“What?”
“You. And do you know what I love about you in particular?”
“What?”
“Well...” He lowered his lips to her ear. With an artist's graphic detail, he described what he loved.
“We've barely been away—”
“We've been away too long. Come on; let's get to the car.”
In an hour they were home. It was strange, Gayle thought, that she could already think so easily of Brent's house as “home.” Sometimes she thought that it was presumptuous—they weren't married yet. But it wasn't the house that she was thinking of as home—she had her own perfectly good house, and she liked it very well and Brent liked it very well too. Where Brent was—that was home, Gayle realized. And maybe that was a little frightening too. It had come fast, very fast. They were so dependent upon one another. Not in the sense of needing crutches—they were both by nature very independent people, capable and confident. She didn't need to know where he was every second—but when he was gone for too many seconds, she simply longed to see him again, to touch him, to be with him.
As they stepped into the entryway Brent swept her off her feet and into his arms.
“Hey!” She protested. But her arms twined around him.
“Hey!” Long, long strides took them to the stairway; he seemed to take the steps two at a time.
“We really haven't been away that long,” she teased him softly, playing with a strand of his hair.
“It seems like forever.”
In minutes they were in his bedroom. In seconds they had fumbled out of their clothing. Gayle caught his face between her hands when he rose, taut and hard, above her.
“Do you think that we could ever grow tired of each other?”
“Never.”
“Really?”
“Gayle!”
“What?”
“Could we discuss this later?”
She convulsed into a spate of giggles, but then the laughter faded and the heat began to rise. No, she could never, never grow tired of him. Never grow tired of loving him, of waking to his face, handsome or gaunt, young or old, beside hers. With his touch, she flew. She soared. She touched the heavens.
They made love and then relaxed against each other. And then more slowly he began to make love to her again. Instinct had taught him her erogenous zones; practice had made him such a lover that she could not resist, and he never failed to arouse her again at will. He knew where to kiss and where to stroke, and to kiss and stroke at once, and he could read every slight nuance of her movement. He left her exhausted and yet exhilarated, and when she drifted to sleep she would think of the little things that she loved so much, the feel of his body touching hers, wet and slick, still, sometimes, within her. She would smile at the thought of his hands, big hands, rough in a way, betraying emotion when he worked, betraying it in his slightest touch upon her.
That night was no different. She drifted to sleep feeling loved, feeling contented, feeling deeply, sweetly sated. His hand lay upon her hip; she was curled to his chest. She fell asleep, imagining, dreaming, his face, his smile, his laughter. She was at peace. All was incredibly right with the world.
That made the nightmare all the worse. She was drifting off so pleasantly. She could see the wedding, her gown, white, as she wanted it. Chad, Geoff, Liz, and Tina were there, and of course Brent was there. He was wonderfully handsome, so tall and so sure...his words were so strong as he gave his vows. His lips were so warm when they touched hers...
It began with the woman in the aisle. She blocked them when they would have walked down it together. At first Gayle was merely puzzled, and then she was concerned. “I don't want anything!” She shouted. “Just the house and the car and blood. I want blood, I want blood, I want blood...”
Mist filled the room. It wasn't a pretty mist like a spring fog. It was evil. Evil and foul-smelling. It began to color things, and Gayle was very afraid that she would pass out from the smell of it. She reached for Brent's hand, but he was no longer there. She looked and then she realized that he had withdrawn from her, that he was staring at her furiously, that he was screaming at her.
“Traitor!” His face was taut with hatred and passion. “Traitorous—bitch!”
He struck her. He slapped her so hard that she fell to the ground. She clutched her cheek, and blood ran down her beautiful, pure white wedding gown. “No!” She shrieked in return, bewildered and hurt. “No! I don't want the house. I'd never take the house or the car or—”
“My soul, you whore, you stole my soul!”
The mist was green, swirling and swirling around her. It grew darker and darker as Brent came closer and closer to her. She was terrified of him, absolutely terrified.
“No!”
“Bitch. Lying, traitorous bitch!”
The mist grew blacker by the instant. Desperately, she tried to crawl away from him. It was Brent. She shouldn't be so afraid.
But it was Brent as she had never known him, and she was in mortal fear.
“No!”
It became black, completely black. She screamed with all of her heart, and then there was no more.
* * *
“Gayle!”
When she awoke, she was soaked in sweat. She was shaking and trembling. His arms were around her tightly. “Gayle! Sweetheart, what is it, what is it?”
Mist and blackness faded away. Brent flicked on the bedside light. She saw his face. She had been terrified, but when she saw his face the fear began to slide away. “I'll get you some water—” he began.
“No!” She reached out for him, burying her face against his chest, seeking the shelter of his arms. “No, no, no, don't leave me!”
“Gayle—”
“Oh!”
He stroked her hair and he held her very close. “You had a nightmare. It's over now.”
“Yes.”
“You're still trembling. I'm here. I love you. It's over. It's all right.”
“Oh...I know. I was just—so frightened.”
“Of what?”
Of what...? She thought and thought, but she didn't know. She shook her head.
“Sweetheart, talk about it. That can make it better. Bring it out into the open.”
“I—can't remember.” She laughed, nervously at first, and then more easily. She was able to sit up at last and smile at him ruefully. “Oh, Brent, I woke you up. I'm so sorry. I woke you up because I had a nightmare—and, I swear, I can't remember a second of it. Isn't that crazy?”
He smiled and pulled her back against him, ruffling her hair. “Absolutely crazy. You're a Looney Tunes, but I love you anyway.”
“I love you,” she promised him and then, absurdly, she fought the urge to cry. To cry, to mourn, for something that had come and gone, for something that had been...lost.
“You okay now?”
“Yes. Just hold me.”
He looked at her for a moment. He offered her an encouraging smile, then reached over and turned off the light. “If I hold you, am I allowed to get carried away?”
“You can't possibly—”
“But I can. More than possibly. Really. Want to check it out? Here—feel.”
He led her hand to him and he had her laughing again. He said he was really, really sorry, but she did have this unique ability to keep him constantly horny. She told him it was a horrible word and he said he thought it was a damned good one, and when it was all over again, she was thinking once more about how much she loved him. By the time he had finished with her, she had forgotten that she had ever been frightened. She remembered only that she was very, very much in love and deeply, intimately, loved in return.
It was only when she slept again that fragments of her dream returned to haunt her.
CHAPTER 8
The Ball
Williamsburg, Virginia June 1774
Lady Dearling was having a ball. A costume ball.
The carriages lining the street were fine; the apparel of the guests was even finer.<
br />
Katrina seldom had anything to say to her brother these days. As they made their way to the ball, Elizabeth attempted to chat gaily. Henry grunted now and then; Katrina attempted to smile. When they reached Lady Dearling's at last, Henry took hold of her elbow. “Take care, my lovely!” he whispered to her in warning.
Katrina wrenched her arm away and hurried down the walkway bordered by Lady Dearling's spring daisies. She prayed that Percy would not make an appearance here, but it was rumored that Lady Dearling refused to believe that Williamsburg could become embroiled in political conflict. Politics were not to be discussed in her home. She welcomed her friends, and that was it.
It was very likely that Percy would be in attendance here. And Colonel Washington might well come, and any number of other dissidents. Only Lady Dearling would be so brash as to throw such a party. But she was a very gracious woman, and it was doubtful that any man would be so rude as to brawl in her home.
Katrina wore a bird mask, an elegant and elaborate creation of cobalt blue. The feathers fluffed out about her face, and the collar caught the brocade pattern of her petticoat. Her dress was soft white, caught in flowers above her knees to display the beautiful fabric of her petticoat.
“Elizabeth!” Lady Dearling greeted her sister-in-law first, and the two women—masked alike in ostrich feathers—hugged one another as they laughed. Katrina noted that Lady Dearling was not so quick to hug Henry.
“And dear Katrina! How you are growing, child!”
Behind her mask, Lady Dearling winked at Katrina as if they shared some wonderful secret. Katrina stared at Lady Dearling, her eyes widening. But other guests were arriving and Katrina had to move through the breezeway to the ballroom on the right. There, musicians played and couples danced in elegant splendor. She heard the spinet and the flute and the sweet sad cry of a fiddler. To her left was a buffet table piled high with delicacies. To her right was a snowy-clothed table with a crystal punch bowl and an assortment of fine glasses.
“Ah, Katrina! The night is now alight with radiance! You are here. Shall we dance?”
Charles Palmer, wearing a lion's mask, came to her, claiming her hand. She clenched her teeth. “I think not,” she murmured to him.
“Nonsense. Katrina would love to dance.” Henry pressed her forward into the man's arms. Perhaps she did prefer to dance, she thought. The alternative was a walk in the gardens. Lord Palmer would try to kiss her and pretend that nothing horrible and ugly had ever been forced upon her.
He swept her out onto the floor. He was an adequate dancer and Katrina set her mind to listen to the music. People greeted them on the floor. Katrina tried to smile and answer.
Across the hall, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man moving fleetly toward her. He was dressed in fine white breeches with a blue brocade coat and a lace-trimmed shirt. He wore no wig, but his hair was queued at his nape. He wore the beaked mask of a hawk, with brown feathers completely concealing his features.
But Katrina's heart began to pound so loudly she thought others around her might hear it.
It was Percy. She recognized the breadth of his shoulders, and she recognized the confident, cocky sway of his walk. Just beneath the edge of the mask she could see his mouth, the sensuous lips forming a devilish smile as he approached her.
No! She thought, and she could barely breathe. Don't come to me now, while Lord Palmer is here to see us both!
But he did come to her. Audaciously, determined, he stepped up to them. With perfect courtesy, he tapped upon Lord Palmer's shoulder and then he bowed low before them both.
“Sir, I beg your permission to dance with the lady!”
Palmer smiled stiffly, then gave way to protocol. He bowed, handing Katrina's hand to the stranger. “My dear...”
He hadn't recognized Percy, she realized. She curtsied back to him with relish and, as soon as his back was turned, she allowed her amusement to show in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes.
“Alas! The poor man is not aware that he has turned a devoted Tory over to a most disreputable Yank!”
Percy did not reply at first. He swept her across the floor. The sweet tone of the flute seemed to enter into her then, a sensation of liquid pleasure. The music was more beautiful now that she had changed partners.
“Alas,” Percy murmured dryly in return. “The man does not know that he wishes to wed a vixen!”
“Oh! Is that your opinion of me, sir? Perhaps I should dance with another.”
“Nay.” His eyes, behind the mask, seared into her. “Nay, love, you are, in truth, intended to dance with no one else at all, ever again.”
She cast back her head, laughing. It was delicious to flirt with him. Her mind was spinning, her heart reeled. It was madness! She was afraid, and yet she was delighted. She hadn't wanted to see him because she hadn't wanted to play the spy. But he was here now, and she could not deny that she had longed for him, no matter what. She could not do as Henry ordered her—she couldn't. But neither could she pull away from this man. No, she could not deny Percy's touch.
“Sir, you are a braggart. Far too confident of yourself.”
“Nay, Katrina, I but see the truth.”
With those words, he swept her toward the terrace doors, which were open to the pleasant spring evening. The moon rode high overhead, and the intoxicating scent of Lady Dearling's first roses wafted around them. She had hated him many times, Katrina reminded herself. He had dragged her into a barn once, and now he was dragging her beneath the trellis where the vines would hide them from all eyes.
He stripped away their masks, and for a moment they stared at one another.
“I think, sir, that you forget who I am,” Katrina said haughtily.
“Oh, no, Katrina. I never forget who you are. Not for a minute.”
He was laughing at her! She swept past him, but he hurried along beside her, down the trellised garden path.
“You've no right to snatch me from the ball.”
“It seems you are the one walking away from it.”
Katrina stopped abruptly, indignantly turning around to face him. He laughed openly, capturing her arms and pulling her close to him.
Henry had ordered her to see him, she remembered bitterly.
As a loyalist, she prayed that she could sway him to her cause. If she didn't, the Tories would kill them. But in their treachery they at least gave her time, for they wanted Percy Ainsworth to be among the rebels now; they wanted his information.
It was strange that none of it seemed to matter, none of it at all, at this moment with the moon so high above them, the spring night so very sweet and fragrant.
His arms about her and his taunting smile warm. Warm, and yet still so assured. He smiled, leaning toward her as if he would kiss her. Katrina swiftly eluded his arms, trembling inwardly but offering him an innocent smile. She tapped her foot against the ground. “Why, listen!” she exclaimed. “Tis an Irish tune they play.”
“And you long to dance?” There was skepticism in his voice. He leaned easily against the trellis, a fine figure with his broad shoulders and tight breeches.
He was teasing her still, she thought. And she wanted to see him pine desperately for her! He was far too relaxed. Katrina fought to maintain her smile. “But of course. It is a ball.”
“An elegant ball.”
“A beautiful ball,” she agreed.
A smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, but no more beautiful than the moon or Lady Dearling's summer roses. Or the lady who stands beneath the one and amongst the other.”
Katrina couldn't prevent the laughter that came to her then, or the delight. He pushed away from the trellis suddenly and caught her elbow, hurrying toward the heavily ivied arbor. She was glad of the tension about him, of the urgency with which he touched her.
“Percy! Really! We're within public view—”
“Nay, lady, we are not!”
They were deep in the arbor. She leaned against a trellis, breathless. She felt his eyes upon her a
nd his movement against her. She knew then that he was going to kiss her.
“Percy, no!”
She tried to elude him again, but she could not. His lips fell against hers lightly, and she struggled to free herself from his arms. But his warmth and fever filled her. Weakly, she shoved against him. She tried to twist her face away from his. “Percy, no!”
“Katrina, yes.” His eyes were upon her. They carried all the desperation and hunger she had longed to see. He moved toward her and, this time, she stood still. She awaited his lips with sweet anticipation. His mouth fused hungrily against hers and she freely wrapped her arms around his neck. Her fingers played against his nape and she held him close while she savored his manly scent and the strength of his touch and the caress of his lips, the stroke of his tongue.
She had meant to ask him all kinds of things. Where would the rebels meet again? What were they planning? But when he drew away from her at last, she could barely stand. She closed her eyes and swallowed, and when she gazed at him again it was with a rueful smile. Tease, he had called her. Well, it must be true, for it was the role cast upon her.
“Lady, I have missed you.”
“Have you? I would have thought you were much too busily involved in your plotting and disloyalty to miss...me.”
“Disloyalty? Lady, I am a member of the House of Burgesses. I come when we are in session.”
“And you do not do all your talking in the House.”
He smiled. “Minx! Ah, you want to know what we are up to, eh, love?” She flushed and attempted to pull away. He held her close. “My love, I assure you there is no treachery afoot. We are gentlemen who enjoy our ale and our port, and that is all. I promise, it is all that anyone can prove.”
He kissed her, lightly, provocatively, upon the cheek, then upon the throat. She turned away, her flesh burning. She fought hard to remember her purpose in coming here.
“And when else do you gentlemen meet?”
“Whenever we can.”
“And where—”
“Try the Raleigh,” he laughed. Katrina bit her lip. He was so bold and reckless, she feared for him. He caught her elbow and he pulled her back into his arms. He bent to kiss her again, and the kiss deepened until she felt that a flame burned between them and about them. And when he pulled away from her that time, neither of them was laughing. His eyes were fire when they lit upon her, and his words were rough and husky. “I must have you. I must! I love you, Katrina. I swear by all that is holy, I love you. I will love you forever.”
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