Every Time I Love You (16 page)

“Damn you!” She cried out to him. “Damn you for being a bastard and a traitor!” She was close to tears. Her breasts were bare and forced to his chest, and the air sizzled with the fierce crackling color of his eyes, with the tension in his words.

“Let me go!” She demanded. She could feel him with her bare flesh, and she longed to tear away his shirt. She wanted to run, yet with an ever-growing desire she wanted this to go on, to go on forever and forever. She wanted to discover the path where he would take her. “Let me go!” She pleaded again. “I swear that I hate you!”

“Bitch!” He swore. But his fingers threaded into her hair. Harshly he lowered his face to hers and he kissed her. He kissed her until her lips were swollen, until he and she were both breathless. Until the sizzling tension taken from the air entered into them and began a molten fire that swept through their limbs.

He moved his lips just slightly from hers. “I love you, Katrina Seymour. Deny that you love me too, and I will let you leave.”

She opened her mouth. She wanted to deny him. No words came to her. She shook her head desperately.

He pressed her back into the hay. He kissed her lips and her forehead and her throat. Then his mouth fell against her breasts. He laved and suckled and grazed his teeth over her nipples, and the wildfire seized her. She clutched his head against her and she whispered to him and she didn't know what she said herself.

He stared at her then, watching her eyes as he removed her shoes and her stockings. His fingers teased her abdomen as he worked at the drawstrings of her pantalettes and petticoats. She began a tremendous trembling as she felt his fingers against her bare abdomen.

He kissed her again and then maneuvered her to free her hooks, to pull her muslin gown over her head. He tossed aside her stays and laces, and she suddenly realized that she lay before him completely naked in the hay.

With a soft cry, she came to him, needing his arms around her to hide that nakedness. “No,” he whispered to her, and he laid her back in the hay and spread her hair against it.

Upon his knees he hastily shed his waistcoat and his shirt. Supple muscle rippled in the darkness. He shifted to free himself of his boots and hose and then his breeches. She closed her eyes and then opened them and she shivered, but even as she did so, her eyes widened and she thought that he was beautiful. Truly beautiful.

His hands scorched a path of silk and fire against her flesh. He kissed her and kissed her and was so fevered himself that should she speak, he could probably give no mind to her...

He was glorious. As fine and sleek as a puma, as muscled and powerful as a bear, as sure and swift as a hawk. Mindlessly she touched his shoulders and luxuriated in the ripple of sinew and tendon and muscle. His belly was drum-taut, and the ebony hair that crowned his head dusted his chest and created a rich nest for that forbidden part of his body that so fascinated her now. It pulsed; it lived; it was his fire. She shouldn't be there. It was wrong. No decent young woman would dare to do as he said, dare to stretch out her fingers and touch and wind them around him...

And no decent woman would let him touch her as he did. But oh, there was no denying him. His kisses were surely depraved, but she could not halt them; she could not force herself to want to halt them; she could not command her own body. She could only feel...

“Oh, Percy! This is—not right!” she cried to him once.

But he told her, “Nay, sweet, for when it is love that brings us together, then God has commanded that a man should worship his woman, and, sweet Jesus, I do love you.”

She believed him...she believed that he loved her. And she believed that anything so intense, so intimate, and so natural between a man and a woman had to be right. Her fingers curled around his, and his lips touched upon hers. His touch...Her head began to thrash against the hay. She whimpered as he moved upon her; she gasped, then nearly screamed out as the first, sudden burst of ecstasy exploded within her. Percy caught her cry with a kiss, murmuring against her lips. “Shh! love, take care...”

She could not care about the rest of the world. Damp and delirious, she twisted in his arms and her words formed against his cheek. “Oh, Percy...”

He chuckled softly, rakishly, and promised her, “We've just begun, love, we've just begun.” He went on to fill her with himself, with sweet, burning flames that engulfed and consumed her and brought her again and again to a shuddering awe. Then he kissed her again, held her again...and kept her close, close to his heart. She loved that as much, nuzzling against the damp hair on his chest, feeling the protective tenderness in him as he kissed her forehead and smoothed back the curling, wet tendrils of her hair that clung there.

Only then did she feel the hay beneath her back and become aware of the flickering light of the lantern upon her circumstances. She had never meant to give herself completely—even if Henry had not cared how she sought her information. She had cared herself. But this had not been for Henry. None of it had been for Henry. She had been falling in love with Percy since she had first set eyes on him.

And this had been brewing between them since that very first time.

She should be sorry now. She was “ruined”—as people would say—fallen, lost. She should feel the shame and the horror of it, but she did not. She bowed her head against him, and he held her tighter and he whispered to her, “I love you.”

“Percy...I love you too.”

“Come away with me.”

“I cannot. My brother would have us followed—and you hanged.”

“Your brother be damned.”

Feeling troubled, she rolled around, looking deeply into his eyes. She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Don't say that! He has power. He would have no difficulty calling you a traitor.”

“Bah!” He was decidedly angry, but perhaps that was part of his charisma, that very boldness and passion, his dead-set belief in his glorious cause. “I swear to you, Katrina, in a year or so it will be Henry Seymour who runs!”

“That may well be so, my love, but now, they are writing out arrest warrants for such men as Hancock and Adams.”

“That is Massachusetts. This is Virginia.”

“Pardon me! Percy, Percy! Please take care! Do you think that the King's men will care about such distinctions? They will shortly declare the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in rebellion. Blood will flow—”

“Aye,” he interrupted softly. “Blood will flow.” He leaned upon an elbow then and stroked her cheek. “Trust me, love, the tide will turn my way!” Excitedly, he went on to tell her about the secret liaisons being carried on with important men in Boston.

Men who would soon have nooses strung about their necks, Katrina thought.

“Percy, don't tell me all this—”

He laughed and hugged her, his dark eyes alive and vibrant with youth and determination. “My love, I have to tell you these things; I have to make you see the error of your ways.”

His enthusiasm was so great that she could not help but smile. But then there was a soft knock upon the barn door. Katrina let out a soft cry of horror and groped about for what remnants of her clothing she could find.

“Percy?”

The hushed whisper came with another, louder, rapping on the door.

“'Tis only James,” Percy assured Katrina.

“And who is James?” she murmured worriedly, struggling with her corset and chemise and petticoats.

He sensed her panic and helped her with her stays and ties before hurriedly slipping into his own breeches. Tucking his skirt into his pants, he walked quickly to the door. “James?” He glanced back; Katrina was just smoothing her gown over her petticoats. He smiled, thinking of how he loved her. She needed to relax though, he thought with tender amusement—any man would know from the guilty expression on her delicate face exactly what they had been about in the barn. He smiled at her reassuringly.

“Aye, Percy, 'tis James.”

Percy opened the door. A handsome young man his own age stepped in, nodded a polite acknowledgement to Katrina, and warned Percy, “It's late. They're saying that Seymour is at Chowning's, looking for his sister.”

A knot caught in Katrina's throat. “I—I've got to go.”

Percy came to her, agile and quick, running across the barn on his bare feet. He caught her hands. “Run away with me. We'll ignore this ogre of a kinsman. All of them be damned.”

Katrina looked at James with horror. “Percy! Cease this foolishness! What of your great and glorious cause? My brother would see that you were hanged.”

“Percy.” James strode to them and caught Percy's shoulders. “Have you lost your senses, man? She's right. He's her legal guardian; you can do nothing but lose your life!”

“Percy! I must go!”

Aye, she had to leave, and quickly. If she did not, Henry would close in upon them right then. She had to play the game and play it well.

He held her hands, then pulled her close, and kissed her deeply. James cleared his throat. “I'll check the way,” he said and disappeared outside. Percy released Katrina at last. “I must see you again soon.”

She swallowed. “I'll get word to you soon.”

“I love you.”

“And I, you.”

He smoothed her hair and slipped her cloak back around her shoulders.

“'Tis clear!” James called to them.

At the door, Percy pulled her back into his arms one more time. “Soon!” he urged against her lips.

“I swear,” she promised, and he held her briefly close against him so that she felt his breath against her hair and the pounding of his heart beneath his shirt.

Nearly sobbing, she pulled away from him and ran.

She was able to slip in without Elizabeth's being aware that she had returned. She was relieved. She needed time, moments alone to treasure the night and her love until it had to be marred by Henry's sly intrusion. She washed her face and dressed in a nightgown and lay down in her bed in the darkness, hugging her pillow to her. She relived every beautiful second of the night in her memory, and marveled again and again at the depth of her love for Percy.

Then the door opened.

Henry held a candle high and stepped into her room without so much as a by-your-leave. She closed her eyes and prayed that he would go away, but of course he did not.

“Sit up. I know you are not asleep.”

He spoke so confidently she was afraid that he would touch her. She sat up, scowling at him.

He set the candle down and perched at the side of her bed. “You saw him?”

“I did.” Her heart pounded with bitterness. Aye, brother, I played your loathsome game, and it is my soul at stake.

“And—?”

“And what?” she murmured disdainfully.

“I let it be known that I looked for you, a timely intrusion, I hope, if you were in difficulty.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “What difficulty? He is a perfect gentleman. And you know full well that his manners mean nothing to you. All you want is to hang him and all his friends.”

Henry ignored that. “He is wild and brash. What did he say? Did you learn anything? Did he believe in you?”

She sighed and lowered her head, hoping he would not see the color that flooded her cheeks. “He believed in me. Oh, aye, he believed in me.” She looked up, blue fire burning in her eyes. “But there is nothing to learn, Henry. He told me nothing that is not common knowledge.”

“What about these secret meetings between the colonies?”

She shook her head. “All that I could discover is common knowledge.”

Henry's eyes narrowed. “You will find out more.”

She smoothed a ripple in her bed sheet with her fingertips. “Henry, he comes and goes—”

“When he is here, he will come to you.”

“I found out nothing!” she cried.

“Nor did you find out anything the last time you saw him, at the ball. You must be more charming. In time he will trust you.”

“There is nothing to be found out!” she insisted. “Henry, there are few who can believe now that it will not come to war—”

“Yes.” He smiled icily. “It will come to war. And you will be my eyes and my ears when I cannot be there to see and hear. You will do this for me or else I will see you wed immediately to Palmer. Or worse.” He smiled. “I am your guardian and I promise you, Katrina, I can find you a truly loathsome husband. Or I can see that Percy is arrested and hanged immediately for some trumped-up charge.”

“You are a loathsome creature, Henry.”

“Thank you, sister dear. And thank you for your services. I am sure that they will improve.”

He smiled again and left her. The door closed. She could no longer relish the sweet memories of her secret love.

She sobbed softly, for in truth, tonight she had lost her innocence.

CHAPTER 11

“You see the tower?”

Gayle craned her neck back, shaded her eyes from the sun, and stared up at the high tower of the Biltmore Hotel. She nodded.

“That's where our room is.”

She smiled serenely. It wasn't a room. It was a suite, and one of the most magnificent she had ever seen. It was called the Everglades Suite, and it was a unique and beautiful place in the tower on the thirteenth floor with balconies all around it. There was a central room with high painted ceilings, displaying palm trees and flamingos in painted oval frames. There was a massive coral-rock fireplace and mantel, and a mezzanine that circled all around it. There were two bedrooms and a slim winding staircase that ran from the mezzanine to the living room. There was even a small kitchen. It was vast for two people, but it had tremendous character and Gayle absolutely loved it.

“And,” Brent added ominously, “that's where it happened.”

“Where what happened?”

“It's where the mobster was shot.”

“Oh, really?” she said skeptically.

“Really,” Brent swore. “I wouldn't lie.”

He rolled around on the giant dragon float they were sharing. It was a beautiful sunny day. The temperature was in the eighties and the sky was a crystal-clear blue. They were there for only one more night; tomorrow they'd be leaving on a specially chartered boat for the Bahamas. Gayle was determined to see Nassau and Paradise Island; Brent was more interested in the Out Islands, but they were both happy to do either. They'd been married for almost twenty-four hours now. An hour ago they had come down to the pool, which was listed as the largest hotel swimming pool in the world. And it was beautiful. From the massive dragon float Gayle could look up and see the tower. “Al Capone?” She said, curious. “Didn't they call it the Al Capone suite when we registered?”

“Yep. It was his suite when he was in residence. He always brought along his own cook, and you know the mezzanine?”

“Yes...?”

“That's where his bodyguards stayed, all ranged around the place, looking down.”

“So Capone did die there.”

“Wrong guy. Capone died of syphilis.”

“You're awful.”

“It's the truth! Capone died of syphilis. And it's true too that a man was shot up there—Tommy “Fats” Walsh, that was his name. He was a bodyguard, really, for a gangster named Arnold Rothstein. It happened in 1929. The maid showed me the bullet hole in the cupboard.”

“Oh, really!” Gayle laughed.

“Hey,” Brent protested, indignant at her laughter, “I told you this is supposed to be the largest haunted hotel anywhere.”

“I thought it was the hotel with the largest hotel swimming pool?”

“It is.” He smiled wickedly. “But it's haunted, too.”

“The pool?”

“The hotel,” he laughed. He was facing her; they both lay on their stomachs, stretched in toward the dragon's middle. Brent's chin rested on his knuckles. He trailed his fingers through the crystal-clear water, then stroked the coolness over her cheek. “It's the biggest pool; it's the most haunted hotel.”

“Just because a gangster was shot?”

He shook his head and carefully rolled over on his back. Gayle dragged herself up on her elbows to stare down at him.

“This place was originally built by a man named Merrick. He created the city of Coral Gables, which he wanted to be like a Venice. He built the Biltmore and had his friends come down, stay here, and they would look at property. It must have been fabulous in those days. There were waterways that came in from the beach, and passengers were dropped off from gondolas. It was a beautiful, beautiful place—Eden, summertime all the time. Then...
whap!”

“Whap?”

“A hurricane. Destroyed half the place. Land values careened straight downward.”

“What a shame.”

“Then along came the wicked, wanton thirties.”

“The Depression.”

“Umm, but speakeasies flourished, and gangsters were kings. There were a few wild and willful men playing the part here.”

“And then?” Gayle inquired, smiling.

“War.”

“War?” Her stomach twisted a little as she realized there were still so many really important things they had yet to discuss.

“World War II. In time, the grand old Lady was taken over as a veterans' hospital. Men, broken in spirit, broken in body, lying in these corridors. Screaming. Dying.”

“Are you making this up?”

“As God is my witness, I'm telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The Biltmore was in a sad state of disrepair when one of those scientific groups came with all their equipment and tested for ghosts.”

“And did they find any?”

Brent grinned.

“Well, did they?”

He laughed. “I don't really know. I got most of this story from one of the bellboys, and he didn't go quite that far.”

“You bastard!” Gayle laughed, slipping her hand into the water to splash him.

He caught her hand and tried to roll over and they both went shooting into the water. They emerged, sputtering and laughing still. Gayle jerked Brent back in when he would have crawled back on the float; he retaliated in kind, but finally they were both situated back on the vinyl beast. Panting, with a lock of dripping wet hair plastered to his forehead, Brent tried to finish his story. “I swear to you, all the workmen claim that the place is haunted. Some lady runs around up there—see, on the little balcony? And they all say that it seems a man jumps from the tower window now and then. They can hear him screaming.”

“You're trying to scare me.”

“I am not!” He smiled. “All right, how's this? Tarzan used to swim here too.”

“Tarzan?”

“Well, Johnny Weissmuller. There was a high dive up there, and the pool was much, much deeper and it was even larger. Weissmuller used to swim here, and Esther Williams too. They would do those wonderful water shows and everyone from miles around would come to watch. Is that better?”

“Is it true?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Then it's better. The largest haunted hotel, huh?”

“Haunted structure, I believe. I think that's the way that it's been labeled. Are you having a good time?” He grinned.

“Wonderful.”

He laughed and closed his eyes serenely. “I thought you'd like it. There's not too much terribly old down here, but this place does have a history—it hasn't been reopened very long, you know.”

“Right.” It was a beautiful place, Gayle thought. The lobby was exquisite, with wonderful old Persian rugs and fascinating antiques and a pair of gargoyles to guard twin winding staircases. She leaned down and kissed him suddenly, thinking that he was so very thoughtful. He had carefully chosen this place—just for the two nights—because he was aware that she did love old homes and houses and places with histories.

Her lips touched his; she raised her head. His eyes were alive with sparkling reflections from the water. “Umm,” he murmured.

She smiled. “Umm.”

“Want to go back up?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Can I drink more champagne out of your navel?”

“Shh!” Gayle told him urgently, gazing quickly around them. It was a Sunday afternoon, and though the pool wasn't crowded, there were a number of children about, shrieking with laughter as they struggled with the giant pool toys.

“Well?”

Gayle watched as a waiter came from the building with a silver pushcart laden down with all kinds of trays. The aroma of something good came to her, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Want to eat first? They'll bring us something right to the tables by the shallow end.”

“What?” He frowned very seriously.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said and I'm wounded. One day of marriage and you'd already rather eat than—”

She clamped her hand over his mouth. “Brent!” She giggled. “I'm trying to keep up my energy.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, all right.”

They had lunch by the pool, a cheeseburger for Brent and a salad with little tenderloin medallions in it for Gayle. Brent sat back with a Coors while she finished off two tall glasses of iced tea. He watched her pick at his fries, grinning. “Watch it. What will I paint if we come back with you twenty pounds heavier?”

“Rubens adored plump women,” she reminded him. “So did Botticelli and—”

“But you married McCauley,” he reminded her.

“For better or worse. For chunky or thin. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed lazily. Then, “Are you done yet?”

“Yes!”

Brent signed the bill and they went back into the hotel. Gayle stood and stared from the south balcony down the thirteen floors to the golf course and pool below. It was all so beautiful. The sun was so bright and the breeze so cool, the stretch of lawn so green below. She couldn't imagine being happier. It was as if they had already come to their own little world. The entire floor was theirs. It was an enchanting place, all old-world and very gracious. Gayle paused, aware that Brent stood near her. “It's wonderful,” she told him.

“Thank you.”

She grinned. “It reminds me of the St. Regis in New York,” she told him.

He slipped his arms around her waist. “I thought about the Pink Lady.”

“The Pink Lady? What is it?”

“Another hotel. They advertise heart-shaped whirlpools, triple-X-rated movies, and mirrors on the ceiling. And, I might add, rates by the hour.”

Gayle started to laugh, twirling around to look up at him. He thought about how much he loved her face in all its moods. She was always so animated. Frowning, laughing, pursing her lips in contemplation, staring up at him now with that siren's smile, all mischief and excitement. “Rates by the hour, huh?”

“That's right.”

“Umm...you might have been in some trouble there after all.”

“Really?”

“That's right.” She led him back inside and closed the door to the balcony. Then she let her towel fall, and stood up on her toes as she placed her palms on his shoulders. It seemed as if she meant to kiss his lips, but she never really touched them with her own at all. She pressed her mouth against his throat and let the tip of her tongue come through. She slowly sank from her toes to her soles, raking her mouth down a path on his chest as she did so, licking him with just the tip of her tongue all the way. He felt each sensation and didn't rush her, even as he began to burn; he barely touched her. She sank, gracefully, ever further, slipping her fingers inside the band of his trunks, running them along the edge again and again until she caught the elastic and dragged it down.

He jumped out to her like a flagpole, and she made a little sound of pleasure in her own prowess. She barely heard the whisper of her name, but tenderly touched him and petted and played and explored all her resources, taking it into her mouth, teasing just the peak with ragged little laps of the tongue. At long last she heard what seemed to be a ferocious roar, and she laughed breathlessly with delight as she found herself supine on the rug, grasped in his arms, nearly caveman-style. “You're going to wreck the suit!” she teased him, but he didn't hear her, or he didn't care, and it was a negligible warning anyway, since the spandex held up very well. With the way he tossed it, though, she was very glad that the windows were closed. She grinned, set her arms around him, and the soft cry that escaped her when he rammed into her was caught sweetly by his mouth in the heat of his kiss.

They climaxed nearly simultaneously, and then they stayed there, on the floor, drowsy, entwined, half awake and half asleep. A while later, Brent rose and left her to go into the small kitchen and to the refrigerator, where he found a bottle of champagne, a wedge of Brie, a square of Camembert and a box of Townhouse crackers. He came back and they set up the sofa pillows on the floor. Gayle leaned against his chest while she fixed crackers and slipped them into his mouth while he struggled with the champagne bottle. It popped with a vengeance, spilling champagne all over them. When they grew tired of the crackers, Brent became more entranced with the champagne, and Gayle giggled and protested and reminded him of what a bottle of the stuff was worth as he fizzed it up to spray more upon her. It ended with her shrieking and escaping from him to the bedroom—and him finding her there and the two of them making love again, with him licking the champagne from her body...from all over her body, even from places she was quite sure the champagne could have never gotten to.

At ten they decided to rouse themselves for showers and dinner. They ate in the elegant dining room across a candlelit table and then leisurely strolled around beneath the moonlight and returned to the room once again. Gayle imagined that anyone at all watching them knew they were newlyweds; they had that look about them, that dream quality. There was no hurry to anything; life was sweet and languorous and so all-inclusive of each other.

They made love again, and with their bodies still entwined, they drifted off to sleep. Sleep was dark and sweet, and Gayle would never have imagined that she could dream, but she did.