Every Time I Love You

by Graham, Heather

  “You can never understand such a man, Charles. You don't begin to understand honor, and it means everything to him.”

  “Oh, really? Dead, Katrina, how shall he ever defend you? When he is hanged, I will return you to your brother and he will deal with you as he sees fit. When I finish with you, that is. I am not a barbarous man, but...”

  She kept staring at him. The pain in her head became such a buzz that she could not bear it, and then it began to dull. She felt nothing but numb.

  He came behind her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Your time is nearly up. Get up, Katrina. And be ready for me. I will be with you in twenty minutes.”

  “I don't trust you,” she said emotionlessly. “What will prevent you from having Percy hanged one hour from now?”

  He went back to the desk and drew out a sheet of paper. He scrawled upon it, then offered it to her. “It is a pass. Back through the British lines. You will give me two days. He will need those two days for recovery, or he will die anyway when you try to move him. Two days, Katrina. Two days, and you will be free.”

  She remained silent.

  “Am I so loathsome, then?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said. But she stood, and she snatched the pass from him.

  He smiled, stretching his legs out on the desk. “Well, my dear Katrina, you will try very hard not to show it. Go. Your time is up.”

  She swung around and she marched back across the hall and into the bedroom. She slammed the door and sank into despair, giving way to the sobs that welled within her.

  There was a tap on the door. “Ten minutes, Katrina.”

  Thankfully, the numbness fell over her again. Heedlessly she rose. Steam no longer rose from the tub and she was glad; the water had gone as cold as her heart.

  It was the only way she could bear it.

  When the ten minutes had passed, she was waiting for him. The shadows of dusk fell over the room. She bit her lip as he paused, seeing her there; then she closed her eyes as he began to undress her. He's not ancient, she told herself. He was young and well muscled, and his teeth were his own. He was fastidiously clean.

  It did not help her. When he crawled beside her, when he touched her, a cascade of silent tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Don't cry, Katrina,” he warned her. “Don't cry.”

  She forced herself to stop. And inside, she began to shrivel up, and she felt that she was rotting.

  Nothing could ever be the same again. Nothing in life. Perhaps Percy would never know, but she would, and that knowledge would lie in her heart forever.

  * * *

  Two days later, she rode away with Percy. He was still barely conscious. Katrina drove a pony cart with a flat attached where he could lie. She was grateful for one thing. He had barely been aware of anything since the moment he had been shot.

  An armed guard escorted her part of the way. And after that, she was accosted by rebel lookouts. A riotous cheer went up when she identified herself and Percy, and they were given an escort back into the camp at Valley Forge.

  Percy was ill through most of the winter, sometimes desperately ill. But on January 1, 1778 he awoke with clear eyes and a clear mind, and he reached out his arms to her. And she was certain that any price was well worth his tender smile.

  It was not so easy, of course. She had to explain, with her heart beating double time, that the commander of the loyalist troups had been an old friend, who had let them escape, due to past associations.

  Percy frowned at first. He had been certain, right before losing consciousness, that someone had been speaking caustically to her. She shook her head, gave him a brilliant smile, and kissed him again, laughing because he had grown such whiskers.

  “You have been very, very ill. Feverish and delirious,” she told him. “See! It was a friend, for we are here, and we are alive. And Percy—oh, my love!—I could not live without you!”

  Sore though he was, he pulled her to him, and his tender kiss became a hungry one. Weak as he was, his hands were suddenly everywhere, and before she knew it the ardent, desperate flames of her own desire had been kindled, and she was with her husband once again. Through it all, she was aware only of him, of the sweet and magical and heady passion that so sweetly raged between them. When it was over, she was grateful. So very grateful, because she had dreaded making love again. She had feared it, until it had happened so naturally. She had been afraid, horribly afraid, that she would burst into tears, that she would shiver or shake, that there would be some telltale sign that he would notice, that he would pull from her horror, that he would discover what she'd done—and despise her.

  None of that happened. He whispered how much he loved her, and in the long winter nights that followed he proved it so tenderly that she was nearly able to forget herself.

  It wasn't until spring, until Percy was on campaign and she was home again, that she had cause to panic once again. She was pregnant.

  She didn't send word to him for the longest time because she was afraid, deathly afraid. So afraid that she was ill with it, and nearly lost the child. In May, she wrote to him because she knew that if she did not send word someone else might do so. In her missive she tried to sound optimistic and cheerful because she figured Percy was feeling downhearted. The war was wearing on and on, and it was going so drearily for the Patriots. The British army was regular and well trained and heavily supported with mercenary troops. The Patriots came from thirteen different colonies, and they were often ill-clad and ill-equipped and ailing, to boot.

  He came back to her, though. She would never forget it. It was the end of August, and the hot weather was just giving way to lovely cool nights and breezy days. He came riding down the path pell-mell, his horse rearing as he reined it in before the veranda. He leapt down and hurried to her, so handsome in his tight, dove-colored britches, knee boots, and loose white shirt. She felt so heavy! But he lifted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing, and he kissed her and he laughed and he lamented the fact that she had grown so very big without his being there to see it. She tried to smile and she started to cry because she didn't know how to tell him that she was desperate for her pregnancy to last another month, so that she would know Percy to be the child's father for a certainty.

  It did. God must have smiled upon her, for their son—James Percival, after her father and Percy's dear friend and Percy himself—was born on October first, nine months to the day from that first time they had touched after she'd fulfilled her bargain with Lord Palmer.

  And again, when she held her son, when she and Percy marveled over him, she was glad again for life. She could forget the horror in the beauty. If there were no war...

  But there was a war. A never-ending war, it seemed. Percy would come home to her and ride away again. Time helped to ease the painful memories of the past, but the future grew more arduous. With joy Katrina watched her son grow, but with dread she watched her husband ride away again and again. Battles were won, and battles were lost. The British came south, attacking in Georgia and South Carolina. Savannah fell in December of 1778; Charleston was captured in May of the following year.

  And in the spring of 1781, the British decided to use Yorktown, Virginia, as their base of operations.

  Katrina had heard nothing of this development. One morning she woke to see that there was a British gunboat out in the river. She panicked, for there was no one to help her. James, Percy's old friend, led a militia group, which spent much time riding the countryside to protect it, but they would be no match against this kind of force.

  Nearly one hundred people lived on the estate, and another hundred lived on the surrounding farms. Katrina wondered if they would burn the house—it was, after all, Percy Ainsworth's house. Then she remembered, with a full and blinding clarity, everything that had happened to her in the winter of 1777, and she nearly became hysterical. She could not lose control; she did not have time.

  Quickly she packed a bag for the baby and called a group of the househ
old servants and a young tenant farmer and his wife, entrusting them to bring her son inland, to Percy's cousins in the Valley. She wrote a hasty letter and prayed that it might find its way into Percy's hands, telling him about the ship, and in her haste, telling him that she was afraid. She knew that he was somewhere near. Benedict Arnold, the despised turncoat, had just led troops against Richmond, and Percy had been ordered south to harass and raid the British flank.

  She kissed her son, allowing herself the luxury of a few tears; then she watched from the back until he was gone.

  By then, the British were coming up the path to her home.

  She prayed that this time it might be different. There were many fine officers and men in the enemy army; she knew a number of them.

  But when the men drew near to the veranda, her heart sank. There was a naval captain among them, telling her that he needed supplies for his vessel and his troops. She would have gladly supplied their ship and their troops, if that had been all. She wouldn't have had much choice; she didn't have the power to stop them.

  But the naval captain wasn't alone. Both her brother, Henry Seymour, and Charles Palmer were with him. Seeing them, Katrina had to grip the column to remain standing.

  Henry came straight to her. Katrina ignored him. It had been more than five years since she had seen him. She told the ship's captain that he could take what he wanted, surely. She would be happy to deal with him—but she would have nothing to do with Seymour or Palmer.

  “Sweet sister! Sweet, sweet sister! After all these years!”

  Henry came up the steps in a fury, pushing her toward the door of the house. “Get back in!” he commanded her. He turned to the naval captain and told him to proceed with supplying his ship.

  Henry Seymour drew her into the passage. He and Lord Palmer surveyed the manor with a practiced eye, opening doors to find the salon. With the three of them in the room, Henry closed the door. The silence that held for several seconds was stark and painful. “We should burn it, burn it to the ground,” Henry muttered. Then he swung around on Katrina in a sudden fury. “Witch! You turned traitor on me, Katrina. Whore, and then traitor. After all I did for you.”

  “Henry, you must not be so harsh,” Lord Palmer murmured solicitously. Katrina ignored him; she despised even the sound of his voice.

  “All that you did for me!” she cried to Henry.

  “Still, still, I am your brother, and blood runs thick. When it is over, if Ainsworth is not slain, I will procure an annulment for you. You married without my permission. I will take you home, Katrina, to Kent.”

  “Spare me your kindness, brother,” she said bitterly. “I was never anything more to you than a pawn, Henry. And I will never go back to England. I am well of age now, and I will never leave my husband!”

  Lord Palmer paused by her fine Chippendale table, fingering the brandy decanter. “And child?” he queried pleasantly.

  “My son is not here; you cannot threaten me with him.”

  “Threaten you? Why, I'd no intent to threaten you, my dear. I merely wanted to see if he was mine. I'd heard of his birth, of course.”

  She inhaled sharply, then narrowed her eyes. “You need have no fear. He is not.”

  “Why the hostility, Katrina? After the disgraceful way you behaved. Charles is still willing to marry you.”

  “You are both insane!” she hissed. “Now get out of here—your people have taken what they wanted. Go!”

  They smiled at each other, as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. There were a few frightened slaves in the house, no one who could come to her defense. She realized with a sinking feeling that they were merely playing with her, that they would do as they so chose.

  “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.