“May I…may I do so in my own rooms?” Coquette asked, glancing at the mural on the ceiling and feeling as a deer led to the jaws of a predator.
“Yes,” Victoria said. “I will away to the kitchens and prepare something for you. And then you should rest, milady. Rest will ease your anxieties perhaps.”
As she left the room, as she fairly leapt from the lion’s lair, Coquette looked back once—looked back to the deep crimsons and silver; looked back to the ribbon of cream, her nightdress, ribboned across the crimson; looked back, up into the amber-colored eyes of the lion who sat in dominant majesty overlooking his kingdom.
Coquette knew that when next she entered the lair, she would be the lion’s prey.
Fallen Prey
“B-but I cannot possibly appear thus,” Coquette whispered as she studied her reflection in the looking glass before her. “Madam, I cannot!” She covered her mouth with her hand, attempting to remain in some control of her emotions. Near panic wracked her body. Tears filled her eyes, and she felt near to fainting.
“You look lovely, milady,” Victoria said, gathering the soft ebony tresses of Coquette’s long hair in her hands and smoothing it before letting it fall, cascading down her back.
Coquette studied her reflection once more, mortified at the immodesty of her attire. Certainly she was thankful the long, flowing white gown was not entirely gossamer. Still, the manner in which it clung to her form, the sheer capped sleeves revealing her shoulders—how would she endure this night?
“I would not appear thus before my own father,” Coquette whispered.
“Of course not,” Victoria agreed. “And yet the Lord of Roanan is not your father. Rather, he is your bridegroom, and he will be very pleased in your appearance, I am certain.”
“I know nothing of…of such things as this,” Coquette confided. Spinning around, awash with angst, she pressed her palms together in a prayerful stance as she whispered, “I know nothing of what is expected, how to behave, or…”
Victoria reached out, clasping Coquette’s hands in her own. The girl was terrified! Obviously, no one had prepared her for marriage—the intimacies of it. Her heart ached for the frightened young woman. Her sympathy fanned at the thought of the master and his apparent hard-heartedness. Still, she knew him yet better than he supposed, and she would use her knowledge of him to try and settle the girl’s nerves for a while.
“Though it is said the Lord of Roanan is cruel and heartless, that he kills at a whim, abuses women…that he is a beast among men,” Victoria began, “though all this is said of him, the Lord of Roanan is ever a gentleman, milady.”
“A gentleman?” Coquetted exclaimed. “My own father was threatened at his hand! Further, a gentleman would never demand the price of another man’s daughter as compensation for—”
“Sshhh,” Victoria soothed, shaking her head. “He is none of it. He is harsh, hard in his ways, yes. But ever he is a gentleman, milady. He bears greatness of character. Even for the immense intimidation that precedes and follows him, he will be…temperate.”
“I have never even seen him, ma’am—never met him. How can I allow…” Coquette paused. If she pondered her position any further, she would surely faint dead away. Yet what venue was left her? “What manner of man takes a woman’s virtue in exchange for her father’s life?” she asked.
“Your virtue is not sacrificed, milady…when it is given to your husband,” Victoria explained. “Further…and may I speak plainly, milady?”
Coquette nodded, thoughtful, somehow oddly relieved a bit by Victoria’s explanation.
“Further, milady…perhaps you should ponder first on what manner of father would sacrifice such a thing for his own sake.”
Coquette was silent as her breath caught in her throat a moment. How could this woman imply such selfish atrocities where her father was concerned? Yet Coquette made no sound to reprimand, for in truth—though it pained her, washed her with guilt to admit it—she had secretly wondered the same.
“I chose to come here,” she told Victoria, reminding herself aloud as well. “It was my choice.”
“Was it, milady?” Victoria asked.
She could not think disloyally toward her father. He had raised her, cared for her, protected her, and she would be no traitor to him.
Shaking her head and pulling her hands from the woman’s, she mumbled, “I chose this. I chose this freely. And in choosing, I must endure.”
“Then I will leave you now, milady,” Victoria said.
“Must you?” Coquette asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Could not you linger…just a moment more?” She felt ill. Her stomach twisted in agony, and she was not entirely certain her husband would not enter to find its contents drenching the fabulous carpets of his bedchamber. Her knees shook, her hands violent in their trembling. How could this be? she wondered. What fate has found me here?
“I must go, milady,” Victoria said. Still, with a nod she smiled, offering reassurance as she added, “You have nothing to fear, milady. The dark Lord of Roanan will not harm you.” Taking hold of Coquette’s shoulders, the woman turned her toward the hearth and the warmth of the fire. “Warm yourself as you wait, milady,” Victoria said. “You are chilled, and the fire will help rest you somewhat.” She left, quietly closing the door behind her.
Coquette gazed into the fire for a moment, watching as the orange hot flames licked the logs they slowly devoured. The warmth did soothe her flesh but not her mind—not her soul. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, willing her tears to stay at bay. She could not show weakness—not before the dark Lord of Roanan.
She raised her head, straightened her posture, closed her eyes, and envisioned her father, her sisters, the waves of the sea as they spread over the sands. Inhaling deeply, she endeavored to calm herself, to prepare as best she could for the inevitability of the night stretching out before her. She knew little about the intimacies of marriage. What she did know frightened her beyond imagination. She sickened, thinking of enduring the night and every night thereafter in the presence, in the clutches, of a stranger. She imagined the lion in the mural overhead seizing her throat in its powerful jaws; she imagined the crimson of the draperies and coverlets on the bed were her own life’s blood draining from her.
Her dark thoughts were interrupted, and she stiffened when she heard the door to the bedchamber open at her back. The hair prickled at the back of her neck as she sensed his presence in the room—her husband. Lacing her fingers, hands at her waist, she waited—waited for him to approach, to seize her like the fierce, hungry lion would seize an innocent deer.
The dark Lord of Roanan stood silent, studying his newly acquired bride. Removing his coat and tossing it to the nearby chair, he grinned as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, then his vest. From the back she was more than comely—she was exquisite! He pulled his vest from his torso, carelessly tossing it to join his coat on the chair. Loosening his cravat, he pulled it from his neck, freeing his collar and first three buttons of his shirt.
Striding toward her, he paused a moment, a frown puckering his brow. What must this beauty think of the Lord of Roanan? What must she think of a man who would threaten to take her father’s hands and then accept a woman’s life in exchange?
Inhaling deeply, he straightened to his full, intimidating height, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. He was Lord of Roanan! He had not time for compassion or thoughtfulness. He would have the chit! She was legally his, and he would have her.
Coquette sensed the Lord of Roanan was near. She heard his boot steps as he moved to her, yet she could not turn—she could not face the man who was now her husband. She grimaced, her determination wavering as she felt him take her hair in his hand, lift it to his face, and inhale its fragrance. Tears welled in her eyes, and she thought of all the young women in the world who had known her fate—given to a man she knew nothing of and expected to endure lifelong. Her breath caught in her throat as a vision of her beloved Valor entere
d her mind. How she had loved him! How she loved him still! But she must put his memory away, for he was only that—a memory—and true life would not be so beautiful as Valor’s memory.
She startled when warm fingers touched her neck from behind, slowly sliding down over her shoulder to her arm. Without turning her head, she yet ventured to glance at the hand resting on her arm. It was large, sun-bronzed, with the look of strength and power. She frowned, curious as to the rather rough condition of the hand and fingers; clean though they were, the remains of a small wound on the back of the hand near the palm surprised her with its presence. Likewise, these fingernails, although unsoiled and trimmed, were quite lacking in pampered care. Had the sheer power and intimidation hanging thick in the air not told her otherwise, she mused this might be the hand of a field laborer and not a great lord.
Coquette held her breath as she felt the Lord of Roanan’s free hand brush her hair to one side. She winced, trying not to cry out as she felt moist lips press against the flesh of her shoulder. She could not endure. She could not!
“I am the Lord of Roanan,” the man mumbled, his lips lingering near her shoulder.
“I-I am Coquette de Bellamont,” Coquetted stammered—breathless, terrified, close to panic.
“You are now the Lady of Roanan,” the man said, and she bit her lip as she felt a strong hand slip beneath her hair at the back of her neck. “And you will respectfully turn to face me, for I will take no woman to my bed save she greets me thus first.”
For a brief instant, Coquette considered casting off his demand, refusing to face him, hoping to prolong avoiding what must be. Still, the powerful intonation of his voice frightened her. She thought of the dark lord’s threat to take her father’s life, and though her virtue was paramount, the dark Lord of Roanan was her husband. Better to sacrifice her virtue to he who legally owned it than to sacrifice her life and her father’s for fear’s sake.
Swallowing hard and casting her gaze to the floor, Coquette slowly turned to face the dark lord. Her eyes first caught sight of his boots. Large they were, and she looked from the rather dusty black tips of them to the red leather cuff just below his knee. His breeches were black as well, and she shuddered at the pure size and apparent power of his long legs. Slowly, for her courage was shallow, she began to raise her head, studying the broad expanse of his torso and shoulders, the length of his arms covered in the billowy white of a gentleman’s shirt. He’d stripped himself of his coat and vest and released the upper half of the buttons of his shirt. The solid contours and muscular definition of his exposed chest and flesh further unsettled Coquette, and she tightened the lacing of her fingers at her waist.
By the time her gaze traveled the length of him to his throat, her courage abandoned her. She could not look to his face. Indeed, he was a beast of a man from the neck down—tall, muscular, profound in his physical perfection. Still, she paused before witnessing his face. Such a form could only belong to the handsomest of men, and yet it mattered not to Coquette. Handsome or vile in appearance, her body and soul were abhorrent to know him.
“I will not devour you, milady,” he said, “no matter what stories have been told you about me.”
Coquette swallowed hard once more, struggling to find more courage as he continued.
“Look then. Look to he who now owns you as wife.”
She raised her gaze to see, for the first time, the face and features of the Lord of Roanan.
Her breathing stopped, her breath dying as she gazed on his perfect face, intense amber eyes, narrow and straight nose, square jaw, and strong chin. The brown of his hair, windblown, gave him the look of some wild predator. Still she did not breathe.
“Draw breath, girl, before you expire,” he demanded.
She gasped then, at the sound of his voice, teetering backward as recognition struck as fiercely as a thunderclap.
He reached out, taking hold of her arm and steadying her as she breathed, “Valor!”
As her knees gave way, he ably caught her, growling, “Do not faint, girl! We have business to be about this night, you and I.” Cradling her in one arm, for her legs still refused to support her, he took her chin in hand and said, “And do not call me by that name again. You may address me as milord, sire, Lord of Roanan, Lord Lionhardt, or even the name given me by the population of Roanan, Lionhardt the Heartless—but never again by that name. Do you understand?”
“B-but, Valor…I—” She was silenced as his hand covered her mouth.
“Master will do as well,” he growled, glaring down at her. “Now gather yourself that we may be about the task at hand.”
He pushed her to her feet, steadying her shoulders. Her mind reeled with confusion. Valor! How could it be? How could it be Valor was Lord of Roanan? Valor Lionhardt was no beast as the Lord of Roanan was rumored! Yet this man before her—this man was not the Valor Lionhardt she knew, the Valor her heart yet loved and longed for.
As she looked into the lion-amber of his eyes, she saw no warmth, love, nor kindness—only the flame of anger and loathing. There was no dazzling smile to make her heart merry—only the wrinkled brow of a frown, the countenance of antipathy as he glared at her.
“B-but how can this be? You cannot possibly—”
“I am Lord of Roanan, as was my uncle, my mother’s brother, before me. I inherited the title, the lands, everything, when I was but eighteen. Yet I had no need of it until I had need of it,” he said. “But you need no explanation. You deserve none. Know only this: I am the Lord of Roanan, and I have taken you as a wife in order to fulfill my need to produce an heir. My uncle had no heir. Thus I am lord. However, I am desirous of my own heir—someone to whom I can bequeath this grand and glorious opulence when I at last leave this loathsome existence,” he said, looking about the room. “Therefore, I find myself in need…which in itself is a foreign concept to me. However, in need I am. In need of a vessel…rather a woman to carry my child to maturity, thereby producing an heir. Thus, know this: I shall have my heir…the venue and vessel being you.”
His manner was so hateful, so cruel, so unfeeling. In those moments, Coquette realized she did not know this Lord of Roanan. In those moments, she understood Valor was lost to her. Valor Lionhardt had ceased to exist, and in his place stood a cruel, heartless, unfeeling beast.
Hot tears—tears of anger, hurt, disappointment, horror, heartbreak, and every manner of anxious and fearful emotion—brimmed in Coquette’s eyes, yet she willed them to restraint. The terseness of his manner of speaking of such things—it allied with vulgarity.
“And you,” she began, finding a different kind of courage than that which had abandoned her only moments before, “expect me to be this…this vessel. This receptacle…this cauldron in which to brew and birth your heir.”
“Naturally,” he told her, his voice void of any emotion, save dominance. “You are, after all,” he said through clenched teeth, “my wife.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked. “If I refuse to be the repository for…if I refuse to allow you to—”
“You will not refuse,” he said, stripping his shirt from his body and tossing it into the nearby chair. “For, imbecilic as your father is,” he added, “he has your undying devotion.” Unexpectedly, he reached out and took her chin firmly in one hand. His eyes smoldered with anger, fury, and barely restrained rage as he glared at her. “Which is more than any other man on earth can say, is it not?”
His face was mere inches from hers. The heat of his angry breath warmed her like a fever as his mouth hovered over her own. For a long moment, she was lost—lost in the memory of Valor, of his strength, passion, and character—lost in the long-buried desire for his kiss, to feel his arms bind her to him. The sudden memory of the sensation of his kiss caused excess moisture to spring to her mouth. But the anger in his eyes quickly vanquished the wistful reminiscence. This was not Valor. This man before her was a stranger—an angry, hateful, careless stranger.
She knew then her anxiety had been
founded. She had waited—waited dressed in the intimate apparel of a new bride—waited for her bridegroom, a stranger, to arrive and change the very course of her life. And so a stranger had arrived. In her soul she wondered if it would have been better to be found waiting by someone she had never laid eyes upon rather than a man who was the mirror image of Valor in body but void of anything like him in heart. The Lord of Roanan was a monster, a beast! It appeared nothing remained of the man Coquette so desperately loved. Every breath of the lover she had longed for had vanished.
She returned his heated glare, suddenly angry with him for becoming what he had become. His face and form both combined to create the most alluring, most attractive man the earth had ever witnessed. It was ever undeniable, his physical appeal. And yet the black sludge of his soul was apparent in the harsh hatred in his eyes.
She wondered then—did she perhaps have some hand in this loathsome transformation? Had Valor turned into this dark demon as a result of what had taken place, or rather what had not taken place, between them? She was further sickened with guilt at the notion. She must know—she must know if the beast standing before her was of her own making.
“I-I was bewildered. I feared disappointing my father, Valor,” she began. “When he refused you, I only—”
“Milord!” he interrupted. The frown, something akin to a wince, furrowing his brow told her he would allow nothing, no stray from what he had ordered. His will was incontestable. Growling through clenched teeth, he said, “You will call me milord, and you will never refuse me. It is me you will fear disappointing now!” He released her, straightening his posture in an air of defiance. “I will have my heir, and you will accept me willingly, else your father pays the price.”
The Whispered Kiss Page 5