This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  Tom Prattle had been drinking heavily when she’d left for the bonfire. She presumed he’d now be sleeping it off—with the front door latched. But she’d make it back the same way she’d got out—through the kitchen window. She eased one shapely leg over the low sill and with a plop landed on her feet on the kitchen floor.

  It was a bad landing. In the dusky interior she knocked over a pot, and Tom Prattle, who was dozing on a bench against the wall, sat up with a start.

  “Back at last!” he bellowed. “I’ve been waiting for ye! And where’s the lad ye’ve been lying with, tell me that!”

  “There’s no one!” cried Lenore. “I’ve been—I’ve been out looking for herbs in the woods!”

  “At sunup? Ye’re a liar!” he bawled. “Ye aim to get yourself pregnant by some likely lad that won’t marry you and make me take care of the brat!”

  Lenore’s face whitened. “I’d die first!” she grated. “The reason you’ve none of your own is because you near beat my sister to death!”

  “ ’Tis a rotten lie!” he shouted, his face turning purple with wrath. It was so near the truth that he paused and glared evilly at his young sister-in-law. He missed Meg, missed her warm young body, missed her care for his comforts—when, he asked himself, had Lenore ever bothered to prepare his favorite pudding or put a warm stone in his bed? She seemed to think it was enough pay for her keep that she did his laundry and scoured and cleaned the house and gathered herbs and firewood and prepared plain meals! Why, he could hire some likely wench at starveling wages who’d do all that and warm his bed, too—and not with warm stones, either! And now Lenore dared blame him for Meg’s death! Why, it was her had put all those ideas in Meg’s head about cuttin’ down on his drinkin’! If Meg hadn’t plagued him about it so, he’d never have struck her so hard that day! She was all right the next day, wasn’t she? ’Twas the fall in the well that killed her!

  His bloodshot eyes took in the trim figure before him, the rumpled hair, the rebellious stance. Lenore didn’t knuckle down to him the way Meg had. She stood with both feet planted as if daring him to do his worst.

  Suddenly it seemed to him that this flame-haired vixen was the cause of all his troubles. Without her, he’d still have Meg! By heaven, he’d give her what for! He’d pound her black and blue, and if she gave him any lip, he might even smash a few teeth out of that pretty face!

  With a roar he seized a stick and began to belabor her. Lenore tried to strike the stick away and got a weal across her right arm instead. Her arm half numbed by the blow, she darted across the room, but he pursued her into the next room.

  With a screech she fell against the front door, clawing frantically at the latch, for well she remembered the beatings Meg had suffered at those big calloused hands. Gasping, she got the door open as Tom lunged toward her. Almost together, the two of them burst through the front door of the cottage and early risers of the village were treated to the sight of Lenore running down the narrow lane sobbing angrily. Behind her puffed her heavy brother-in-law, his face red and contorted. He was flailing at her—though seldom striking her, for agile Lenore soon outdistanced him. But his loud recriminations pursued her, causing cottage shutters to fly open and heads to lean out, agape.

  All the dusty way to the village smithy he pursued her —howling at the top of his voice. By now they had collected a running crowd of interested villagers following them—mostly lads who’d smarted under Lenore’s teasing ways and now laughed and hooted heartlessly to see her “humbled” by her outraged brother-in-law, who was howling she’d been out all night, she was no better than a whore!

  At the smithy, Jamie, just starting up his fire, flung down his bellows and leaped up as Lenore ran to him, sobbing. He looked magnificent with his sleeveless leather jerkin opened to reveal a heavy-muscled chest, lightly furred with gold, and mighty arms agleam with sweat in the early morning heat.

  “What’s this?” roared Jamie, grasping Lenore with a big competent hand and pushing her behind him as Tom Prattle and his upraised stick came to an astonished sliding halt in the smithy yard.

  “The girl’s my charge and no concern of yours, MacIver,” Tom told the young smith sullenly. He kept a wary distance from Jamie’s long reach nonetheless. “She’s been out all night and up to no good. Stand aside while I give her the beating that’s due her.”

  “ ’Tis a lie!” shrieked Lenore from behind Jamie. “I was out early gathering herbs!”

  Jamie planted his feet and assumed a belligerent stance. “She’s your charge no longer!” he declared.

  Lenore’s surly brother-in-law blinked. “Next ye’ll be telling me ye’re taking her to the kirk, MacIver,” he said with heavy sarcasm.

  “She may not have told you, but I’m taking her into my household,” a cold new voice said, and Lenore turned to see that Flora had come out from the cottage behind the smithy and was brandishing a broom menacingly. “Away with ye all!” she cried. “ ’Tis not right that an unmarried girl of eighteen should live in a house with a drunken widower. For shame that ye’d beat a lass, Tom Prattle!”

  Tom, outmatched, glared at them all equally, while behind him the onlookers held their collective breath. Then with an angry gesture he flung his stick on the ground. “I wish ye joy of her,” he growled at Flora. “She can go to work for you or to perdition—but she’s left my house for good. I’ll not have it said any girl in my charge is a common strumpet!”

  “None will say it in my hearing,” Flora said grimly, advancing on Tom and gesturing Jamie back as he stepped forward flexing his big muscles threateningly. She lifted the broom. “Any man who’s not off my property in one minute will get a taste of this—and that goes for you, too, Tom Prattle!”

  All present hastily retreated before the dour Scotswoman with her flashing blue eyes and upraised broom. Lenore gave her a grateful look and turned to Jamie. “I had to leave Snowfire back, there,” she cried tearfully. 'He’s mine, and I’m afraid that beast of a Tom Prattle might hurt him—will ye get him for me, Jamie?”

  Jamie gave the slouching figure of the retreating Prattle an angry look. “That I will!” he cried, leaping on the back of a horse that stood patiently waiting to be shod and pulling Lenore up with him. “And your clothes, too, you shall have, and all your possessions. Any man who tries to stop you will feel the weight of my fist!”

  They clip-clopped past Prattle, who stood looking as if he might have apoplexy, and when they rode back again down that dusty lane, it was with Lenore astride Snowfire and Jamie carrying a large tablecloth knotted at the corners which contained her worldly goods.

  It had all happened so fast, Lenore could scarcely credit it. Without a word, Jamie handed her over to Flora and returned to his bellows.

  “It’s very kind of you to take me in,” stammered Lenore as she accompanied the older woman into the plain-scoured cottage. “I don’t know where I’d have gone once Tom turned me out!”

  But Flora brushed aside her thanks. “What I’ve done, I’ve done for Jamie,” she declared coldly. “He’s told me he’s asked ye to be his handfast bride and ye’ve accepted. I don’t hold with handfasting, but if it’s what Jamie wants. I’ll no stop him. There’s enough work for two women here, what with the hens and the hogs and my bit of garden. We’ll see if ye can work as well as flirt your skirt!”

  Handfasted! Lenore had forgotten her promise—that promise she’d never meant to keep. She felt cornered.

  But brisk Flora was sweeping her along.

  “You’ll sleep up here.” Flora led her up a rickety stair to a tiny room Lenore guessed they had used as a storeroom, located above the kitchen. The roof sloped down under the eaves, and there was but one window, but it contained a straw pallet and a small chest. “’Tis small, but ’twill give you privacy,” Flora pointed out. “I sleep in the main room, and Jamie in the kitchen. I’d take you in with me but...”

  But you’ll be handfasting, was obviously what she meant. Lenore’s face suffused with color. She want
ed to turn and run, but it was too late now. Too late to take her choice of the swains who’d swarmed about, now that her miserable, vicious brother-in-law had branded her a harlot before half the village. Who’d have her now? Big Stephen, perhaps—but she’d no wish to wed an uncouth clod. And Jamie, she admitted reluctantly, had leaped to her defense—the only one who had! He’d faced down Tom Prattle and rescued Snowfire and her clothes from the cottage. Flora, too, had stood up for her and had offered her shelter.

  Left alone in her small room to “unpack” her few possessions, she picked up her best pair of shoes and studied the notched red heels ruefully. Those notches represented her conquests—every notch was an offer, whether proposal or proposition, from one of the village males. She remembered last night, and how she’d felt when Jamie had taken her in his arms—and abruptly she put the shoes down. Last night, in the wild light of the bonfire, Jamie had made her an offer, but she felt no inclination to dig a notch into those gay red heels to commemorate the event.

  Her violet eyes shadowed. Tonight no doubt he’d try to creep into her room. If not tonight, then soon. Living here in the cottage with an ardent rogue like Jamie, there’d be difficulty holding him back.

  What worried her and made her cheeks burn as she thought about it was—did she really want to hold him back?

  Running from her own hot thoughts, she hurried downstairs and spent the whole day in Flora’s company, following her about, learning where everything was and how Flora did things.

  But night . . . that night she dreaded . . . came all too soon. A glorious gold and orange sunset—and then it was on them.

  That first night Lenore stayed in the cottage behind the smithy she had been restless and tense in her strange surroundings. She had to own that the room under the eaves was no smaller than her own back home in her brother-in-law’s house, in fact it might even be a mite larger. And it was very neat, as became Flora, who scrubbed and scoured and labored mightily from dawn to dusk on every day but the Sabbath—and even then Lenore was later to find her sometimes surreptitiously dusting or cleaning out cupboards, in defiance of the Puritan strictures.

  After a hot day the night was warm but leavened by a cool breeze that had come up in the evening and now fluttered through the open shutters, making them creak protestingly. Lenore, lying on her pallet, lay fanning herself and listening to the night noises. A branch of the great wych elm behind the cottage scraped against the house, and outside there was the cry of an owl, stalking the moonlit fields and forest on fluffy wings. Through the floorboards, which had wide cracks in them, Lenore could hear Jamie move about the kitchen below, and tensed warily every time his footsteps seemed to be approaching the rickety stair which led up to her room. Though she had been bold enough last night at the bonfire—yes, and now she realized her recklessness—she was jumpy and ill at ease tonight, feeling herself no longer mistress of the situation.

  Supper had been nerve-wracking. She’d jumped when spoken to, been scarcely able to swallow a bite of Flora’s good mutton pie, and awkwardly dropped a trencher when she’d helped Flora clear the table. She’d been painfully conscious of Jamie’s amused glance when she’d announced—with a virtuous look at Flora-—that she’d best go to bed early for she’d need her sleep if she was to put in a good day’s work tomorrow. At this remark Flora’s eyebrows might have shot up just a trifle, but she’d looked quickly down at her mending. Thankfully, she’d refrained from comment.

  With great ostentation Lenore had climbed the wooden stair, called down a firm good night and made a great to-do of loudly latching the door. Once inside, she’d dragged the heavy chest against it and stood and surveyed it with some trepidation. She was not sure that Jamie’s heavy blacksmith’s muscles could not move that chest if he’d a mind to, and Flora had mentioned casually at dinner that she slept like a log.

  But downstairs the sounds were reassuringly normal, with no hurrying footsteps ascending the stair. Soon she heard Flora bid Jamie good night and retire to the main room. Now was the moment when he’d gallop up those stairs and break down the door to her room! Tensely Lenore lay still, straining to hear.

  Jamie apparently finished what he was doing in the kitchen below—Lenore suspected him of enjoying a late snack of ham and brown bread, for he’d a healthy appetite —for the sounds ceased. Then she heard the outer door open and close. That was too much! Was Jamie off to visit some buxom village wench who waited with latch ajar? Outraged, Lenore scrambled up from her pallet to peer out through the open shutters. Through the leaves of the branching wych elm, she could see Jamie standing in the moonlight below, clad only in his breeches. His hemp-colored hair was turned to ghostly white in the pale light and his muscular body was silvered, so that he seemed to her for a breathless moment a man of silver, out to take the air. She ducked back lest he look up and see her watching him and found her heart beating rapidly as she lay back upon her straw pallet.

  Ah, what a man he was ... no wonder the girls in the village all simpered and giggled and flirted their skirts when Jamie passed by! Half the doors in town must have been left unlatched in hopes he’d come calling!

  But Lenore had had more time to consider her situation now, and it had come to her that she did not want to be Jamie’s handfast bride—or anyone’s bride, for that matter. She preferred her freedom. Of course there was too much talk of her in the village right now for anyone to take her in and give her employment—except employment of a nature she’d not care for! Although her heart was filled with the silver sight of him there below in the moonlight, she intended to keep her door firmly latched and her heart as well, and to make sure that Flora was always nearby in the daytime. Let Jamie cast all the slanted looks at her he wanted—that should discourage him!

  Meanwhile, she’d ask adroit questions at the market and learn if there might not be a position for a likely girl at the next village—for her heart sank at seeking employment here, where she’d lost her reputation. All those who’d wooed her for wife—now they’d be seeking her out and making lewd proposals! It was incredible to her that a man could beat his wife to within an inch of her life and then turn around and accuse her sister of being a harlot. And the townspeople believed him! Anyway, the only job available locally that she knew of was as milkmaid to old Dunster—and that would amount to moving in as his mistress, for everyone knew that when Dunster was in his cups he’d break down any maid’s door that was convenient.

  No, she’d best while away the time here, enjoying Jamie’s discomfiture that she did not drop like a ripe peach into his arms, and helping out Flora to pay them back for their kindness in taking her in when her brother-in-law had driven her out.

  With this thought firmly in mind, she began to drowse, lulled by the night noises, the cry of a night bird, the scraping of the branches against the house, which had grown sharply louder as the wind came up.

  As the wind came up! Lenore sat up sharply. There was no wind! Even the little breeze there had been before had died down, leaving her skin damp from the summer heat.

  She whirled to look at the open window. A dark shape there blotted out the moon, and Lenore stifled a scream— it was Jamie. Now she knew the reason for the loud scraping. He’d been climbing the big wych elm outside her window. And now as she opened her mouth to protest, he flung a muscular leg over the sill and vaulted into the room.

  “Go away!” she hissed angrily.

  “And why should I do that?” asked Jamie in an amused voice. “Modesty is one thing, and I could understand your latching the door for Flora’s benefit. But you’re my handfast bride—promised to me by your own words no later than last night!”

  “It wasn’t modesty. I lied to you,” said Lenore flatly. “It was a promise I did not mean to keep. I am grateful to you for taking me in, and for standing off Tom Prattle, but your handfast bride I’ve no intention of being.”

  She could not see his face, for he was still a dark silhouette against the light. He had been advancing toward her, but at
her words he checked.

  “Lied?” he demanded unpleasantly.

  “I—I but meant to humble you,” muttered Lenore. “For thinking you could have me so easily, when half the village has asked me to the kirk!”

  “So ’tis the kirk you want,” he said more kindly. “Well, if we stay together for a year and a day, ’tis the kirk you shall have! My word on it!” He moved toward her.

  Lenore crept backward on her pallet until she was crouched against the wall. She did not like the firmness with which he was moving toward her. “I take back my promise!” she cried, hastily clutching a sheet over her. “Get you back downstairs, Jamie MacIver!”

  “Ah, Lenore,” he said easily, “ye’ll find promises made to me are not so easily broken.” To her horror, she saw that he was removing his breeches.

  “Put them back on at once,” she cried, averting her eyes. “And get you gone!”

  “ ’Tis not my intent to spend this bridal night in my breeks!” he retorted, tossing them from him and standing there before her, a dark silhouette, naked as the day he was born. Lenore, blushing furiously, looked away, and she heard him chuckle. Then the sheet was torn from her clutching grasp and sent flying, and even as she dived to the side trying desperately to elude him, he pounced on her.

  Lenore gasped as his sudden heavy weight crushed her down against her pallet.

  “I’ll scream!” she warned, twisting in his arms.

  Jamie laughed. “Screams won’t wake Flora. She sleeps like the dead. But ye might alert some traveler on the road to burst in—and then we can explain to him how you promised to live with me for a year!”

  “You wouldn’t!” gasped Lenore, twisting her head from side to side and with great effort managing to keep his lips from her mouth. And then a startled “Oh!” as she felt her chemise leave her shoulders with a jerk that burst the ribbon drawstring that held it up. “Now see what you’ve done!” she cried, seizing on this grievance in hopes of diverting him. “You’ve torn my ribbon and—” Her voice rose in a near shriek as one of his big hands grasped the now loose-hanging material that lay across her bosom. She fought to secure it from him, but with a sudden downward tug the material slithered to her waist, leaving her creamy breasts exposed to his ardent gaze. Clutching at the material with one hand, she struck with the other at his face, seeing the gleam of his smiling eyes in the moonlight.