This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  “If you scream again, Mistress Lenore,” Wilsingame said in a voice so polite he might have been asking her to share a glass of malmsey with him, “Bonnifly here will cuff you hard enough that you’ll lose your senses—and that would be a pity, for there’s another coachful of gentlemen following close behind us, all of them as interested in your charms as we are!”

  At that chilling statement, the bold courage that had never failed her came back to Lenore. Haughtily she lifted her head. “Lord Wilsingame,” she said defiantly, “if you do me harm, the King shall hear of it!”

  “Ah, but you are not in the King’s favor—’tis Nell who sleeps in his bed,” pointed out Wilsingame calmly. “Besides, who said we meant to harm you? We mean to enjoy you. Surely the King himself would approve of that!”

  Lenore returned that relentless stare with an insolence she did not feel. She had heard too many stories of Wilsingame’s sport with women not to believe some of them were true.

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  “Home—where else?”

  Stonily, Lenore turned her face away from him and inspected the large spurs on Lymond’s boots. She would not let them see the terror she felt.

  In silence the coach jogged along toward Wilsingame’s house perched in the middle of London Bridge. Lenore tried to scream once when she saw a pair of sturdy gentlemen edging by the coach as they entered onto the Bridge, and Bonnifly clapped a rough hand over her mouth, seizing her around her slender waist and laying rude hands upon her breasts. She tried to wriggle away from him and kicked out, managing only to tear her stocking on Lymond’s spurs. Bonnifly raised a threatening hamlike fist, but Wilsingame lifted his hand.

  “Enough, Bonnifly, enough,” he said mildly. “Remember I’ve a gentleman coming by this evening that I wish to impress—’twould not do to mark the wench.”

  Bonnifly subsided, grumbling, and Lenore was left trembling on the floor of the coach as they passed through first one and then another short tunnel where the houses that lined the bridge met overhead.

  She made one last attempt to break free as she alighted from the coach, to fling herself down to the cobbles and take off running down the narrow way. But even as she took flight she was snatched up in a mighty bear hug that drove the breath from her lungs, and Bonnifly carried her lightly through the oaken door that opened discreetly to admit them. She had a brief glimpse of the impassive face of the manservant who had told her Emma had left London and gone to the country.

  Behind her she could hear the clatter of feet from a second coach that alighted before the house, and the occupants hurried in to cluster around her. Several of them she did not even recognize. God, there were so many of them—nine or ten all told! Two were very drunk, swaying on their feet, and one lurched toward her and peered down into her face.

  “I know this wench,” he muttered fuzzily.

  “So will we all soon,” snickered Bonnifly.

  Lenore gave him back a defiant look, but she offered no resistance as Bonnifly carried her up the stairs with Wilsingame close behind. The manservant unlocked a door at the head of the stairs, and Lenore was thrust inside; the door slammed and locked behind her.

  She had a swift impression of a candlelit square bedroom painted with fat rosy cupids in the French manner and dominated by a large canopied bed. The canopy parted suddenly, and a face peered out, to be swiftly followed by a thin female body. Across an expanse of worn carpet Lenore saw a fragile blond girl in a low-cut pink satin dress trimmed in black lace. The girl was emaciated, and her eyes appeared sunken and suffering in her white face that brightened suddenly in recognition.

  “Emma!” gasped Lenore. “Oh, Emma, what has he done to you?”

  Emma ran forward with a cry and impulsively threw her arms about Lenore. She seemed to collapse like a broken doll. “It’s been terrible!” she sobbed. “You wouldn’t believe—” Sobs choked her voice.

  Lenore pushed her away and studied that pretty tear-stained face. “They told me you’d left London, Emma.”

  Emma shook her head, sobbing.

  “What has he done to you?” Lenore demanded sternly. “And what happened to your Baronet?”

  “At first—at first he was kind,” Emma faltered. “And I even thought I loved him. But then one night he drove me here and—and left me. Lord Wilsingame said I was payment for a gambling debt!”

  “But you’re so thin! Doesn’t he feed you?”

  “ ’Tis my own fault I’m thin,” sighed Emma. “I thought—I thought that if I did not eat, maybe I would die the sooner.”

  Lenore looked at her sad little friend, appalled. “Surely it cannot be that bad!”

  “ ’Tis worse,” Emma said simply. She looked down in misery. “ ’Tis not only him,” she whispered. “ ’Tis his friends. They hold big parties sometimes two or three nights a week, and young virgins are brought here to be ‘broken in,’ they say! Some are no more than thirteen— one was only twelve! Lord Wilsingame and his friends frighten them into submission by ... by doing terrible things to me, Lenore. In ... in public where all can watch!” Her eyes filled again with tears.

  “Don’t talk about it,” said Lenore harshly, moving to the window. “Is there no way out of this place?”

  “None. All the doors are locked—and that great footman, Bales, guards the halls. Once when I tried to run, he near broke my arm—and then he had his way with me on the stairs while Lord Wilsingame watched. He—he laughed, Lenore, and said Bales could have either me or his wages but not both—and Bales took me!” She shivered. “How did you come here, Lenore?”

  “His friends abducted me from the front of the theatre.”

  Emma gaped at her; then hope sprang up in her eyes. “Then they will come looking for you!” she cried. “We will be saved!”

  “Don’t count on it,” said Lenore grimly. Orange Moll hated her for being “above herself.” Killigrew and the rest would assume she’d found a “protector” and gone off with him. She doubted she’d even be missed!

  Emma's face fell. “You are right,” she sighed. “I thought somebody might come looking for me—but nobody did.”

  “I came looking for you,” said Lenore, “but I was told you’d left the City.”

  “Would that I could! Lord Wilsingame has circulated a story that he has a mad sister locked up in here and that her screams rend the night, and that sometimes they are joined by the screams of serving-women she attacks. But there is no mad sister. Mine are the screams they hear—mine and the poor virgins’ who are dragged in here for deflowering and for . . . for terrible games that are played downstairs.”

  Lenore did not ask what games those were. “Have you no weapon?” she asked sharply.

  Emma went over and lifted a corner of the carpet that stretched under the edge of the bed. She pulled out a small kitchen knife. “Elsie, who brings my food, forgot this one day, and I kept it and hid it. I meant to plunge it into Lord Wilsingame’s chest the next time he tormented me—but I had not the courage. Then I thought as they dragged me back from the games downstairs and flung me into my room—for I could not walk, so badly had they treated me—that I would plunge it into my own breast and be free of them. But I had not the courage for that, either.” She stood looking down at the knife in forlorn fascination. “Perhaps one day I will find the strength to use it,” she sighed.

  “Give me the knife.” Lenore reached out and took it from Emma’s limp fingers. “ ’Tis not much against so many, and I doubt we can do much damage with it, but it might serve for surprise so that we can dart past that large footman.”

  “Bales? He always stays in the hall outside. ’Tis only Elsie comes into this room. ’Tis long since Lord Wilsingame visited me here—he prefers to make me come downstairs so that he may make sport of me with his friends.”

  Lenore tried the casement. To her surprise, it was not locked. She opened it and peered out. This building overhung the river, and she found herself looking down into the black wate
rs of the Thames.

  “There is no need to keep the window locked,” mourned Emma, “for there is only the river below. Sometimes I have thought of hurling myself out and ending this wicked life I am condemned to—for I do not swim. But I have always so feared the water. My sister died by drowning.”

  “You’re not going to drown,” said Lenore energetically. “Nor submit to that evil pack again, either! Here, help me drag this—heavy—cupboard against the door,” she panted, setting her shoulder to the work. Emma heaved her pitifully slight weight against it. It moved protestingly over the floor. “And now this—great—chest!” Panting, Lenore stood back and surveyed her handiwork. “Where does that other door lead?”

  “Only into a small dressing room. But—they’ll break down the door, Lenore.”

  “We’ll gain time by making it harder for them to get in. Have you any possessions? Tie them into a bundle— quickly.” She moved again to the window. “And I’ll need that necklace you’re wearing—unless you’ve money?” She reached out for it.

  “I’ve no money,” said Emma, bewildered. “And I think—I think the stones are glass.”

  “No matter,” said Lenore. “They’ll look real enough in the moonlight! Hurry!” Behind her she could hear Emma open a chest. She glanced back to see her bundling her clothing into a sheet which she tied at the top.

  They could hear feet ascending the stair, and a key turned in the lock—but Lenore had seen what she wanted on the river below: a rowboat with a single oarsman had just slipped from under the bridge. She leaned out and called down to him. “This necklace if you’ll take us downriver to safety!”

  He looked up, startled, his face pale in the moonlight. Lenore dangled the brilliants temptingly. They had an expensive glitter. Behind her now there was a thundering on the door and Wilsingame’s voice cried, “They’ve blocked the door somehow—Bales!”

  From below the boatman bobbed his head. “Aye, mistress. I’ll take you where you want to go. Toss down the necklace!”

  “ ’Twill be on this lady’s neck!” said Lenore, clasping it quickly around Emma’s neck—the girl had just stuck out her head. “You must fish her out of the river for it! And here are her possessions!” She tossed down the bundle of clothes, and the boatman caught it and rowed rapidly back to position as the current swept him away.

  Behind her Lenore heard Wilsingame say, “They’ve pushed something against the door, Bales. Bend your back, man!”

  “Jump, Emma!” she cried. “I’ll be right behind you!” Emma clambered onto the windowsill and looked down fearfully. “I cannot do it,” she cried hysterically. “I cannot jump into the water!”

  “You must!” Feverishly Lenore sought to free the girl’s clutching hands from the sill. “Emma, jump!”

  Behind her she heard the great chest move, and the heavy cupboard toppled over with a crash that shook the house. At the sound of that crash, Emma’s hands suddenly were loosed in fright, and Lenore gave her a strong push. With a shriek Emma went plummeting into the water and the boatman reached out and grasped her by the arm to pull her into the boat just as Lenore leaped to the windowsill poised to jump.

  But it was a jump she was never to make. Even as she would have spun off into space, a pair of strong hands clutched her around the waist, and she was jerked backward into the room.

  “Row!” she screamed to the boatman. “Bring help!” Even as she spoke, she knew how futile that appeal was. Poor exhausted Emma would be lucky if she got away herself, would be lucky if the boatman actually delivered her to some place of safety downstream. But—even if he did not, her fate would be no worse.

  “The wench Emma has escaped!” cried Bales, keeping his grip on Lenore’s waist as he leaned out the window. “Milord, she is being rowed away in a boat!”

  Wilsingame’s cold voice cut in contemptuously. “No matter, Bales. I was about to get rid of her anyway—she’d no spirit left in her. I want a woman, not a wooden doll! We’ve a better wench here, Bales.”

  “But milord, suppose she tells—”

  “She’ll tell no one anything, Bales. She’ll fear to! She’ll hide in fright that I may get her back!” He chuckled, and Lenore realized the chilling truth of that—Emma would probably fear to speak up in any event.

  Wilsingame turned to Lenore. “Behave yourself, mistress. If you please my important guest from Kent, so that he speaks well of me to the King, I may reward you by letting you drive about London with me in my coach. Release her, Bales.”

  As Bales’s fingers loosened their grip on her waist, Lenore tore free and clawed at the window, but the casement was inexorably pulled shut against her best efforts and a heavy body pushed her aside. Big Bonnifly had come into the room and was leaning against the window grinning at her. He reached out and gave her a shove, and she found herself standing unsteadily on her two feet, facing Wilsingame.

  “I will not entertain your guests—or yourself!” she panted. “I warn you, Wilsingame, that if you force me, I will give you no pleasure!”

  Wilsingame’s hand lashed out, and Lenore reeled back as he gave her cheek a stinging slap. “On the contrary,” he sneered, his expression turning as bleak as his eyes. “You will give me great pleasure, orange girl—aye, and my guests, too! We will sport with you as long as it pleases us, and when we’ve done with you, ‘Mother’ Moseley can have you—with my compliments!” He took a threatening step forward.

  Lenore would have prudently backed away, but from behind her Bonnifly’s big hand pressed against the small of her back and propelled her forward. Before Lenore was aware what he was about, Wilsingame had grasped the front of her bodice. He gave it a violent jerk that split the fabric to the waist and—combined with her forward momentum from Bonnifly’s shove—tumbled her to the floor at his feet.

  Lenore scrambled back away from his boots, aware that her white flesh showed in a cleavage that now reached to her waist. Desperately she clutched the material around her with one hand and managed to regain her feet.

  Boots planted, Wilsingame towered above her. She thought hopelessly that she had never seen a more ruthless face.

  “See that she puts this on,” he said in a colorless voice, jerking his head toward a black silk gown trimmed in creamy lace that was tossed over a chair. “Where’ve ye been?” Lenore saw that he was speaking to a frightened-looking gray-haired serving-woman who was just staggering into the room burdened down by a large metal tub partially filled with water.

  “Bales said ye’d brought in a woman, milord,” she faltered, almost groveling before Wilsingame as she set the tub down and straightened up with difficulty. “And I’ve been heating a bath for her. I thought you’d want—”

  “Very well.” He cut her words off contemptuously, and she scurried away for towels and soap. “Nail the window shut, Bales,” he ordered his burly manservant, and Bales hurried away for hammer and nails. “Bonnifly, you might guard this door to see that our pretty bird does not fly away before we’ve clipped her wings. You’ll doubtless enjoy watching her in her bath.”

  Bonnifly grinned, moved to the doorway, and lounged against the jamb. Lenore edged toward the window, meaning to jerk it open and hurl herself out and take her chances on swimming to safety, but Wilsingame guessed her intention and seized her wrist.

  “Not so fast, mistress!”

  “I feel faint,” she complained, noting that the kitchen knife Emma had meant to use on herself had been dropped below the sill as she tried to urge Emma through the window.

  But Bonnifly’s keen eye had spotted it, too. “Ho!” he cried from the doorway. “The wench seeks a claw to scratch us with!” He sauntered over and picked up the knife, tossed it in the air, and caught it by the hilt. “ ’Tis a kitchen knife, Wilsingame. Your serving-woman should be careful not to leave sharp things lying about.”

  Lenore felt her heart sag to her worn slippers. That kitchen knife had been her last hope.

  Glowering, Wilsingame waited until the serving-woman came back, ca
rrying linen towels and soap. Bonnifly handed her the knife, and she blanched.

  “How do you explain this, Elsie?” Wilsingame asked gently.

  Elsie shrank back. “I—I do not know how it came to be here, sir!” she stuttered.

  “Another example of your carelessness,” barked Wilsingame, giving Elsie an angry shove that sent her skittering across the room, dropping her towels and soap. “One more such blunder and I’ll dismiss you!”

  “Please, milord!” Elsie fell to weeping. “I’ve seven children at home, and my husband’s hurt and can’t work!” She went about picking up the scattered towels and soap and was still weeping as Bales hurried by, hammered the window shut with stout nails, and left.

  “See that Mistress Lenore is well prepared, Elsie,” Wilsingame told the old serving-woman sternly, at last letting go of Lenore’s arm. She rubbed it against her hip, for it was almost numb from his harsh grip. “She must look very fetching, for I’ve a guest riding in from Kent tonight.”

  “A guest?” laughed Bonnifly. “That’s hardly the word for it! Does he know he’s coming here?”

  “Bales will waylay him outside as he crosses the Bridge, unless he misses him in the darkness. You may soon laugh on the other side of your mouth, Bonnifly, for this man has the King’s confidence. If we woo him well, he may gain for us a Royal Patent to trading rights in the Indies. ’Tis my plan that our orange girl here will give him such entertainment this night as he’s not enjoyed before!” He laughed discordantly, on a note of mounting excitement, and Lenore cringed inwardly. “ ’Tis only a pity we’ve no time to teach her special tricks, for I doubt me she’s the expert Marnock claims her to be.”

  Marnock! Lenore gasped.