Every Time I Love You (30 page)

“Where the hell do you think you're going now?” He strode across the room and he caught her arm, wrenching it hard. She landed on the floor and struggled to sit up, meeting his eyes as he towered over her.

“What did I do?” she asked desperately.

“What did you do?” he whispered the words. He squatted on the balls of his feet again, and he reached out to touch her cheeks. “I didn't want to believe it. All those years...and the rumor had been about so long, but had I heard it? Nay, my wife! For love is deaf as well as blind, is it not? You went to him. You went to him! Not only in Philadelphia, but again when the ship entered into the river. And now. Even now.”

He came to his feet, grasping her by her hair, pulling her along with him to the window. “They are out there, aren't they?”

“Who? Brent, who?” He didn't answer her. He stared out the window, his eyes alert and wary. “Percy!” she whispered and he turned to her, dark eyes afire. “Who is out there, Percy, please tell me who?”

“Who! The British, Katrina.” He pulled her to him; he pressed his lips against her forehead, and then he laughed. “All these years I have loved you. And all these years you have been betraying me again and again.” He gripped her shoulders and he started to shake her. She struggled against him, crying out, trying to force his arms from hers. Then his hands settled against her throat and she went dead still, afraid that any motion would instigate him further. Tears stung her eyes as he stroked her throat and stared down at her, barely seeing her, if he saw her at all.

“They will hang me, you know. You've known it all along. They let me escape before so that you could keep them apprised of my movements. I always said that I loved you so much that I would die for you. And I will do just that, won't I? They are out there, aren't they? When I run, they will take me and they will hang me by the neck until I am dead.”

“No!” Gayle whispered, shaking.

“My God!” he exploded. “I would die and die gladly, were it just a part of war.” He shoved her from him with a fury, then slapped her so that she fell to the floor again.

“Whore! My God, how could you have done such a thing?”

“Stop it! Stop it!” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She tossed back her hair and hugged her knees to her chest, shaking then in a fit of chills. “There's no one there. I swear to you, there's no one there—”

He came beside her, jerking her back up into his arms again, and he smiled with all the haunted, bitter sadness she could imagine, winding his fingers into her hair. “I'll not let you go tonight, love. If it is to be our last, so be it. We will be together, and you will hold me through the night. Come!”

He jerked her along with him, going from window to window, cautiously peering outside. “Stop!” she pleaded with him again and again. She tried to assure herself that he had never really hurt her, never seriously hurt...

He had never tried to kill her and surely, please God, he would not do so now. But he was brutally rough, dragging her along with him, checking every window. In the ballroom he pulled her down. He cast a leg over hers and pinned her wrists and held her there, listening.

“You're hurting me!” she told him. His leg was heavy and tense and his weight was hard against her. “Please, Brent, the baby—”

He eased up and stared down at her. He seemed shocked. “Where is the boy?”

“What—what boy?”

“My son! Where is he?”

“He's fine,” she lied quickly. “He's fine. I sent him into Richmond for safety.”

He touched her cheek. “Have you turned him into a little Redcoat too, my love?”

She shook her head, trying to ease from him. Marsha was due back any second now. What would he do? How would he behave toward Marsha? Was he capable of being really dangerous?
No!
her heart cried out,
this was Brent
.

She was wrong, a part of her insisted. It was Percy she was dealing with now, and he was from a different age. He was still fighting a war in which he had been betrayed.

“Percy!” she whispered, and she flung her arms around him and kissed him. “I swear it,” she whispered against his lips. “I swear that I have not betrayed you. Hold me. I love you. I love you, for all time. Believe in me, hold me...”

His eyes met hers and he kissed her back. She set her arms around him and she rolled with him, until she came atop him. She had to get him to hold on, to wait.

“My love, give me a moment,” she pleaded and, playfully, she pushed away from him. “Wait for me Wait...”

She brought a finger to her lips, and offered him a secret smile, then rose. He rolled upon an elbow to watch her. She kept smiling at him as she strode slowly toward the door.

But the doorbell rang then, followed by a pounding on the door. He was on his feet in an instant. “Bitch! Whore!” he shouted. She screamed and ran and he caught her, slamming her up against the wall. “You will not go to him! So they are here now!” He pressed against her, glaring into her face. “You'll not go to him now!”

“Percy, please—”

He pushed away, and when she tried to catch his arm he shook her off with vehemence. “Percy!” she screamed again, scrambling up to her feet, chasing after him again. He was already in the passage, reaching for the front door. “Brent, Percy, please!”

He threw it open just as she came pounding against his back. It was Marsha, but she wasn't alone. Geoff was with her. Standing and staring open-mouthed at Brent.

“You!”

Brent reached out and caught Geoff by the lapels, dragging him inside.

Geoff tried to break away from him. “What the hell is the matter with you, McCauley?”

“You Tory son of a bitch!” he swore, swinging his fist into Geoff's jaw. Gayle screamed as she heard the sickening sound of the impact. Geoff stared at them both in astonishment, then slithered to the floor.

“Geoff!” Gayle cried, falling down beside him. She screamed when she was instantly dragged back to her feet by her hair and pressed hard against Brent's chest. His eyes were nearly black now; his brow was knit with fury. “Even now! Even now you would fall at your lover's feet. Whore! Whore!” He drew his arm back as if he would hit her, yet this time he did not. A glistening of tears suddenly glazed his eyes, and one trickled down his cheek. “Whore,” he repeated in a soft whisper. “Beloved, beloved whore.”

Then his eyes closed and he fell against her. She gasped, trying to catch him lest he hurt himself. She hadn't the strength. She fell, with him atop her.

“Here, here, let me help you,” Marsha said quickly, stepping into the passage. She eased Brent's weight from Gayle's body and lifted one of his eyelids. “Dead out,” she muttered. “Let's see to this one, shall we?”

Gayle swallowed and nodded and tapped Geoff's cheek, then noticed the swelling of his jaw. “I'll get some ice,” she muttered. She ran into the kitchen and in her haste knocked cubes from the tray all over the floor. She wrapped ice into a towel, then she searched beneath the sink for a bottle of brandy and hurried back out to the passage.

Thankfully, Geoff was already coming around. Gayle whispered his name woefully and offered him both the ice and the brandy. Geoff gingerly placed the ice against his jaw.

“What the hell did he do before he went into art? Box?”

Gayle shook her head, and then she burst into tears. Marsha took the brandy from Geoff and gave it to Gayle and told her to take a long swallow. She did so. “Of course, we could just get some glasses, couldn't we?” she offered with a wry smile.

“Let's get Brent to a couch,” Geoff said.

Between them, they brought Brent into the parlor and laid him upon the couch. “He's so cold!” Gayle murmured. “Do you think he's all right?”

She was alarmed when Marsha didn't answer right away, and she repeated the question. “Marsha, do you think he's all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Then—?” Gayle persisted in mild panic. “Marsha, what are you trying to tell me?”

“Well...could I have some brandy too, please?”

Geoff went into the kitchen and came back with glasses. Marsha poured them all a shot and lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

“Marsha, please, what are you telling me?” Gayle pleaded.

Marsha sighed. “These spontaneous regressions seem to be getting worse and worse. They're reaching a crescendo. I fear the possibility that—that one time, he won't come back.”

“Won't come back?”

Marsha nodded. “Like the hypnosis, Gayle. You have to be very careful.” She paused, then tried again. “It's like astral projection, in a way. Dangerous, because the soul haunts two places, two bodies, two lives.”

“What can I do?”

Marsha sat down and brushed back a lock of her hair. “Well, you could leave him. Live separate lives this time.”

“No, no! I can't do that.” The ever ready tears sprang to her eyes. No. She could never leave him. She could threaten, but she could never leave him. She loved him too much.

More than life itself.

“Marsha, help me! I cannot leave him. I love him.” She looked desperately from Geoff to Marsha. “Please!” she said softly in an anguished whisper. “Please! Marsha, we're going to have a baby. Help us! Help us to make it work out right...this time!”

Marsha shook her head uneasily. “I don't know, I don't know. Percy and Katrina died—here. He was hanged and she was shot in the back, trying to reach him. He had come home in a fury right before the battle of Yorktown, and that was how he was caught. He discovered something, something about her. She couldn't have warned the British; she was killed by one of them herself.”

“Then why—”

“Gayle, maybe it doesn't matter what really happened; what is important is what he believed. Do you understand?”

Gayle looked at her a long time and then nodded. “She didn't betray him, but he thought that she did.”

“Yes, that's what I believe.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Go back. Go back again and face it. Face whatever it was that Katrina did and find Percy in the end. Make him see that no matter what else, she did not betray him to the British.”

“Can I do that?” she whispered. “Can I change history?”

“I don't know. We can only try.”

Geoff cleared his throat. “Maybe you shouldn't, Gayle. It's dangerous. You heard what Marsha said—”

“I have to!” Gayle said desperately. “I have no choice. Please, Marsha!”

“All right.”

“Oh, no! You haven't your spiral or your tape—”

“It's all right. Just sit back. Sit back, and I'll talk you through it. You must relax. Relax your fingers and relax your toes and think back. Relax...Think of cool meadows and soft breezes. Relax...Feel the cares of the world slip from your body. Feel your eyes grow heavy. Relax, relax...

“Go back. Go back to the time when you were Katrina Ainsworth. Go back, go back...”

CHAPTER 21

Death and Betrayal

Pennsylvania and Virginia Winter 1777-Spring 1781

It was bitterly cold. Of all things, she would remember that it was bitterly cold. Blood was rapidly staining Percy's coat and spreading onto her fur, and what she could feel more than anything else was frigid cold. Snow flurries had begun to fall against the darkness of the day; they flecked Percy's lashes and his features and seemed barely paler than his face.

He was probably dying. No. She would not let him die. She was determined that he would not die, even as his life's blood seeped away.

But if he lived—if he survived the bullets and the surgeon's efforts to remove them—would he not live only to meet the hangman's noose?

They were alone, for although men rushed around them and she could hear horses' hooves trampling the snow, they were alone. It was a sea of red that surrounded them—British troops. And troops commanded by none other than Lord Charles Palmer, her brother's friend, to whom she had reported ridiculous lies for so many months before the outbreak of war. Lord Palmer, tall and golden and elegant—even in his uniform.

Palmer, smiling with a delighted twist of cruelty to his lips. He had her and he had Percy, and Percy would hang.

Lord Palmer dismounted from his horse and stood over them, slapping the reins idly against his thigh. “Well, well, well. Welcome, my Lady Seymour—ah, alas, 'tis no more Seymour, then, is it? Mrs. Ainsworth. Welcome. Come. Take my hand. Rise. I shall have my surgeon see to your husband's wounds.”

Katrina ignored the hand he offered her. She edged back, cradling Percy's head. “Thank you—no,” she replied icily. “Your surgeon would just as soon slay him as save him, and he would save him only for the executioner's rope.”

“Katrina!” Lord Palmer pretended a wounded reproach. “He is a soldier. Perhaps he could live well and merry, after a few years as a prisoner of war. Who can say?” His pleasant smile faded somewhat. “He will die now if he is not attended to. Surely, my dear, you can see that he bleeds to death.”

She hesitated, uncertain. It was true that he was bleeding profusely, but she didn't trust Charles Palmer.

And yet what did it matter? Her mind and heart were numb with the cold and fear. Percy was dying. Now! She had to do something, anything, to save his life.

Then she could worry about a hangman's noose.

“Why should you help him?” she demanded of Palmer.

“For old times' sake, my dear. For old times' sake.”

He frightened her even more with his courteous and extravagant bow, but she really had little choice. “I wish to be with him when your man removes the musket balls,” she said.

“But of course.” Palmer waved a hand and two men came forward with a litter. Katrina stood to help them, fighting tears as they rolled her husband upon the horse-drawn conveyance.
He would die
, she thought;
he would die whatever she did.

Yet she could not cease trying to save his life. Her own would be worthless if his were forfeited.

“May I help you mount your horse, Katrina?”

“No, I will stay beside him.”

They came to the British camp. Lord Palmer had taken over a small farm manor for his headquarters, while his men and his surgery were stationed in the outbuildings. Running alongside the litter, Katrina was panting and exhausted when they passed by the guards at the manor. Charles, looking down upon her from the height of his magnificent horse, smiled again. “You may stay with him until the surgery is completed and he is sent to bed. Then, please, I shall expect to see you at the house for supper.”

His horse pranced against the snow for a moment; then he was off. “This way, m'am,” said one of his young officers and she was quick to follow, for they were lifting Percy again, carrying him into the old spinning house, which now contained quickly put together trestle tables for the surgeon.

“'Tis Percy Ainsworth!” said the man, working hastily to cut away Percy's clothing from the wounds. He was clad in an apron that was marred with blood, and it seemed that his surgery had already been busy that day. He glanced from his silent patient to Katrina, and perhaps he saw the anguish in her eyes, for he added, “The enemy m'am, but a respected one. A gallant blade, and an honorable one.”

“Yes,” she whispered, feeling a little encouraged. “Please, can you save him?”

She knew that he was thinking he would save the man only for a rope, but he smiled at her, and she knew, too, that he would do his best. God had granted her this blessing. The surgeon believed in his oath to save lives, and he was a good man who would not let Percy die upon his table. “You may assist me,” he told her. He nodded to his two orderlies. “They will need to hold him down.”

She bit into her lower lip and did as the man told her, hurrying behind him to take the metal balls probed from Percy's body, to supply the bandages, sutures, needles, and cloth. Percy rose only once when the surgeon probed and dug; he screamed and fought, and then fell silent. Katrina feared she would faint from the agony of seeing his pain, but she did not. And when it was over, she was rewarded. The kindly surgeon smiled at her and said, “I believe it has been a clean operation. He has lost much blood and will not regain consciousness tonight, but he has a chance to live.”

“Thank you,” Katrina told him. “Thank you so much.”

“His life is out of my hands now,” he told her, then paused. “I am Captain Jack Trelawny, Mrs. Ainsworth. If I can ever be of assistance...”

She thanked him again for his kindness, then anxiously hurried along at Percy's side, for they were moving him to a bed in one of the storage houses. She tried to enter along with him, then started as her way was barred by a cross of bayonets and a lieutenant stepped from the house to speak to her. “The Major General is expecting you now, Mrs. Ainsworth. If you will please follow me...?”

She squared her shoulders and passed him by, feeling dread begin to take hold of her, to cause her to shiver and quake. She would not let them see it, though; these men respected her husband, and she would not prove his wife a coward. She dipped beneath the crossed bayonets. As she had suspected, the guards were at a loss and did not seek to skewer her through.

“Mrs. Ainsworth!”

She spun with all the dignity she could muster. “Lieutenant, I will see to my husband's comfort, then I will come with you.”

Percy was set upon a bed. Jack Trelawny had indeed attended him well. The bandages were clean and he breathed easily. His arm was set in a sling, but he showed no discomfort. His face had lost the terrible gray pallor.

The soldiers left them. She knelt down by his side and she cried, curling her fingers around his. He did not respond. She whispered to him; she told him that she loved him, and she swore to him that it would be all right. She did not know how, but they would be all right.

Percy never moved. He never gave the slightest indication that he heard her. He was far from being out of the woods. Infection could set in; he could come down with pneumonia; his wounds could reopen...

“Mrs. Ainsworth!” It was the lieutenant once again. He cleared his throat. “We've orders to bring you now, m'am, one way or the other.”

She did not doubt that Charles Palmer would order her dragged to the house. She kissed Percy's cold lips hastily, then stood as regally as she could manage. She came to the doorway and stepped down into the snow, adjusting her cloak. “I am ready now, Lieutenant,” she told him quietly.

They trudged through the snow to the farm manor. It was a fine home, made of brick. The lieutenant brought her up the steps to the porch. He left her once the door had opened.

She was in a narrow hallway. Doors led off to the left and to the right, and a dark wooden stairway led up to the second floor.

She wasn't greeted by Lord Palmer, but by a manservant, small and portly, but beautifully liveried. He bowed deeply to her, courteously asking to take her cloak, very much as if she had come to tea. Then he asked her to follow him up the stairway.

On the upper landing, he threw open a door for her. It was a bedroom, a woman's bedroom, with a beautiful canopied bed and soft lace curtains. A fire burned in the grate and before it sat a high-backed wooden bathtub, with steam rising from it. Katrina's mouth tightened as she saw the gown laid out on the bed and the silver tray set on the desk with a flagon of sherry and two crystal glasses.

“Lord Palmer thought you might want to freshen up, Mrs. Ainsworth,” the man began cheerfully, then broke off, for Katrina would have none of it. She marched into the room and took the decanter and threw it against the mantel, and spun on the man. “No, I do not want to freshen up! I do not wish to wash away my husband's blood. I will see Lord Palmer now!”

“Please, please, madam—”

“Why, Jonah, what is the problem here?”

Charles Palmer had come to the doorway, resplendent in his lacy sleeves and satin coat and skintight, white uniform breeches. Had he ever muddied himself upon the battlefield? Katrina wondered.

“Mrs. Ainsworth does not wish to avail herself of the facilities,” Jonah said respectfully.

“Well, then?” With grave disapproval, Lord Palmer arched a golden brow at Jonah. “Mrs. Ainsworth is a guest. She needn't do anything that she doesn't wish. Katrina? Please? The salon is right across the hall, if you will.”

He extended an arm, indicating she should precede him. Katrina nervously did so. She hated having her back to him for one instant. And the more polite and solicitous he grew, the more she began to dread the coming moments.

She kept her head high, though, and swept into the salon. There was a fine, cherry wood desk there, with plush Chippendale chairs set before it. Charles came in behind her, closing the door, and indicating that she should take a chair.

“I would rather stand. I believe our business will be brief.”

“I think not, Katrina. Sit.”

He came before her and pressed her down to the chair, after which he smiled again, affable and apologetic. He locked his hands behind his back and idly roamed around the room.

“Life is strange, isn't it, Katrina?”

“If you say so, Lord Palmer.”

“Please, why should old friends be so formal?”

“We are not old friends.”

“Katrina, I am wounded. All those months before the war you came to us with information. You were a loyal girl then. A fine, loyal girl.”

“I never gave you information,” she said dully, leaning back in the chair to rub her temples. A thunderous headache had begun. “Even then, I was careful never to give you anything you would not have learned in a day or two, anyway. Things that did not matter.”

He made a
tsk
sound and came around to the desk where another decanter sat. He poured out two glasses and offered her one. She shook her head suspiciously.

“Fine wine, Katrina, and nothing more. Please—is it so much to ask? Drink with me. Your husband lives down there, and I could have cast his carcass to the vultures long ago.” He smiled again. Uneasily, she took the wine.

He watched her for a moment, then murmured, “Good, good.” He ambled around behind her once again, pausing at the window. “Are you a spy now too, Katrina?” he asked pleasantly.

“No,” she murmured dully.

“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company here? It was such a boon, my dear, to find you at your husband's side.”

She sighed, wondering if he would believe her or not, wondering if she cared. “Intuition, Lord Palmer. I was afraid. When he rode out, I was afraid. And so I followed him.”

“How lucky for us!” Palmer murmured. She flinched; he had come up behind her and his hand rested on her shoulder. “Do you know, my dear, I was quite taken with you. I intended to marry you. I would even have married you after your affair with Ainsworth—except that you ran away with him. I was your friend, Katrina. I cared for you so very much.”

Katrina held silent. For a few blessed minutes, she wanted to believe that a miracle could occur. That Charles Palmer was offering her friendship. That he would arrange for her and Percy to disappear behind the rebel lines.

“You were my friend,” she whispered. Then she spun around, anxious to meet his eyes. She dared to rest her fingers against his. “Oh, Charles! Are you truly my friend? Can you help us? I know that Percy is wanted, but you've power here yourself. You've given him life already; will you help us?”

He withdrew his hand from hers and walked around to draw out the chair and sit behind his desk. He lifted a glass to her.

“I intend to help you.”

“Oh, Charles—” she said eagerly, relief sweeping through her.

“For a price!” he interrupted sharply.

She sank back and lowered her eyes. She didn't want to anger him. She wanted to reason with him. “Charles, I—I can't. I—I—am married to him.”

He sat back and laughed, really amused with the statement. “So is many a lady willfully playing a parlor game, my dear. Truly, Katrina, that is one of your greatest attractions, that innocence you maintain through everything.”