It was a rude shock when, two weeks later, basket in hand, she sauntered to market—and saw Jamie MacIver strolling across the village green. Looking even more handsome than usual in his sleeveless brown leather jerkin and square-toed shoes, his fair head was bent over a plump blushing village maid who skipped along beside him. He had looked up to see Lenore, who had come to a halt, her mouth open, regarding him. Seeing her stiffen, he had nodded affably. Then with a sweet smile he’d forgotten Lenore and had taken the hand of the simpering girl beside him and lightly stroked her arm so that she burst into a rapture of giggles.
Her face stained red with anger, Lenore had whirled about. With her market basket still empty, she had curtly brushed by two young bucks, ignoring their extravagant bows, and stalked home to nurse her hurt pride. It was a terrible setback to her vanity indeed, for already she had counted Jamie MacIver her own—a new notch to be scratched into the red heels of her best shoes—and here he was hovering over somebody else! And after showing such interest in her that day at the smithy!
She had flung the front door of the cottage open violently and almost collided with her brother-in-law, Tom Prattle, sober for once, and just going out to rectify that, no doubt. He skipped nimbly out of her way, for all his girth, and yowled, “Ho there, Lenore! Have a look where ye’re going!”
Lenore scarcely heard him. She’d rushed past her surprised sister, who was sorting through her mending on a bench by the window, and hurried up the crude stairs to stare into the little sheet of polished metal that served her as a mirror. Why, she had asked her beautiful reflection stormily, had Jamie not chosen her? Everybody else did!
She did not ask herself why it should matter so much.
As the weeks passed, Jamie continued to flash his bright smiled in Lenore’s direction—but always with some other girl dangling happily from his arm. Lenore seethed. In a town where young girls often served their male callers honey-cakes, Jamie sampled all the sweets of the village . . . but not Lenore’s. It was becoming painfully clear to her that carefree Jamie was as big a flirt as she was.
Cornering the Scot became Lenore’s main ambition.
She managed to be near him at church—but that did no good. There, as at the marketplace, Jamie always seemed to be surrounded by sweet young things who smiled coquettishly.
Lenore persevered. She found so many pretexts to bring her horse to the smithy that Flora scowled at the sight of her. But then gaunt Flora scowled at all the pretty girls who chased her handsome younger brother. Sometimes Lenore wondered why.
Time passed, and still fickle Jamie played the field. By now he had tasted not only all the single honey-cakes the village had to offer, but some of the married ones as well, and there were rumblings against the young Scot in some quarters. But his tall sister Flora could stare down anyone with her fierce mien, and so far no one had charged him with adultery or brought a bairn to his door.
Incensed that Jamie should prefer others to her, Lenore bided her time.
Meg, frailer than ever, had gotten pregnant again.
Lenore had implored her many times to leave Tom, insisting they could go away together and find work in some far village. Meg was adamant about staying and desperately tried to placate her bully of a husband. One night, while Lenore was sleeping, Tom had come home drunk and, with a bellow, had kicked Meg across the room. She’d hit her head on the doorjamb as she fell. Lenore had waked at the racket and rushed in to find Meg unconscious on the floor and Tom himself, passed out and snoring loudly, sprawled across a bench.
With murder in her heart, Lenore had picked up the poker from the hearth. She might even have brought it down on Tom’s head, but at that moment Meg had stirred and moaned and Lenore had flung it aside to kneel beside Meg.
“Are you bad hurt, Meg?” she’d asked anxiously as her sister’s eyes fluttered open.
Meg had given her a wan smile which faded as she saw the poker lying on the floor. “Did Tom hit me with that?” she’d wondered in horror, touching the side of her head with her fingertips and wincing.
“No, I was about to use it on him,” said Lenore dryly, and Meg had seized her wrist in an anxious grip and whispered, “No, no, you mustn’t,” and let Lenore help her to bed. The next day, though Lenore urged her to stay in bed, Meg had insisted on getting up and going about her household chores as if nothing had happened. It was washday, and Lenore was inside sorting clothes when she heard Meg scream.
Meg had been drawing water from the well; she had reeled dizzily from her concussion and tumbled over the low stone side into the well. Lenore had managed to pull her out, clinging to the wooden bucket. But Meg had been injured internally against the rough stones in her fall. That afternoon she had miscarried and neither the midwife—nor the doctor, hastily called—had been able to stop the bleeding.
Lenore had watched her sister’s life drain away in a red flood, but had been unable to save her.
Tom Prattle was found and sobered up and marched home. But he was too late to tell his young wife goodbye. He sat there in a daze mumbling to himself and was still so shocked he could only stumble to the churchyard to see her laid to rest among the mossy stones.
Even through her grief, Lenore knew that she should leave. It was no good staying, on in the cottage with her brutal, drunken brother-in-law. She should take her pick of the eager swains who haunted the cottage and marry.
She postponed her decision, striking a truce with her brother-in-law, cooking his meals and ignoring his frequent absences and drunken ways. As her mourning for her beloved sister subsided, Lenore once again found her thoughts turning to Jamie.
Then last Midsummer’s Eve there’d been dancing around the big bonfire on the low green hill outside the town (dancing was forbidden by the harsh laws of the Lord Protector, but most villagers ignored that; for time out of mind the people of Twainmere had danced round “St. John’s fires” at summer solstice). Fiery-haired Lenore, with her lissome waist and swaying walk, had been eagerly sought as a partner. Soon Dick Fall and Stephen Moffat were warring over which would claim her for the next dance. Fired by the memory of her casual kisses in the May-flowering fields both young bucks were the worse for ale and clamoring loudly. It would have been easy for Lenore to choose between them and stop their brawling.
But nearby Jamie was watching. A very handsome Jamie in a white linen collar Flora had laundered to snowy perfection and buff trousers that showed the leanness of his hard thighs. Eager that he should see how other men felt about her, Lenore shrugged and let the matter come to blows, saying crisply she’d dance with the winner.
Amid disapproving glances, Dick and Stephen tore off their woolen jerkins and somewhat unsteadily squared off to fight. From the corner of her eye Lenore watched Jamie. He appeared unmoved. Blows were exchanged, and soon the friends of each began to cheer on the contestants. For a time Lenore stood with the group and watched bitterly as the two young men surged back and forth, smashing big country fists into each other’s faces. She pouted angrily—both of them were already so bruised and bloody they’d be no fit dancing partners when they finished!
Abruptly she’d turned her head to find Jamie watching her with a narrow concentration. Her heart gave a lurch. She knew that look! It was interest—the interest of a man in a maid. And interest was but a prelude to desire ....
On impulse Lenore had eased her way from the cheering crowd and wandered off to the deserted other side of the big bonfire where the bright flames made dancing red and yellow patterns on the dark forest trees. From the corner of her eye she could see the handsome young Scot all the girls wanted follow her with his light catlike step.
When they were entirely out of sight of the others, alone beside the roaring fire, she had whirled to face him. Her white dress was turned to fiery orange-red like her hair by the rippling flames. Jamie, too, had stopped short and stood negligently, measuring her with his narrow glance.
With sparkling eyes they had faced each other there, the flirt and t
he philanderer. Without a word being spoken, a challenge was flung, a challenge accepted.
Then he had swooped a low bow and taken her hand. And there in the leaping light of the flames of summer solstice they had danced—a skipping country dance— after which he’d whirled her into the shadow of a big oak trunk and clasped her in his sturdy arms and drunk deep of her kisses.
Lenore was shocked by her tingling response to his touch. She was a tease, well accustomed to arousing men’s passions without ever satisfying them, always cool, always the absolute mistress of her emotions.
But not tonight!
CHAPTER 2
Tonight Lenore found herself reluctantly being drawn into a leaping shadow world of desire enhanced by the dark forest and the roaring flames, a world whose boundaries she knew but sketchily. Aware that her fiery spirit was aflame with the crackle and excitement of the fire, the Scot had traced his own fiery trail with his hands along her neck and arms and bodice—even as his mouth held her own entrapped. Lenore had felt a wild bursting response to his kisses. Inwardly she scolded herself for that. Naturally Jamie was an accomplished lover—after all, he practiced every chance he got!
Still, her body knew a strange new lethargy and it was difficult for her to get up the strength to push him away. Bosom heaving, she had leaned back against the rough bole of the tree to get her breath and considered him with wide eyes and parted lips. For she was eighteen and her own wild blood was racing. Merciful heaven, she’d been near to losing control! A moment more clasped in those warm, demanding arms and she might have sunk with him to the shadowed summer grasses and let him take her as he’d taken half the village!
Perhaps I love him! she thought dizzily.
Leaning with one arm braced against the rough trunk that rose above her head, Jamie smiled down on her. He stroked her cheek with gentle fingers, let those fingers wander idly down her throat and over her white shoulder, bared from the sudden wrench with which she’d pulled away from him. Lenore trembled, but she held her ground. Always before, she’d been mistress of herself in these encounters—she must get control of herself!
"Lenore.” His voice caressed her. “This was no chance meeting—I’ve sought you out.”
Heart thudding, Lenore studied the Scot through shadowed lashes. What lie was this?
“Sought me out?” she murmured—a bit breathlessly, for now he was kissing her eyes, her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
“Aye.” He drew back, suddenly serious. “ ’Tis plain you’re the girl for me, so I’ve waited till now. For ’tis Midsummer’s Eve—and that’s a time for handfasting in Scotland.”
“Handfasting?” she asked, her voice only a whisper above the crackling of the flames.
“Aye.” One of his arms encircled her waist, holding her close while the other lightly caressed her. “ ’Tis an old Scottish custom. On Midsummer’s Eve, a man and a maid may clasp hands and live together for a year. Should either wish to leave the other within that year, they may do so, with no shame to either. But if they stay together for a year and a day, then they are man and wife.” He stepped back and held out his hand and his eyes burned down into hers. His voice was rich and earnest. “I ask that ye take my hand, Lenore, and come live with me till next Midsummer’s Eve.”
More than the heat of the flames burnished Lenore’s silken cheeks. “Live with you?” she faltered.
“Aye. There’ll be no shackles of gold to hold you, Lenore. Should you wish to be free of me, you could go at any time and I’d no put up a hand to stop you. Even though my heart would be breaking,” he added hastily.
Like a bucket of cool water, rage swept over Lenore.
“Handfasting’s not the custom here,” she said sweetly, stepping away just out of reach.
“Remember, I’m a Scot,” he sighed.
And a liar! she thought grimly. Seeking to bed but not to wed! Ah, but what a handsome seductive liar! Her heart still pounded from the strong hard feel of him against her slim body, and she was still vividly atingle from the gentle brushing of his lips against the tops of her white breasts.
“Besides,” he added, “none need know. You could say you’d moved in to help my sister Flora—indeed, she has too much work to do. A kind thing you’d do of your charity, Lenore! And who’s to know our sleeping arrangements?”
“Flora,” stated Lenore coldly.
He shrugged. “Flora’d not go against me. Not only am I the only brother she has left, but I’ve always been her favorite. We’ve naught to fear from Flora.”
Lenore took a deep breath. He’d been after her all along—just as he was after every girl! And with a sweet smile he had offered her this. Oh, the gall of him! It shamed her that she was still shaken by the sweetness of his kisses, for in his arms she’d known an awakening passion she had never felt in the arms of the bumbling village bumpkins who stole a kiss a-Maying. It shamed her that her arms should bum to hold this man and make him hers.
For it was a cheap thing he was offering her. Not honest wedlock.
She stood stiffly, like a woman in shock.
Jamie did not seem to notice. He moved closer; he was only a breath away. “Ah, Lenore, to me you’re more than a woman,” he murmured raptly against her silken hair. “Day after day I’ve watched you, wanted you. Winning you has been my goal.”
His goal! Not his love—his goal! That she had felt the same way about him in no way dampened her fury. To hear him say that—and about her!
Glowing with anger, Lenore’s violet eyes had narrowed. By heaven, she yearned to take him up on it! To use him and fling him aside—as he doubtless intended with her. Ah, he was begging for a setdown! And she was just the one to give it to him.
“Jamie,” she murmured, casting her eyes down so that he should not see their angry light, “you do me too much honor.”
He had the grace to catch his breath for a moment. “No more than you deserve,” he declared staunchly.
Quivering at that barb, she jumped as a drunken bellow reached them: “Lenore! Where are you? I’ve won, Lenore! It’s my dance!”
Some devil prompted Lenore to stretch her hand gracefully toward Jamie. In as calm a voice as she could command, she said softly, “I take thee, Jamie MacIver, for my handfast bridegroom for a year—as is the old Scottish custom.”
“Lenore.” Jamie clenched her hand. His voice had deepened. Almost roughly he swept her up in his arms and she lingered there, half-dizzy with his kisses—then abruptly she remembered what she intended and fought free.
“No, Jamie,” she declared breathlessly. “It cannot be tonight. Hear them? They are calling me. I will be missed and there’ll be talk. No, I must come to you. Later.”
“When?” scowled Jamie, reluctantly releasing his grip. Feet planted, he stared down at Lenore doubtfully.
“Soon,” she lied in a tremulous voice, for this was one bargain she never intended to keep. Handfast bride, indeed! Let him imagine she was his, let time alone tell him she had tricked him—for it would soon be apparent to him when she went about her business and stayed away from the smithy. He certainly deserved it, philanderer that he was!
“Tomorrow,” he insisted, catching her wrist.
“Perhaps,” she whispered in a throaty voice. “Ah, Jamie, let me go. My brother-in-law must not hear that I was gone from the dancing so long—he’s got a fierce temper!”
Jamie scowled at her. “I’ve heard of his temper,” he growled. “If he shows his teeth at me, I’ll slap them for him. From what I’ve seen of Tom Prattle, a few bruises wouldna hurt him. Indeed they might improve him.” She gave him a bright, insincere smile, wishing she could bring that about, and pulled free. She could hear Jamie’s low call of “Tomorrow” as she ran lightly back toward the fire and around it to the dancers where big Stephen, who had won the bout, held out a bruised hand. Lenore kept a bright, fixed smile on her face as he stumbled about the grass with her in what passed for a dance.
From a distance, beneath lowered brows, Jamie wa
tched them, but he did not attempt to dance with her.
Lenore’s color was high. With all her heart she yearned to make the young Scot jealous. To big Stephen’s delight, she spent the whole evening with him, smiling enticingly up into his bruised face, where one eye was almost swollen shut. Dick Fall, the loser, sat disconsolately on the grass and watched them.
“I’ll walk ye the long way home,” Stephen ventured, when Lenore said she must be going.
“Can I trust you?” she murmured archly. “The last time we were alone together—among the berry bushes— you tore my bodice!”
“ ’Twas not me that tore it,” he insisted. “ ’Twas a berry branch.”
“ ’Twas your big bumbling hand,” she said sweetly. “But if you promise to be good . . .” She gave him a provocative look.
“I’ll not lay a finger on ye!” he declared intensely. “I swear it, Lenore!”
Off they went together, strolling back toward the village. Lenore could feel the young Scot’s smouldering gaze boring into her back as the bonfire and the few who were left dancing around it faded from sight.'
Lenore thought it likely Jamie would stake himself out at some likely spot and watch the cottage, checking up on her return. With glinting eyes, she told Stephen she’d like to stop by the churchyard and sit on a gravestone and talk. Stephen was in a mellow mood tonight. His head was aching and his eye hurt and he was sore in every bone, but he’d cornered the prettiest girl in the village and she wanted to sit and talk the night away!
Eagerly he perched on a moss-covered gravestone opposite her, but he was mindful of his promise to be good —only twice did she have to slap his hands away.
He proposed twice.
The last time she rejected him absently, for it was almost dawn and by now Jamie—if he was watching the cottage, and she was wickedly sure he was—would surely suspect the worst. Promising to walk out with him later in the week, Lenore slipped away from Stephen and made her way quickly along the back hedges and kitchen gardens to the back of the cottage.
This Towering Passion Page 2