“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....”
CHAPTER 23
Hangman's Noose
The Manor House, Virginia Countryside May 1781
The rope was around his neck. It was spring, and even then, he could hear the birds trilling. He could see the fields ready for planting. He smelled the rich, redolent scent of the earth.
He could feel the rope, harsh around his neck. Scratching, tearing at his flesh. Soon that little pain would not matter, for the life was being throttled from his body.
She was running toward him. Running. He could see her in those seconds, in those last seconds. He saw the anguish in her beautiful blue eyes, as lovely as the day, as eternal as the sky. He could see her, and he knew.
He knew...
She loved him; she had not sent for him in order to betray him. She loved him, and she had been used. Her eyes, her heart, were pure, as innocent as that long-ago day when she had first come to him, and he had taken her in the hay, fallen in love. For a lifetime. For an eternity.
Katrina!
He thought her name, or did he say it? It didn't matter. He was either dying, or he was dead. But then he screamed it louder. If the voice did not find substance, it was a screech within his head.
He saw it. He saw it all. He saw her rushing toward him, running, racing, hysterical, nearly demented. She shoved past Palmer and she had his pistol in her hands and it was loaded and ready.
But Henry Seymour was behind her. He didn't scream out a warning; he didn't say a word. He shot her. He shot his sister in the back, in cold blood.
But he could do nothing. The rope snapped, and he felt himself leaving. He was departing earth; he had no substance; he had no being. He could not hold her or cradle her. He could not go to her; he could not ease her dying. God in heaven, he could not forgive her, for he was dying himself...
Katrina!
Her name reverberated inside his head, and though he saw himself swinging there, swinging from the rope, turning purple and blue and swollen, he also had freedom. He reached for her. He could almost touch her. He started to run. To run and run and run.
Until he fell down beside her. He held her. He turned her into his arms, and he entwined his fingers in hers. Katrina! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me...Please God, forgive me. Katrina, Katrina, Katrina. Come back to me.
CHAPTER 24
She felt that she hovered upon a brink, a precipice above a deep, dark pit. There was nothing here, except for that endless darkness, and she floated there, lost.
She was dying, and she knew it.
She would go. She would have to go, for there was no substance; there was nothing to hold her back. There was no light, and there was no sun; there was no beauty, and there was no love...
“Come back. Come back to me.”
Suddenly, there was sound. There was the whisper of his voice.
And there was love.
“Come back to me. I love you. Oh my God, forgive me. Come back to me. Love me again...”
And there was a hand reaching out to hers. She had to catch it; she had to reach out in return.
It was life.
She stretched. She could see their fingers. Just their fingertips.
Touching.
And then he had her. He had her hand and he was pulling her against him and light was flooding back to her. Life and warmth, for where he touched her there was beautiful, wonderful warmth.
She opened her eyes. His face was above hers. Beautiful. His dark eyes glistened and tears dampened his cheeks and, despite those tears, he seemed so strong. Stronger than he had ever been. She reached up and her fingers trembled and she touched his cheek and she felt the moisture there.
“Brent?” she whispered.
“Oh, thank God! Oh, thank God!”
He pulled her tightly against him. He held her so tight that it hurt, but she didn't mind because it made her feel alive.
“Oh...goodness!”
They heard a thud, and it distracted them both. “What—?” Brent began to ask. Geoff rose from behind the wing chair.
“Don't mind us. That was just Marsha. I guess it was her turn to pass out,” Geoff answered. “Want a drink? I'm going to pick up Marsha, and then I'm going to have a drink. Hell no, I'm going to have about twenty.”
Brent frowned with concern. “Will Marsha be all right? And Geoff, your chin—”
“Marsha will be fine. She's just had a bit too much excitement today. Yeah, my chin. You have one hell of a swing there, McCauley. Don't worry about it.” He leaned down and kissed Gayle and patted Brent on the shoulder. “Jesus! Am I glad to see you both here back with us.” His voice was husky, and he sounded embarrassed, which was logical, Gayle thought. It was all receding from her already. Something had happened, but she could barely remember what. All she really knew was that she had been lost, and then Brent had been there. He had reached out a hand to her, and she was back.
“But,” Geoff warned with a groan, “in my next life, I sure as hell hope I choose my friends differently. I've probably acquired a head full of gray hair in the last damned hour.”
He looked pale. His neat hair was disarrayed and there was a bruise rising on his chin. He smiled weakly. Then he picked up Marsha and stretched her out on the couch that Brent had recently vacated. “Come on, Marsha. It's over. It's all over, and it's all right.”
Marsha groaned. She was coming around. Gayle stared up at Brent and touched his cheek. She smiled tentatively and then he pulled her close and then he started to laugh, happily swirling her around and around in circles.
“Don't mind me,” Geoff called after them. “Marsha and I will just make ourselves at home here!”
Brent let her fall against him, and she looked past him to where Geoff stood over Marsha, who was now blinking.
“Thank you!” she whispered.
He nodded and she took Brent's hand and he led her out through the passage. “Wait!” she called to him, and he paused. She threw open the door to the ballroom and she ran into the center of it and stood there.
“Brent! It's okay now. It's okay!”
He leaned against the door, and he nodded. He still looked a little pale to her, but he smiled again and reached
out his hand. She hurried back to him, taking it, and he led her through the passage to the veranda.
The sun was still shining. Just barely. Darkness would fall soon, but in those moments, there was warmth and light.
“God!” he muttered and he lowered his head. And she felt that he was really offering up a prayer. Then he let out a yell that sounded like a rebel war cry, and he swept her into his arms again and they ran down the steps. He swung her around in circles, before lifting her high above and then letting her slide slowly to the ground against the length of his body.
Catching his shoulders, she smiled with the same ecstasy, and then she frowned. “Oh, Brent! What really happened? I thought that I had caught onto something for a moment, but it faded and it was gone. I was so afraid. It was so cold, and then you were there. You were there with me, and it was like walking back into the sunlight again. What happened? I think I know something, but it can't be, can it? It must be a dream.”
He shook his head. “I don't know,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from her face. “I don't know. I only know that, somehow, it's right again.”
“It's right!” she repeated before she pressed her lips against his, sweetly and hungrily. In turn he kissed her forehead and her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her chin, and finally her lips again. She fell against his chest. “Brent...”
Her head fell back and her eyes, as blue as the sky, and as pure, met his. Nor did shadows haunt the darkness of his. Rakish, languorous, lazy, with the devil's own glitter, but empty of all torment.
“I feel that I have to hold you,” he told her.
“Now? Here? We've guests.”
“We've a hayloft. And I'm sure our guests will understand and will see themselves out.”
She lifted her hands to him happily. He let out a peal of deep, gleeful laughter and swung her into his arms again.
Anyone seeing them together would surely smile: love, young love; it was such a beautiful thing. Honeymooners looked at one another like that, lovers newly met.
Every Time I Love You Page 30
