This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  He turned and opened one eye to regard her. His brows were exceedingly straight, his voice stern. “Gilbert shows you too much attention when I am gone. Ned has remarked it.”

  Oh, so Ned had remarked it, had he? Guiltily she remembered Gilbert saying as they rested from dancing a lively gaillard, “Ye should be kinder to me, Lenore, for are we not. . . cousins now?” His voice had been lazy and his fingers had reached out and tucked back a tendril of her bright hair that had come loose during the dance. She had given him a shadowed, troubled look from under dark, silky lashes, turned and seen Ned looking straight at her. Had he heard? Had he told Geoffrey? Was that what had brought this on?

  She took a deep breath. “But you wanted me to be friendly with him because you said he could be a danger—”

  “I wanted you to be polite to him, Lenore. No more than that. I do not propose to share you with my cousin Gilbert Marnock.”

  Lenore gasped. “How could you say such a thing? How could you think it, Geoffrey? I’ve never—” She was sputtering with indignation.

  He sat up, his broad shoulders looking very broad, his face dark and grave, and threw back his head so that his thick, dark hair rippled like heavy silk. He sighed. “Lenore, I’m accusing you of nothing. I am warning you that you must be careful of Gilbert. ’Tis entirely possible you’ve never met a man like him. He’s very clever.”

  “Oh, I’ve met clever men,” she said bitterly. "And devious ones!”

  He reached out and seized her wrist. His fingers were like steel bands. “Don’t deliberately misunderstand me.”

  “Oh, I understand you well enough!” She tried to pull away from him, and he opened his fingers and let her go.

  “Let Lally have two strings to her bow if she chooses,” he said. “Let the gossip be about her—not you.”

  Lenore was startled. “Does Ned say that Lally and Gilbert—?”

  “No,” he said dryly. “Ned has eyes only for his lady in Marston and is blind to what goes on in Oxford. But I have eyes in my head, Lenore, and when I am here, I see who Lally dances with, who she flirts with.”

  And when you are not here, Gilbert dances not with Lally, but with me, thought Lenore uneasily. You may know that, too. Doubtless Ned has remarked it!

  “We will stop dancing,” she said, guilt making her voice sharp. “I will tell our friends—I will tell them that it disturbs Mistress Watts, who could end up in the stocks—as could we all—if it were to become known she allows dancing in her house. You need trouble yourself no more about my dancing with Gilbert, Geoffrey!”

  He was watching her a little sadly. “Lenore, come here —’tis not right that you should feel so. You must understand that we are attracting too much attention in Oxford.” His voice had a coaxing note, and in his gray eyes there was a glimmer of warmth and of desire. She knew if she approached that big bed now he would reach out and sweep her up in his long arms and claim her, and she would melt and meld with him in joyous surrender. It was a dizzy prospect, but her pride was too wounded to let her follow her heart.

  “I am going out,” she said bitterly. “Perhaps a walk in the cold air will clear my head and I will see your accusations in a better light.”

  She half wanted him to leap up and seize her before she could clear the door, to laugh at his suspicions, to drag her protesting to the big bed and stroke her wriggling body to warmth—but he did not do so.

  “As you please, mistress,” he said, his jaw hardening. “I’ll thank you to let me sleep.”

  Lenore, already affixing her pattens, leaped up, flung on her cloak, grabbed her shawl, and swept out with a swish of skirts, throwing the shawl over her head as she left.

  She hurried along the cobbles, breathing the cold damp air from the valley. Scrambled about her among the twisting streets were the big buildings of the university. But Lenore cared not a fig for that institute of learning. Not all of its courses, she felt, would teach her what she needed to know about men. That, apparently, must be learned the hard way—by bitter experience. Who would have thought Geoffrey would be so jealous of Gilbert?

  Her pace slowed thoughtfully. Perhaps Geoffrey had a right to be jealous of Gilbert! Could it be that all unthinking she had showed him favor? Meaning nothing by it, of course, but only trying to be pleasant in the face of his obvious blatant interest. She loved to dance with him—could that have been misinterpreted? By Gilbert as well as by Ned? Her lovely face grew sober. She would walk a narrower path, she would please Geoffrey.

  But as luck would have it, when she returned to her lodgings off Magpie Lane, almost at the door she met Gilbert. He was advancing on her rapidly from the other direction, and he waved to her to wait for him. Reluctantly she did so. He came up to her, cloak flying open, his cuffs and coat resplendent with stag-enamelled buttons.

  “Ah, there you are!” he said breezily. “Ned and Lally are right behind me. And we shall have music, as well, for Harry and Fred have promised to come over and bring their violas.”

  “Gilbert,” she said anxiously, following him perforce up the stairs which he was mounting two at a time with long booted legs. “It might be as well if Harry and Fred did not play today. Yesterday we disturbed Mistress Watts quite a bit and—”

  Gilbert had swept open the unlatched door to their lodgings and was ushering her inside. With his hand on her back, she was propelled into the room.

  “I see Geoffrey’s not home yet,” he said comfortably, drawing off his gauntlets as his eyes swept the room. She saw that the curtains to the bed alcove were drawn; Geoffrey must have drawn them, to sleep. Desperately she opened her mouth to speak, but Gilbert cut her off airily with, “ ’Tis convenient for you, Lenore, having Geoffrey away so frequently.”

  “It is not convenient!” cried Lenore wildly, afraid Geoffrey might be lying awake behind those drawn curtains and drawing his own conclusions from this conversation. “And Geoffrey is here. He’s just come home, he’s tired and trying to sleep—and you’re disturbing him!”

  “Nonsense, you’d not have been out strolling had Geoffrey just come home,” said Gilbert coolly. “And he’d have had the sense to bed you first, no matter how far he’d ridden. I’ll prove you wrong, Lenore!”

  He strode to the bed and as Lenore watched in horror, flung the curtains wide.

  The bed was rumpled but empty.

  “Faith, it looks like you’ve been enjoying a tumble with some likely lad, from the way ’tis rumpled—or is that the way Mistress Watts keeps house, Lenore?” He eyed her speculatively.

  “Gilbert!"

  “So no more talk of Geoffrey, who’s probably twenty leagues away at this moment! We’ll have dancing and music today—though, by heaven, we need no music, you and I!” He grabbed her and danced around with her, and she pulled away.

  “No, Gilbert!”

  He laughed. “Come now, Lenore, be not so cold—we’re cousins now, remember? Let’s have a cousinly kiss before Ned and Lally get here!”

  Lenore drew back her arm to slap his face, for she knew by the look in his eyes that he was going to kiss her, whether she would or no. But abruptly he stepped back from her, his startled gaze fixed on something over her shoulder.

  She turned to see what had wrought this sudden change in him.

  Tall, sardonic, and with a very cold expression in his steady gray eyes, Geoffrey had come out of the small room and now stood in the doorway.

  “So that’s how it’s done when I’m away, Gil?” he said. His voice was almost gentle, but there was something in it, some undertone, that made Gilbert hastily take another step backward.

  “No need to be hasty, Geoffrey,” he cried. “I did but seek to dance a measure with Mistress Lenore here!”

  “So I see—and a kiss for good measure?” Geoffrey advanced on him with a nasty look. They were both tall men, and at that moment to Lenore’s frightened gaze they looked as tall as towers, but Geoffrey’s broad shoulders seemed to broaden further, his deep chest to expand as he strode toward his
cousin.

  “Mistress Lenore invited me up!” cried Gilbert in an aggrieved tone.

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Geoffrey kindly. Before Lenore had a chance to feel relieved at this forbearance, seemingly from nowhere Geoffrey’s hard right fist swung up and caught Gilbert neatly on the jaw with enough force to send him hurtling into the doorway—and into Ned’s arms, for he and Lally had just arrived.

  “Ho, there, Geoffrey, what’s this?” cried Ned, staggering back and nearly colliding with Lally, who skipped nimbly backward to avoid him.

  “He’s gone mad,” muttered Gilbert, his handsome face distorted as he tried—not too hard—to leave Ned’s restraining grasp and surge back toward Geoffrey.

  “Not so mad that I couldn’t remember your taking ways, Gil.” Geoffrey had folded his arms and stood calmly, legs planted well apart in a firm stance, watching his cousin with some interest. “That little love-pat I just favored you with was a recommendation that you mend your manners where Mistress Lenore’s concerned.”

  “I’ve shown Mistress Lenore nothing but respect—always!” shouted Gilbert, his face white with rage save for a dull red mark on his jaw.

  “That I don’t doubt, either,” said Geoffrey softly. “Else she’d have been quick to complain to me. This is a recommendation for your behavior in the future.”

  “God’s teeth, he’s gone out of his mind!” cried Gil. “Let me away from this madman!” He tore loose from Ned’s grasp and hurtled past Lally down the stairs. They could hear him fuming as he went out and the front door closed with a crash.

  “Now what was that all about, Geoffrey?” asked Ned, coming into the room and peeling off his gauntlets. Behind him Lally watched with sparkling eyes. A true daughter of the regiment, Lally loved a good fight. “Do you know?” Ned turned to Lally.

  “No, but knowing Gilbert, I can guess,” laughed Lally. Lenore gave her friend a reproving look. “Geoffrey feels that we make too much noise with our music and dancing, and when I told Gilbert we should not have the violas today he seized me and started to dance me around the room. Geoffrey came out and”—she gave him an angry look—“behaved like an idiot!”

  “Gil needed a lesson, Ned,” Geoffrey said calmly. “I gave him one. Can we offer you some wine?”

  “Faith, I’ll need it for strength if I’m to catch the bodies you send flying through the door,” said Ned in a rueful voice, accepting a glass, which Lenore had poured with shaking hands. “Do ye think ’twas wise to offend him, Geoffrey?”

  Geoffrey frowned and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Not wise, perhaps, but called for, Ned. Gil thinks all women fair prey.” He looked speculatively at Lally, who stiffened a trifle and took a fast sip of wine.

  “Yes, I’ve watched him with Mistress Lenore,” said Ned frankly. “He does pursue her, though she does nothing to warrant it—to that I can testify.”

  Lenore gave him a grateful look.

  “D’ye think we should leave Oxford, Ned?” sighed Geoffrey. “Gil’s treacherous—I know him of old.”

  Lenore gasped. Leave Oxford in winter, with hardly any money, and herself with a baby due in June?

  “Surely you cannot believe he would denounce you?” Ned sat bolt upright. “If I thought that.. . !”

  “He’d do worse if he’d a mind to,” said Geoffrey calmly. He turned his glass around in his hand and studied it. “I’m debating whether he’ll consider it to his advantage to do so.”'

  “But if he should do such a thing, ’twould implicate all—himself as well!” cried Ned. “For we’ve all helped the King’s cause to some extent—we would all be undone!'

  Lally gave them both a worldly look. “There’s no need to talk of leaving Oxford,” she said with spirit. “Gil will not turn ye in to the Ironsides, Geoffrey, if that’s what ye’re thinking—not if he’s interested in Lenore, as you believe. For to do so would implicate her, and he’d not like to see her hang from a gibbet!”

  Geoffrey gave Lenore a thoughtful look. She tossed her head rebelliously. “There’s much in what you say, Lally—and the countryside does not lend itself to travel in this season. The mud was so deep I could hardly get back to Oxford.”

  “You can patch it up with Gil,” said Ned uneasily. “I'll speak to him for you.”

  “Perhaps the less said the better,” mused Geoffrey. “ ’Twas not too hard a blow I gave him.” Lenore thought how Gilbert had skidded across the floor and crashed into Ned—she shuddered. “He’s bruised—as well he deserved to be—but I was careful not to break his jaw. And he knows I have friends here who would take it amiss if he makes trouble.”

  “Lenore can be pleasant to him,” said Lally instantly. “She can treat him as if nothing has happened, and it will be all right, you’ll see.”

  “But if there’s to be no dancing—as Geoffrey wants,” said Lenore, troubled, “won’t Gilbert feel that’s a slap at him?”

  “There’ll be less dancing,” corrected Lally. “What do you say, Geoffrey? Wouldn’t a sharp cut-off cause rumblings?”

  He gave her an amused look, as if half suspecting she wanted the dancing to continue for her own amusement, which Lenore felt was probably true! “A pity the King did not have your counsel at Worcester, mistress—for your guile might have carried the day!” Lally laughed, but he added a note of caution. “Just so ye do not all end up in the stocks, for while the rest of you might eventually be let out of them, I fear Mistress Lenore would go on to the gallows.”

  Lenore was chilled as she was again reminded that they were wanted Royalists in Puritan England. The frivolity of the life at Oxford had almost made her forget it. “I will be more careful of the music, Geoffrey,” she promised quietly. “I will keep the noise down.”

  “Perhaps you’ll help, too, Ned?” suggested Geoffrey. "I've need to be away so much.”

  “Whenever I’m in town,” Ned agreed instantly. “And when I’m at Marston, Lally can help.”

  He did not notice the slight grimace that passed over Lally’s face. “Some more of your delicious wine, Lenore,” Lally said gaily, holding out her glass. “I feel a need to be warmed by spirits!”

  Quickly Lenore refilled her glass. She gave Lally a compassionate look. For Lally it was a cold world; she’d need of something to warm her in this cruel life.

  The next day Lally swept in, in her orangy velvets, and caught Lenore alone. “Well, that was a close call yesterday!” she said in a significant tone.

  “What do you mean?” asked Lenore, puzzled.

  Lally leaned down to peer at her. “Do you mean to say you’re not having an affair with Gilbert? But he led me to think...”

  “I most certainly am not having an affair with Gilbert!” snapped Lenore, her cheeks burning. “No matter what he told you!”

  “Oh, he didn’t exactly say it,” murmured Lally, adjusting her plumed hat. “I guess I assumed ...”

  “Are you interested in Gilbert?” Lenore shot at her. Lally was thoughtful for a moment; her hands, adjusting the orange plumes, were still. “He amuses me, Lenore, and . . . and I must think of the future.” Her face hardened as she said that. “Well, no matter.” She shrugged. “We’ll fix it all up, anyway.”

  Lally’s method of “fixing it up” was to take Lenore for coffee on a sunny day at the Crown. There they encountered Gilbert, who had been studiously shunning the Daunts’ lodgings. At first he gave Lenore a smouldering look, but Lally waved him over and he warmed to the banter. Soon he was laughing with them, leaning back so that his resplendent clothes showed to best advantage. He insisted on paying for the coffee. Lenore saw that his jaw, though slightly empurpled, was mending fast. She smiled at him with a sweetness she did not feel and told him they missed him.

  “That was a good beginning,” announced Lally with satisfaction after they left. “By the end of the week, tempers will have cooled, and I’ll have you and Geoffrey for supper and arrange for Gil to drop in afterward—and they’ll be civil to each other, you’ll see. You can borrow
something of mine to wear. It should be low-cut. Gil likes low-cut dresses. We want him to see how lovely you are at my table by candlelight. And you can mention again, with a little pout, that we all miss him—no, say you take it amiss he’s been avoiding you these afternoons, for he’s the best dancer among us. He’ll be enchanted. For he’s vain of his dancing and loves to be flattered. And of course he’ll realize he certainly can’t see a sweet thing like you get put in the stocks—or hanged. He can’t denounce Geoffrey then, even if he’s a mind to—it would pull you down with him, don’t you see?”

  Lenore did see. But the seeing of it made her glum. It meant she dared not offend the offensive Gilbert.

  By the following week everything was much as it had been, except that the music in the lodgings off Magpie Lane was toned down, dancing there was not quite so frequent, and young Mistress Daunt carried on in dread of her future.

  Placating Gilbert was perilously akin to flirting with him—and that Geoffrey would not brook. But as Lally had said, she must heal the breach. Lenore was on a collision course between Geoffrey and Gilbert—and she knew it. But puzzle though she would, she could think of no road to travel but this one, wherever it led. Once again Gilbert was hovering over her whenever Geoffrey was gone, Gilbert with his theatrical clothes, his exciting touch, his wicked almost demonic beauty.

  In panic, Lenore almost wished she had been born ugly. Then she would not have attracted Gilbert. But then—then perhaps she would not have had Geoffrey. It came to her suddenly that one paid a price for everything in life, and the price of beauty—to the possessor of it—might be high indeed.

  CHAPTER 11

  Just before Christmas a great snow fell, weighing down the ivy and frosting Oxford’s stately towers with white. Ordinarily Lenore, who loved skating and winter sports, would have welcomed the snowfall as a respite from the mud, but Geoffrey had ridden off to the south, destination unstated; he had been gone several days and she feared this heavy snow might have closed the roads and that he would not make it back to Oxford in time for Christmas.