The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Suddenly, she felt entirely besieged, thoroughly overcome, with the knowledge she had been led to her lost love Valor, only to find him so comprehensively altered. She was overly dizzy suddenly, weak, and, though she fought to deter it, she knew she would swoon.

  She felt her breath give way, felt her body crumble to lie on the dirt of the stable floor. Nearly as soon as she had fallen, her breath returned to her, and she endeavored to right herself.

  “William! Richins! Assist me!” she heard Valor shout. In the next moment, he was beside her, kneeling on one knee, her face in one powerful hand, forcing her to look at him.

  “Milady has fainted,” he said as William, the stableboy, and another man hovered over her.

  “I am well,” she whispered, humiliated at the realization she had succumbed to swooning before the men. How weak they would ever think her now. “I am well, milord.”

  Still, as she looked into the frowning face of the Lord of Roanan, she knew he was not convinced.

  “Richins,” he said as he stood, swooping her into his arms. “You will finish instructing Latimer where Goliath is concerned. Have the boy unsaddle Goliath as well. I will not ride to Roanan today.”

  “I am well enough, milord,” Coquette said, yet feeling light-headed still. “You may away.”

  “William, go before us and tell Victoria what has happened. Make haste,” he said. The man had to trot to stay ahead of Valor’s long stride as he carried Coquette toward the manor house.

  “I am able, sire,” she told him, though in truth light-headedness still threatened her consciousness. “Truly.”

  “Able women do not faint in stables,” he grumbled.

  Oh, how desperately she wanted to cling to him, to slip her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder. Yet the tense power of his body, the knowledge of his being Lord of Roanan and not simply Valor, kept her from it.

  It seemed mere moments had passed when Valor carried her into the house and laid her on a chaise lounge in a parlor near the kitchens. Victoria was at her side, helping her to drink cool water from a silver chalice while Valor paced back and forth nearby.

  “I have sent William for the physician,” Valor told Victoria.

  “Are you certain it was wise, sire?” Victoria asked.

  “Wise? She lost consciousness in the stable, Victoria!” he shouted. “To my knowledge it is not the everyday occurrence!”

  “Yes, sire,” Victoria said, helping Coquette to sit upright.

  “I am well, I assure you, sire,” Coquette said. “I only felt light of head for a moment. Perhaps I was simply…” She was desperate to find an excuse for him, to settle his angry, worried expression—to alleviate Victoria bearing the brunt of his anger. “I-I did neglect to breakfast this morning,” she admitted.

  In truth, her stomach had been such a bundle of knotted nerves, she had been afraid to attempt to eat anything. She wondered whether it was her breathlessness in the stable at seeing Valor that had caused her faint. Yet she knew neglecting breakfast had likewise been an unwise choice. She had endured too much physical and emotional duress over the past few days, been rendered breathless in Valor’s presence too often, for skipping meals to bode well.

  “You did not eat?” he asked her. “Why would you begin the day with no breakfast? Especially after…” He paused, glancing to Victoria, whose eyes quickly widened as if in warning he should not continue his planned speech. “After such a night as last?” he finished.

  “I did not think of eating, sire,” Coquette said. “Pray, forgive me my folly. I did not expect it would affect me so.”

  “Send Godfrey to stay William and the physician, milord,” Victoria said.

  “Yes. Yes. Godfrey!” Valor shouted.

  As she watched Godfrey arrive, as she watched Valor tell him to ride after William and tell him milady was fine and not to bring the physician, suspicion began to burn in her mind. Why? Why not summon the physician as a precaution?

  “Hereafter you are not to leave the manor house without first having eaten,” Valor ordered.

  Coquette fancied his index finger trembled as he shook it at her. Indeed, she noted beads of perspiration on his forehead, the amber of his eyes bright with more concern than anger.

  “Yes, milord,” she replied as she watched him briefly place a fist to his mouth.

  This was his fault! Valor struggled to remain calm, to rein his emotions into careful lines. Still, it was his fault, and he knew it. Guilt began to creep over him, and he fought to keep it at bay.

  When fate had gifted him Antoine de Bellamont as a thief and trespasser, he had thought only of revenge—of revenge and of at last owning the only woman he had ever wanted. Vowing he would not love her, he had convinced himself owning her would gift him infinite satisfaction. Yet when he’d entered his bedchamber the night before to see Coquette standing before him, his conscience had endeavored to return. More beautiful than even he had remembered, more inherently good and innocent, he knew at once he would have to draw upon every black emotion within him were he to resist her. Even though he held rights as her husband, he had vowed to resist her. And resist her he had, with Victoria’s aid and knowledge.

  When he had turned to see her collapse, he doubted what he had done—feared it had somehow harmed her. Fear was not an emotion with which he was any longer acquainted. He loathed fear and the weakness it stirred in him. He despised Coquette and the weakness she stirred in him.

  “Such a long trip yesterday, milord,” Victoria told him. “Such a very long trip and then the ceremony and…and beyond. Nothing to eat has simply worn her down.”

  “Then make certain she eats when first she rises from here forward,” Valor growled.

  Coquette looked away as the fire of his narrowed, angry eyes burned upon her.

  “My day is in ruination for all this! See to her, Victoria. And put her abed earlier than would be expected,” he said, storming from the room.

  “Yes, milord,” Victoria said.

  Inside, Coquette trembled. Something was about that she did not understand. Something had passed between Valor and Victoria, causing her to reconsider the trust she had begun to place in the woman.

  “Truly, Victoria,” Coquette began, “am I well? Is something amiss with me, do you know?”

  Victoria smiled, patting her cheek with reassurance. “I’m afraid you have been overly taxed, milady,” Victoria said, “and quite underfed today.”

  “Would you deceive me now to protect your master?” Coquette asked plainly.

  Victoria inhaled long and deep before answering, “Yes, milady. I would. But I am telling you the truth in these moments. You are simply overly taxed.”

  Though Victoria’s truthfulness unnerved her greatly, she somehow felt relieved by it.

  “Then I will eat something and wander through the gardens awhile,” Coquette said.

  “Both will do you good, milady,” Victoria agreed.

  Yet Coquette felt ill at ease. Something was amiss, she was certain. Valor, appearing so terrifying, confident, and commanding since she arrived, had seemed entirely unsettled for some time after her faint. The manner in which Victoria calmed him was also unusual—a housemistress instructing the master on matters of whether a physician was needed? It was, all of it, strange. Yet something in Valor’s eyes, however fleeting, had been familiar. Concern? Worry? For an instant, Coquette’s mind mused. Perhaps her true Valor still resided somewhere deep inside the beast-self he had become. Perhaps not all of him was lost. Perhaps she would find him one day, draw him out to their mutual happiness.

  Still, as she thought again of his threat to her father’s life, of his insensitivity to her the night before, she abandoned the hope of it. Her Valor would have sent for the physician, no matter what Victoria’s assurances had been. Her Valor would have worried over her well-being to greater length. No. The Lord of Roanan was not her Valor. The Lord of Roanan was cruel and heartless, and Coquette must accept.

  
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br />   The gardens at Roanan Manor were of a heavenly beauty. After enjoying a light meal of poached eggs and a muffin, Coquette left the manor house in search of some resemblance of serenity and peace. She found the gardens provided both. Lush with green and bright color, she knew autumn was at summer’s gate and would strip the gardens of their purples and pinks. Yet as she walked beneath grand oaks, gazed at the rosehips along certain paths, she knew autumn would bring more brilliance to Roanan Manor’s gardens even than summer.

  Amid a grove of trees, Coquette came upon a pond. Large fish of the brightest orange and pearl swam lazily in the sun-warmed water. A bench sat at its bank on one side, a bench made of small tree limbs and leather, and Coquette sat upon it, considering the fish as they swam back and forth in the water.

  Warm breezes through the leaves overhead breathed soothing whispers through Coquette’s hair. The bright sun on her face warmed her, and she sighed with momentary contentment as she watched a tiny bluebird bathing in the water.

  “You are recovered then?”

  The voice startled her. She turned to see Valor standing behind her. She wondered how long he had been there. Had he followed her out of the house? How long had he been watching her as she sat in ignorant serenity?

  “Yes, sire,” she answered. “I am not normally so weak, yet I suppose the events of the past few days would weigh very heavily on anyone.”

  “Hmm. I suppose,” he mumbled. “I will expect you at dinner, in any event,” he said.

  “At six. Yes, milord,” she said.

  “There is a box beneath the bench,” he said. “In it, you will find a pair of gloves and bits of stale biscuits. You may feed the fish if you wish.”

  She realized she might have intruded, however unknowingly, on Valor’s own sanctuary of peace.

  “Forgive me, milord. I do not mean to intrude here,” she said.

  “You may feed them when you wish,” was all he said as he turned and left.

  Coquette closed her eyes against the vision of his walking away. It suddenly reminded her of the day he’d left her father’s study—of the last time she had seen him as Valor Lionhardt, her true beloved, instead of Lord Lionhardt, the dark Lord of Roanan. Would that he could be both. Yet she knew he could not. The tide had taken Valor and washed ashore a stranger to her.

  Valor’s breathing increased as his emotions threatened to surface. Was he to have no privacy now? As he stormed down the garden path toward the house, he determined, though he would keep from Roanan, he would have Latimer saddle Goliath all the same. He needed to ride. Hang it all! He would saddle Goliath himself! Goliath would carry him into oblivion—where the past could not haunt him and the beauty presently sitting at his fishpond could no more distract him.

  He must hold firm! He must keep his presence of mind! Revenge—revenge and triumph—it was all that mattered. He must hold to bitterness and loathing. He paused as he approached the stables. Yet how would he keep himself from her? He closed his eyes, trying to dispel the vision of her as she had looked last evening—soft, beautiful, innocent, seemingly so unaffected as he had been by her father’s refusal three years before. He thought then no emeralds held the flash her eyes did; no woman on the earth could cause such a fire to flare within him.

  He grimaced, forcing a vision of her cowardly father to the forefront of his mind—Antoine de Bellamont, the coward. And yet what was Valor Lionhardt but a different sort of coward?

  Growling, he opened his eyes, running an angry hand through his mane. Hold to the stone heart within. It was what he wanted. It was who he had become—Lionhardt the Heartless. He chuckled, fancying the byname bestowed upon him by the townsfolk of Roanan sounded as one of Arthur’s very knights of the round.

  “The Heartless Knight,” he fancied aloud. But his musing was to his own detriment, for in the next thought his mind whispered to him—what of the night spent with Coquette? What of his first night with his wedded wife? Was it not also heartless of a different sort—void of desire, passion, love? What might have passed between them three years past had Antoine de Bellamont not refused the hand of his daughter? For certain, it would not have found Coquette instantly induced to deep and wakeless slumber by way of Victoria’s unusual nutmegged milk. It would not have been such a heartless night between Valor and Coquette had Antoine not stripped love and happiness from him. But he had, and Valor determined there would be many a heartless night in his future. And so be it!

  He strode to the stables, saddled Goliath, and rode—rode the day to the ground, until his body was worn and his mind again intent on his resolve. He had not brought Coquette to Roanan to woo and win her once more. He had brought her to Roanan to triumph! To defeat her merchant father!

  Yet as he entered the dining hall at six to see her sitting clothed in the softest of blue gown, her ebony hair cascading over bare shoulders, Lionhardt the Heartless worried for the strength of the darkness within him. Many a beast had been brought to ruin and domesticity at the hand of beauty. Still, his resolve was strong, and he would not bend. He prepared himself then—another heartless night would proceed.

  A Letter to Contemplate

  A week passed, and with it, somehow Coquette’s strength of mind grew. Rest and conscious acceptance of her circumstance led her to determination—determination to keep herself. As each day passed, Coquette was determined she would not be lost to resentment and bitterness the way Valor had been. In truth, Valor himself had unknowingly given her strength. Each morning as she awoke—each time in her own chambers, for Valor had not demanded she attend him again since their wedding night—she was struck by his lack of pleasure in a new day. In being ever angry, ever walking the halls of Roanan Manor House wearing a perpetual frown, Valor seemed to find no easy delight. Coquette was not surprised, for a blackened heart did not allow gladness to easily enter a dark soul. Still, it caused her further awareness of her own—awareness of the need to cling to a light heart, a bright soul. This she endeavored to do.

  Each morning, after a rather hearty breakfast prepared for her at Valor’s demand, she meandered through the breathtaking gardens of Roanan Manor. Fresh air, lovely colors, and a pause at the pond to feed the fish filled her soul with moments of respite. Further, Valor had chosen a mount for her and had indeed allowed her to ride most every day. Naturally, William, Richins, or even Godfrey must accompany her, for Valor had not condoned her riding alone, the reason being she was not familiar with the countryside and might easily become lost. Silently she mused he was afraid she would ride away from him. But fear did not seem part of his character, nor desire for her company in any aspect, with the exception of dinner. Always he demanded she dine with him, and oddly enough, Coquette had begun to somehow look forward to it.

  Though their conversation was always stiff, lacking any depth and true merit, she had begun to revel in the knowledge it was the only time Valor seemed the least bit unsettled. At first she had taken his attempts at disorganized conversation as the result of bored irritation. However, she had begun to realize that for some reason, their dinner hour unsettled him. Perhaps it was irritation of some sort still. Yet it seemed he was never quite as completely gathered as he appeared any other time, and it caused Coquette curiosity.

  And then one night, over a week after her arrival, Valor entered the dining hall as the clock struck six, a deep frown furrowing his brow. Coquette had taken to arriving early to ensure she would be waiting when he arrived and sat straight and at the ready.

  “This was delivered for you,” Valor fairly growled, tossing an article of post to the table before her. “Mind you, it is simply my good nature today that allows you to know it has come.” He rather slammed himself into his chair, his chest rising and falling with the labored breathing of restrained anger.

  “It is a letter,” Coquette said, retrieving the post from the table and looking at it, “written in Elise’s hand.”

  “It is why I chose to allow you to have it,” Valor growled, “for it is not a man’s
script. Therefore, I assume it is not from your father.”

  Coquette frowned, wondering whether her father had attempted to write her. Perhaps he had and Valor had simply not allowed her to have the letters.

  She was somewhat unsettled as he seemed to have read her thoughts when he said, “You have received no other letters from Bostchelan. This is but the first, if you are thinking I have kept others from you.”

  “Thank you, milord,” Coquette said, placing the letter in her lap. She would relish the news from her sister after dinner when she was alone.

  “Read it then,” Valor demanded, “unless you are afraid to let me hear what news your sister has sent to you.”

  Afraid to let him hear Elise’s news? Of course she was afraid to let him hear it! He sat relaxed in his chair, one elbow crooked over the back of it, while his free hand toyed with the napkin at his place setting. She knew he would not be deterred; yet she must try.

  “I-I am certain there is no information of consequence, sire,” she stammered.

  “But I am certain there is,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.