Every Time I Love You (5 page)

When Liz's car drove away, the parking lot seemed very empty. The air was cool. They were silent together, watching Liz's taillights disappear.

“Come on,” Brent said after a moment. “I'll take you home.”

“You came in your own car?” She asked him. She was nervous. She wanted to be with him; she wanted to lock a door a mile thick between them.

“We all brought our own cars.”

“No one ever harasses you?”

“No one knows who I am.”

“They will tomorrow.”

“Yes. Still, not many people really notice artists. But then again—maybe being there in person is a bad idea.”

“Oh, no! You can't back out now! Geoffrey would be heartbroken.”

“My work will be there, one way or another. It's already hung, isn't it?”

“Yes. But, you might not like the way I arranged the paintings.”

“Trying to guarantee I'll make it, huh?”

“It's true. I'm sure you want your own more aesthetic eye upon it all.”

“Pose for me. You'll have a royal guarantee.”

“Sorry. I can't be bribed.”

“Too bad.”

Brent stopped next to an old Mach I Mustang. “This is yours?” Gayle demanded, looking at the big black air scoops and wondering just how old the vehicle was.

“It's mine.”

He opened the passenger door for her. She sank into a nicely upholstered leather seat. He came around and sat down, quickly revving the engine, then looking at her.

“I don't know where you live.”

She gave him her address. A silence fell between them as he shifted out into traffic. She was almost afraid to speak. She had to know something about him.

“Where do you live?” She asked.

“North, towards Fredricksburg,” he answered shortly, then added, “a nice little house, with a big loft. I like it.”

She nodded. It wasn't really what she wanted to ask him. She wanted to know if he was seeing anyone; she wanted to know just how many women he had had in his life. She wanted to know if he drank his coffee black, what he ate for breakfast, and if he slept in the nude or in pajama bottoms.

The car stopped. She realized that they had come to Monument Avenue and her house. He wasn't moving to let her out. He had shifted casually, watching her in the shadows of night.

She turned to him too. She didn't know if she should run or if she could possibly ask him in casually for coffee and brandy. She wanted to tell him that she was attracted to him but that he was moving way too fast for her. She didn't know what she really wanted at all, except that she didn't want him walking out of her life.

She didn't say anything. She didn't know what possessed her, but she felt as if she had to touch him. She shifted; she reached over and cupped her palm around his cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard. She felt the pattern of his jaw and a pulse against his throat. And somehow she knew that if she kissed him he would remain passive for a moment, then become the aggressor, nearly ravaging her mouth.

She brought her lips to his, lightly, and then she waited, but he didn't move. Some wonderful smell that was more pure male than cologne caused a riot of sensations to wash through her, and she hesitantly teased his lower lip with her tongue.

His arms wrapped around her, strong and sure. And his mouth covered hers, his tongue plunged deeply and erotically into the recesses of her mouth. Odd, that he touched her lips and the excitement swept to her abdomen. It was wonderful. It filled a void; it began an aching.

His fingers shoved at her coat, parting it. She felt his hand on her breast, thumbs teasing her nipples beneath the material. He wasn't still. His hand was on her thigh in record time.

It was too fast, yet it was incredibly natural. She barely pulled back in time and when she did, she was flushed and felt ashamed. It was her own fault. She had led him on. She wanted him, she wanted everything. It was still wrong, and she had never acted this way before in her life. Like a tease.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I'm sorry.” She wrapped her coat around her shoulders. She couldn't look at him. “I'm sorry, really. It's my fault. I—uh—I don't do things like this. Not until I've known someone for a long, long time.”

He didn't say anything for a while. At last he opened the car door and came around for her.

“You don't have to walk me in,” Gayle said miserably.

“Yes, I do.”

She fell silent. He led her along the walk and to her door. He didn't try to come in. She stood there, awkward, ready to cry. In the hall light, he seemed very mature, very much the man. She thought again that he was striking, that he had everything, that he was fascinating, and that she longed to rest her head against his shoulder. She didn't dare.

He touched her cheek.

“Next time, my love, be ready to finish what you start.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”

“Then don't kiss me again—until you do mean it.”

“You don't understand. I said that I was sorry.”

“I do understand. And I know that you're sorry. I'm just telling you—be sure that you do mean all of your actions in the future.”

“You needn't worry,” she promised him softly as she twisted her key in the lock. “There really isn't going to be a future.”

“Yes, there is. We both know that.”

She raised her head to protest. The moonlight was falling down upon his dark hair, upon his wide shoulders. Gayle trembled, aware of the shadows that played across his face. She parted her lips to speak, but no words would come.

“Good night, Gayle,” he said politely. “I'll see you at the gallery tomorrow.”

He turned and walked back down the path to his car. Gayle stepped into the house and locked the door, still trembling.

She kicked her shoes off and pulled out her oldest flannel nightgown. She washed her face and brushed her teeth and tried to go to sleep.

“He's the most obnoxious man I've ever met,” she assured the ceiling. Tomorrow would come, the showing would take place, and then he would leave and she would never have to see him again.

Her heart began to thunder painfully. No...

She tossed and turned in bed. She touched her lips and remembered how his had felt there, and then she started to burn, realizing that she was wondering how he would look naked.

And how he would feel naked, lying beside her. Here, in this bed.

It was a strange night for Gayle. She continued to toss and turn for hours, and when she did sleep she fell into a realm of deep, deep dreams.

CHAPTER
3

Percy

Williamsburg, Virginia May 1774

The first time he saw her—the very first time—he knew that he would move heaven and earth to have her.

And he learned quickly that such a miracle might very well be required.

It was a beautiful day in May. The sun had just dried the dew on the grass and cleared away the mist as Percy at long last reached the road into Williamsburg. Although the journey had been long, he smiled, enjoying the simple beauty of the day. It was almost as if life were just beginning; there was so much splendor in nature all around him.

The roads were slushy that May. As he rode into town, Percy ruefully acknowledged the fact that he was covered with mud from his boots to his tricorn. His neat cream breeches were spotted in several places, and even his navy coat betrayed soiled spots. Well, it couldn't be helped.

Once he'd had Goliath shod at the blacksmith's, he'd head straight for Mr. Griffith's tavern and see about his own appearance. He was much more accustomed to buckskins and unbleached cotton, but Colonel Washington had warned him that maintaining an elegant appearance might well help him sway citizens to the rebel's position.

“What, whoa there, Percy!”

The cry came from the green before the tavern, just down the road from the Governor's house. “James!” Percy smiled and called the greeting, sliding from Goliath's back. James Whitstead, his friend from the next county, came hurrying toward him, his hand outstretched in greeting. Percy accepted it with enthusiasm.

“Why, Percy, look at you, will you!” James demanded, standing back to survey him. “Where's my country clod, eh? You're looking fine, man, I tell you, with or without the buckskin!” He tapped his knuckles against Percy's shoulder. “No wig though. Alas! How gauche. We'll work on appearance.”

“We'll work on nothing,” Percy promised, absently pulling upon the dark queue of his own hair. He looked past James and saw that an older man was approaching them, a pleasant smile on his face.

“He'll not need a wig, I daresay,” the man observed, shaking Percy's hand firmly. “I daresay he'll do quite well with our ladies, eh? From what I've seen, a fine pair of shoulders and a gleam in the eye, such as this lad's, do greater wonders upon the, ahem—soul—than any flight of fashion.”

“I thank you, sir!” Percy laughed and eagerly surveyed the gentleman. He was Patrick Henry, the great orator who had first filled him with revolutionary fervor. Henry was not an old man—on the contrary, he was not yet forty. But James and Percy had both just passed their twentieth birthdays, and Henry appeared very mature to them. He also was a man of formidable presence. When he spoke, the walls seemed to shake and shiver.

“Will you have a pint with us, Percy?” young James demanded.

“Aye, I will. Goliath has shed a shoe and as soon as I've had him tended to, I'll be glad of a pint. If—”

He broke off because he was forced to do so. A carriage came sweeping along so quickly that Goliath reared and shied. More mud came sloshing over his clothing, his boots, his breeches—and even Goliath.

“God's blood!” Percy swore, then he laughed with a fair share of hostility for the speeding carriage, for its haste caused sure disaster as the axle cracked, the wheel flew off, and the frame crashed neatly to the ground.

“Ah, sir! See what your rudeness has accomplished!” Patrick called.

The coachman, a slim, dour-faced fellow in the Governor's livery, cast an evil glare their way. He hopped to the ground, eager to reach the doors. Yet when he stood, he began to walk dizzily in a circle and then fell to the ground.

Percy raced over to him, ducking down to seek a pulse. He looked up at the other two. “He is alive.”

They'd attracted a gathering then. A hostile one, so it seemed, for in these grievous days no one could quite decide who was friend or foe.

“Dazed, I suppose,” called someone.

“Racing through here like a hellion, 'tis what he deserved.”

“On the damned Governor's business!” someone else swore.

“Give the poor man aid!” cried one goodwife, and she hurried to the crowd, smiling at Percy before she knelt by the fellow, a cool cloth in her hand to bathe his face.

Percy turned to the carriage then, aware that someone must be inside it. He stood and started to walk toward it and then started to run. He reached the doors just as they flew open, and the woman appeared. Actually, she was little more than a girl. A bit of a thing, scrambling from the cockeyed angle of the coach to gain her balance and jump down, her voluminous skirts and petticoats hindering her progress. She caught hold of the door and saw Percy's eyes upon her and the laughter deep within them.

He did not know if she was so much beautiful as she was breathtaking. She was dressed in a gown of royal blue velvet, a color that matched her eyes, with all the fire of daylight streaming from them. Tendrils of hair, golden and rich, escaped her cap to curl about her nape and throat and bosom. She was deeply agitated, he saw, and outraged at his laughter. He scanned the riot of her petticoats and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts with bold speculation, his own breath quickening as he reached for her hand to help her.

“Knave!” she snapped. “A gentleman would not—”

“I know not what a gentleman would do, milady,” Percy said, swiftly reaching for her and lifting her from the floor of the coach, and holding her against himself for those few seconds before her feet could touch the ground. Her body, next to his. Her eyes, burning deep into his very soul. He inhaled, and she filled him. He would never forget her eyes, her fingers, delicate but strong upon his shoulders. Looking into her eyes, he smiled slowly and continued to speak. “But a man? A plain and simple man, milady, could not help but be eager to hold you.”

She did not respond. For aeons she stared into his eyes.

And for aeons he returned that stare, his eyes narrowing as he made a silent promise.

“Percy, is she well?” Mr. Henry called to him.

He saw her eyes widen; he saw the horror and then the fury within them.

“Percy! Percy Ainsworth.” She struggled furiously to free herself from his grasp. “The traitor!”

He laughed dryly and set her down, then swept his tricorn from his head. “Traitor? Nay, lady. Just a patriot, and no other.”

“A traitor!” she spat back. “A backwoods traitor. Step aside, sir, and let me pass.”

He grit his teeth and maintained his smile. “So soon? Why I had thought we were just coming to know each other.”

“Let me by!” When she tried to move past him, her elegant skirt caught upon the footstep of the carriage and she was thrown toward him. He caught her within his arms, lest she topple into the mud in the road. “Oh!” She cried in furious distress. “Let me go, I say!”

He laughed, and then it seemed that something caught in his throat and he heard himself whispering to her.

“Lady, I do believe you're eager to be in my arms.”

“I do believe you are rude as well as brash!”

“Am I, then?” He felt her shiver, just as it seemed lightning streaked a burning path throughout him. His smile faded and his laughter disappeared.

Who was she?

“Lady,” he promised her softly. “You will be mine.”

“You are mad! Do you know who I am, bumpkin?”

“Nay, lady, tell me, for I have to know.”

“Katrina Seymour,” she informed him with a quiet dignity. “I am the sister of Lord Seymour!”

Seymour. The fiercest of the Tory advocates. His Lordship.

He smiled bitterly. “You will be mine. But lady, I do beg you. Please, you mustn't fall into my arms so openly. We are making a public display.”

“Oh!” She strangled out the sound, struggling again for balance, so eager to quit herself of him. He worked to free her skirts to release her. He felt the rush of her breath against his cheek and the tremors that raged through her.

He laughed softly, able to release her at last, meeting her eyes once more before she could escape. “Tonight, Lady Seymour?” His eyes teased her, as did his voice. “Just south of town—”

Her delicate palm nearly cracked against his face. He caught it and pulled her close. “I will see you again.”

She pushed from him. “You insolent—”

“Yankee bastard?”

She hesitated and smiled, unable to resist the humor of the situation. “That will do quite well, thank you!”

He freed her skirt and steadied her. “You do need a man, milady.”

“And you think you're that man?” She had a wonderful laugh. High, flushed cheekbones, and an impudent chin that raised high with her laughter.

“I know it.”

“You're insane.”

“The time will come when I'll need but lift a hand, and you will run to me.”

“Nay, sir, for I do believe you'll soon be hanging from a tree!” She flounced past him, bending down to see to her coachman. Percy noticed that she said soft words to him and that when he stood she slipped an arm about him to assist him.

James came over to stand beside him.

“I have to see her again,” Percy murmured.

“Are you daft? Do you know who she is?”

“Aye,” Percy murmured distractedly.

“She's Seymour's sister. Seymour wouldn't wipe his boots on the likes of us. And she's as outspoken as he, a Tory to the heart, that's what she is.”

Percy shook his head slowly. “Nay. Tory...that is what she believes. What she is—”

“Percy, my friend, you are worrying me. The world is about to be split asunder, and you are behaving like a madman.”

Percy ignored him, his grin deepening. “She is a woman, my friend. The only woman in this world—or any other—for me.” He offered James another grin, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Let's hie to the blacksmith's man, shall we? Then we can drag Mr. Henry into the tavern, close the doors to all but the brave, and hear what he'll be saying at the next convention!”