staring at him warily with those wide, immense cornflower-blue eyes. “You don't remember?”
Very, very carefully, he set his feet on the floor and balanced his way out of bed. He padded over to her and tried to kiss her.
She pulled away from him. “Don't! Please—don't touch me!”
“What the hell—” he began angrily.
“Brent, you raped me!”
“I what?” He pulled back himself. He had been going to sit beside her, but she took him by such surprise that he staggered up instead and headed for the closet, searching for a robe. The words reverberated in his head. Rape. His own wife. His own loving wife. What was she saying to him?
“Maybe I was a little rough. I'm sorry.”
“You don't remember?”
“No, I don't,” he said curtly, his head reeling. “I don't believe it. Why would I rape you?”
“What?”
He smiled at her grimly, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. He needed to be away from her badly. She had almost screamed when he'd touched her. Gayle. His wife. His perfect wife, with whom life had been a fantasy, filled with warmth and laughter. Was this it? The old honeymoon-is-over syndrome? Why did his head hurt so badly?
And why did she look so—scared?
“You're my wife, remember? We spend the majority of our days fooling around in bed. Why would I rape you?”
“You were angry with me. Because I kissed Geoff good night.”
“Oh, Gayle, come on!”
She tightened up again, staring at him furiously, as if she were going to burst into tears. “I don't know why—I only know that you did!”
“Gayle—”
“You need the shrink, Brent, not me. I mean it—you've got to do something!”
“Over a few too many drinks?”
“Yes! Over whatever it was! So help me, you need the shrink!”
“Are you mad? When a shrink gets hold of an artist, he goes crazy himself. This syndrome and that syndrome. And I love my mother and hate my father and—”
“You're making me go to a psychiatrist! And all I do is scream in the night—I don't hurt people.”
“Gayle, I don't even know what you're talking about—” He tried to beg
in patiently. But she wouldn't have any of it.
“Damn you! Brent, I'm telling you what happened—”
“And I'm telling you—you have to be exaggerating. We're married! You're supposed to love me—”
“I do love you!”
“Then why in God's name would you be fighting me to begin with? Unless you changed overnight, you've always been as much into it as I've been.”
“You're getting crude.”
“I'm making a point!”
“You need a shrink!”
“Well, I will not go to one.”
She was on her feet, hands balled into fists at her side. “I can, but you can't? No way, Brent.”
He straightened stiffly. God, did his head hurt! She had no mercy. He said flatly, “I'm an artist. Brent McCauley. If word ever leaked out, I'd be the laughingstock of the art world.” It was a cop-out, he knew. He didn't know why, but he was afraid to see a psychiatrist. He didn't want his mind picked apart.
“Half the world sees analysts these days. And don't you ever, ever pull that super-cool artist stuff on me again, Brent. This is me, Gayle, your wife, remember?”
“Gayle—” He walked toward her. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to pull her against his chest and soothe her, so they could let it all melt away, the bad feelings and the fear. He wanted her back again. He caught her arms and she jerked away from him, tears nearly spilling from her eyes. “Don't touch me! You won't even listen to me now. Don't touch me!”
But he was touching her. He had her wrists, and the sleeves of her robe fell back and he could see little bruises on her arms. “Where did you get those?” he demanded.
She jerked her arms free, glaring at him. “From you! I got them from you.” She turned away from him and went into the bathroom and slammed the door. It hurt. The sound of it was a killer. He walked up to the door and raised his hand to tap against it, and then he didn't. He let his hand fall.
The hell with it. He couldn't deal with her in this mood. He was too confused. He couldn't have given her the bruises; he simply couldn't have. She was making matters worse and worse when he already felt sick as a dog to begin with.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine.” He went through his drawers and found some jeans and a T-shirt, then slammed his way out of the bedroom, banging the door as hard as he could. It was a stupid gesture. He was the one with the headache.
Gayle showered slowly, letting the water beat little rays of heat against her. She was afraid to think or feel.
He didn't remember any of it, and he seemed to think that she was making it all up. What was happening to them? She couldn't believe last night; she couldn't believe this morning.
And it hurt so bad because she loved him so much. Was it her fault? Had she imagined things? Had he been drunk? Had he been unaware that he had frightened her, that...
He had struck her. Right across the face. And he didn't remember it at all. She brought her hands to her face and whimpered aloud.
“God! What is happening to us. Am I crazy? Or is he?”
Then she started to cry. He hadn't even apologized.
She turned off the jets and came out into the bedroom. Brent was gone.
Despairingly, she dressed in jeans and a sweater, thinking that she had to get out of the house and try to reason it all out.
She came down the stairs to the passage, then turned left and went into the kitchen. It was already spotless, and Mary was sitting at the island table with a cup of coffee.
“Oh, Mary! I'm sorry. I would have picked up from last night.”
“There wasn't anything to pick up, Mrs. McCauley. You and your friends did a wonderful job. A few coffee cups about, that was it. Tell me, how did they like the shrimp?”
“They loved them. Everyone loved them,” Gayle assured her. She poured herself some coffee and asked, “Have you seen Brent yet this morning?”
“Yes, I did. He just came down, poured himself some coffee, and said that he'd be locked up in his studio for the rest of the day, and he'd just as soon not be disturbed.”
Gayle felt as if she had been slapped. She hadn't wanted to see him—but she had wanted him to have made an effort to come close to her.
She set down her cup, hoping that Mary couldn't see quite how sick she felt. “Well, then, I guess that I'll go out for a while.”
“Shopping?”
“Antique hunting, I suppose.”
“Try down Mulberry Lane. I went out to a white sale at the mall the other day and saw a sign on my way home. There's nothing like a real barn sale for finding something unique.”
“You're right,” Gayle said. “Thanks.” She picked up an apple off the counter and went out of the house.
There was already a great deal of activity going on.
The yardmen were there, a crew of ten. Gayle waved and started down the lane toward the road. She drove along the river for a while, then she pulled the car off the road and parked, drawn to it. She stared at the water, but nothing seemed to come to her, nothing to give her reason or peace, or to explain any of what had happened.
She got back into the car and drove again until she saw the sign that Mary had told her about. She drove down the lane until she came to a broad drive that led to a typical large red barn.
There was a pretty young woman in the yard, feeding chickens. She told Gayle to make herself happy nosing around in the barn, and if she needed any help, to let her know.
Gayle picked her way through furniture and farm equipment—scythes, carriage and coach parts, axles, old milk bottles, churns, and the like. There was a beautiful cherry wood desk, though, that cried out for restoration. Gayle decided to buy it; then, when she turned around, she saw the old storage box.
Wondering what it contained, she knelt down beside it, opening it up. There was a stack of papers inside, but it wasn't really paper, she realized, but vellum. She grew excited as she realized how old the things must be. Over two hundred years old, she thought, if she was judging correctly.
Carefully, she studied the contents of the box. At the top, it was all maps. Old maps of the area, she realized. Many things were not listed, but such things as “MacArthur's garden” and “Tinesdale's pasture” were.
Gayle dug more deeply, then gasped when she unrolled the next sheet.
It was a sketch of a battle. There was no color to it; it was a pencil sketch. She peered closer, and she could see cannon and guns and uniforms and she recognized the scene immediately.
Brent had done a sketch and then an oil of the exact same scene just a few months ago. It was a battle that had taken place near Richmond. A Revolutionary War battle.
There were more sketches. Gayle didn't think to look at them yet.
She sat back on her heels. Brent hadn't just sketched the same scene. He had sketched it the exact same way. The expressions on men's faces were the same. Exactly the same. Whatever view this artist had once had of the battle, Brent was seeing through the same eyes.
“Oh, my God,” Gayle whispered.
“Can I help you?” The young fanner's wife stepped into the barn. Gayle stood quickly. “Yes, thanks. I'd like to take the desk, and this box here with the maps and sketches. What do you want for them?”
The girl named a ridiculously low price. Gayle smiled and the girl asked her if it was too much. “No—I owe you more,” Gayle said, and she insisted on giving the girl twenty dollars over her asking price. The maps belonged in a museum.
They wouldn't go to one yet, though. Gayle intended to keep everything until she decided what she had. She wanted Brent to see the picture of the battle.
No. She wanted Geoff to see it. She wanted to hear what he would have to say.
When she came home, she brought her new purchases into the old kitchen. More than any other room in the house, this one was hers. She took another admiring look at her new desk; then she dragged her box of maps and sketches over to the cupboard. She slid the whole box into the bottom storage compartment, then looked up, start
led.
Brent was standing in the doorway.
He had been working—he was covered with bits of paint. But he was watching her, depressed and bleak, his dark eyes anguished. He offered her a dry, crooked smile and reached out his arms to her.
She had to go to him. She let out a little cry and ran into his arms. He wrapped her within them, rubbing his cheek against her hair as she burrowed against him. “Gayle, I don't know what happened, but if I hurt you, then I am so, so sorry. I love you. You know that. I love you so much. You're my life. Please, please, forgive me.”
It all seemed to melt away. Clear away, as if a bright, cleansing rain had fallen. All the pain and all the fear and the tempest of the night. When he held her then, she was assured. He loved her. Just as she loved him.
It had to have been a dream. Nothing bad and nothing evil could ever pass between them. There was simply too much love there.
“Say something to me.”
She allowed her head to fall back and she smiled at him with the radiance he found so alluring. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He pulled her back against him. “I love you. I can never, never tell you how much.” He leaned back again. “What did you buy?”
She hesitated just the fraction of a second. “A desk. Do you like it?”
“It's great.”
“I have to clean it up.”
“Do you have to do it right now?”
“No, it can wait.”
“Feel like posing for me? Just for an hour or so. Then we can drive out somewhere and have a long, leisurely lunch. Then we can come back here and have a long, leisurely night. What do you say?”
“Fine.” She smiled at him, wondering why she hadn't shown him the maps or the sketches. She brushed past him. “Let me take a quick shower—I'm all cobwebby. Then I'll be in the studio.”
He followed her out of the old kitchen and she nearly sighed with relief. They had no secrets—until now, she thought, feeling a little ashamed of herself. Still, she didn't want him to see the pictures. Not yet.
By that night she had almost forgotten the tempest that had passed between them. She had posed for about half an hour, a comfortable pose, stretched out on a couch and swaddled in some luxurious white fabric. And when Brent had finished, the expression he gave her was so hesitant that she stretched her arms out to him, then came running over to him to press herself against him, naked. He held her tight, admitting he'd been afraid to touch her, and they'd even begun to laugh and tease. They never left the studio, though. They stayed right on the couch.
Every Time I Love You Page 20
