The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Suddenly he took her chin firmly in hand, his eyes smoldering with emotion as he looked at her. “Preferable to me, and methinks to you as well, is the aggressive advance of impatient, matured masculinity,” he growled. “Simply take what I desire.”

  Coquette melted as his mouth took hers! Driven, moist, severe, this kiss was unlike any kiss her beloved Valor had administered. Heated with demanding desire, this kiss was passion-bred! And though she did not return it, Coquette was wholly overcome by it. Clenching her hands into fists at her sides, she endeavored to remain unwavering—resolute in not involving herself in the kiss, in not returning it, in not simply throwing her arms around his neck and drinking in such passion. She felt her knees weaken, her heart hammering in her bosom. The very hairs on her head tingled where they were attached. He must stop! If he did not, she would weaken—give in—and he would know. He would know the Valor Lionhardt he once was, even the Valor Lionhardt in whose arms she now trembled, owned her very soul!

  “Thus,” he whispered, breaking from her, “which choice is yours, milady?” He leaned forward, kissing her cheek softly. “Soft and measured?” his rich, deep voice asked. “The adolescent’s kiss?” he asked, kissing her again. “Or ambitious with appetite?” he added a moment before his mouth captured her own in the moist, driven kiss of passion.

  At once, Valor pulled Coquette into his arms and against the strength of his powerful body. Exhilaration and pleasure burst full in Coquette’s stomach, fanning out to every limb and appendage of her body. As Valor’s mouth endeavored, coaxing hers to join in the fevered exchange, Coquette’s resolve to resist him began to vanish. She could no longer hold her hands in fists at her side or deny her mouth permission to accept his kiss, return its fervor.

  Letting her hands travel the breadth and strength of his shoulders, she trembled at the joy of finally embracing him. This was Valor, after all—her heart’s greatest desire! His kiss was ambrosia—moist, heated, tinged with the flavor of confection! Coquette reveled in the feel of his roughly shaven face against the tender flesh of her own. In those moments, she did not care what heartless beast he had become; in those moments, she knew only her fixed dream had come to fulfillment. She belonged to Valor!

  The raging desire of passion within Valor threatened to consume his sanity. What a taste her kiss was! Warm and delicious nectar! And her touch—it was his undoing! How could he put her away from him when every thread of his being wanted only to hold her for eternity? His mind raced, visions of life in Bostchelan, visions of remembered hope and happiness, burning through it like a rogue fire.

  Yet he was no longer simply Valor Lionhardt. He was Lord of Roanan—the dark lord and beast who knew only hate and dominance. This he reminded himself even as he continued to quench his thirst for Coquette’s kiss. What a thirst for her burned in him! And her acceptance of him, of his passion’s kiss—the knowledge of her acceptance—was nigh to dropping him dead at her feet. More than acceptance was her involvement, her response, nay her returning the affection of his mouth with her own. This was a dangerous farce he played at, and he knew it. Yet was it farce? Was it folly?

  Silently, he cursed Victoria. Hadn’t she measured the tonic correctly? It seemed Coquette should be unconscious, not returning his kiss with such eager zeal. One more minute and he might lose himself in the feel of her in his arms, the warm flavor of her nutmegged kiss.

  And then, a moment before the Lord of Roanan was nearly lost to a memory of a past character, he sensed Coquette’s embrace weaken, her kiss lighten. Beyond regretful, he broke the seal of their lips, gazing into the ethereal beauty of her face. Her eyes narrowed, heavy with the fatigue brought on by the tonic. He watched their emerald fire soften as deep weakness began to overtake her.

  “What then, wife?” he said. “What manner of seduction—”

  “Any manner will find me helpless in your…in your arms, Valor,” she mumbled.

  He caught her unconscious body in his arms, lifting her and cradling her effortlessly.

  He grimaced, suddenly stung by his own guilt in such deceitful trickery. What a coward he was. What hypocrisy had he allowed to own him! To threaten the girl’s innocence and yet put her deep to sleep by use of Victoria’s tonic instead of relishing that which by husbandly right was his—it was pure cowardice.

  He called upon his anger, lest he be lost to the heart he owned in the past. He called upon his fury at seeing Antoine de Bellamont in his gardens at Roanan. Valor had been furious nearly to violence at seeing the man, the lowest of fathers, the shallowest of characters, who had stripped him of his happiness, the man who had denied him the only thing he had ever wanted—the merchant’s daughter. Antoine de Bellamont was a pretender as well. Valor ground his teeth at the knowledge of how the man had embellished the story of their conference to Coquette. He wondered then if her father had even told her of losing his ships, of Valor’s restoring his wealth. He thought not, for she seemed willing enough to accept the descriptions of her father’s success, fleet, and wealth written in her sister’s letter.

  As he gently laid Coquette on his bed, he endeavored to rid himself of the passion she evoked in him—endeavored to remember she had chosen her spineless father over him—endeavored to conjure the memory of the pain of heartbreak. And it was not difficult to find.

  Still, as he studied her peaceful, beautiful face, guilt and self-loathing bathed him. She was innocent. What good, caring daughter would deny her father’s will, rebel against his protective authority?

  Dropping to one knee beside the bed, Valor closed his eyes, raising one powerful fist to his forehead. Drawing from everything harsh within him, he remembered disappointment, anger, heartache, and loss. Endeavoring to rebuild his resolve, he clenched his jaw tightly, attempting to ignore the flavor of Coquette’s kiss still lingering in his mouth, the blissful sensation of her body held in his arms.

  Would that she could heal him; would that she could still want him. But as he studied the beauty lying on his bed—ebony hair softly strewn over his own pillow—he knew too much had changed in him. A beast he was—heartless, cold, and unfeeling. It is what he told himself as he gazed at her.

  He mused then this beauty before him was not so innocent. Unwilling to defy her father and marry Valor Lionhardt, she had quite easily agreed to marry a stranger to save the cowardly father’s life. He glared at her, appalled she would marry an unknown man without any pause when she had found it so easy to spurn him.

  Standing, he reminded himself of his vow—his vow to never consummate his marriage to Coquette without her willing consent—without her desire to do so. Still, his anger at her father and his heartbreak and anger at her hand for choosing the will of such a weak-minded fool as Antoine de Bellamont over the love and happiness he would have gifted her—at last his anger returned his strength and resolve to him.

  No. Husband or not, he would never force intimacy upon Coquette. Still, as rage and resentment pulled him from his knee at her bedside and to his feet, he thought, Yet let your mind imagine what it will, Coquette, for I have no heart—no heart for compassion and no heart left for you to break again.

  Reaching for his boots, he stormed from his bedchamber. He did not trust himself to linger in the same room with such a passion burning within him. Further, he would seek out Victoria, determined the reprimand he delivered her would be harsh.

  He found her sitting in the kitchen, a book of poetry in one hand, a pastry in the other.

  “What are you about, Victoria?” he growled. “It was nearly…I was nearly undone, for it took the tonic some time to affect her.”

  “What do you mean, master?” Victoria asked, an innocent perplexment in her expression. “What do you mean you were nearly undone?”

  “Do not trifle with me, Victoria!” he growled, slamming one powerful fist on the table before her. He ran trembling fingers through his chestnut mane and said, “You nearly cost milady her incorruptibility this night!”

  Victoria put down her
book. She set the pastry on the table linen before her. Reaching out, she placed a comforting hand over Valor’s fist. “She is your wife, milord,” Victoria said softly. “Why do you deem it corruption to take her when you are—”

  “You nearly cost her most dear this night, Victoria,” he interrupted. Perspiration beaded at her master’s brow. Rage, desire, and an obvious lingering minimum of self-restraint wracked his trembling body. Why does he deny himself? Victoria wondered.

  “While I am her protector against all else, you are her protector against me,” he whispered. “Do you understand me, Victoria? Do you understand you must protect milady from this beast I am? You serve me, and you must do what is best.”

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed as she studied her master. Undone he was! Entirely! “I do understand, milord. I must’ve lightened the tonic quantity too much,” she told him. “I will not fail you any longer.”

  She watched as her master swallowed hard, nodding he was pleased with her answer—though she knew how thoroughly he misunderstood it. She would not fail him any longer, it was true. No. She would not mix the tonic to put his lady abed. Next time, she would not simply lessen its strength: she would neglect it entirely. Whatever darkness kept him from the beauty within his reach, it was time he faced it. “I will not fail you, master,” she said.

  He straightened and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with one yet trembling hand. “Th-thank you, Victoria,” he stammered. “You will look in on milady?”

  “Yes, milord,” she said.

  “Then I will away to the stables. I must ride out this fever over me in the cool of the night,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, milord.”

  Antoine de Bellamont—coward! Selfish seller of daughters! Goliath’s gallop was strong and swift. The night air did serve to somewhat cool Valor’s fever brought on by his dalliance with Coquette. Yet it would take far more to keep him from her the length of the night.

  Over and over he considered returning to his chamber, attempting to raise her from her tonic-induced slumber. Over and over he thought of taking her mouth with his own again—selfishly taking more than her kiss. But he would not!

  Antoine de Bellamont—merchant, proud mongrel. The fault was none but his! The merchant had stripped Valor of his happiness, and Valor hated him for it. Hated him for his lies to Coquette. And yet what better liar was Valor? What less hurt and pain was he heaping on her now?

  “On, Goliath!” he growled. “She chose her father,” he mumbled. “She chose him over me, and she yet does! So be it. Let her think what she will of me. Let her wonder what happened between us this night!”

  Yet guilt was his best companion as he rode on—rode on and on into the dark of night.

  

  The sun broke the horizon as Valor quietly entered his bedchamber. He breathed a heavy sigh—a sigh of great fatigue, defeat, and near despair. He looked to the bed to see Coquette yet slept. He wondered how long she would remain in peaceful, innocent slumber. Removing his boots and shirt, he strode to the bed and carefully laid himself upon it—next to Coquette, yet with ample space between them.

  Again, great fatigue caused him to sigh. He would not look at her. Surely it was not wisdom to gaze at her peaceful beauty when he had spent the entirety of the night trying to forget it. Instead, he stared for a time at the mural above—studied the lion so kingly on his throne of firm rock. What a strong beast this lion was—strong and dominant of all he surveyed.

  Sleep quickly overtook Valor. The effort of restrained desire coupled with the long night of riding had weakened him, vanquished his vigor. Even as he slipped into deep slumber, he forced his thoughts to bitterness toward Coquette.

  Let her think what she will, he thought. Let her awaken to find me at her side. Let her mind burn with wonderment. And yet as he slipped deeper into sleep, he thought he felt his own mouth whisper, “Forgive me, Kitty.”

  To Weave Such a Web

  A low, breathy moan entered her mind, stirring her from the deepest of slumbers. Coquette opened her eyes to bright sunlight. Her eyes still heavy with awakening, Coquette rubbed them to encourage awareness.

  Almost instantly, she was alert and remembering. Gazing blindly at the lion sitting protectively overhead, her hand went to her mouth as she remembered the kisses placed there by Valor the night before. Closing her eyes, she drew upon the delicious memory of being in his arms, his touch, his mouth heated and moist and melding with her own. Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered nothing else! Again, her memories somehow had been bested, erased. She wondered if she had simply fainted from the euphoria induced upon her by his kiss. Or was there more to Victoria’s nutmegged milk than simple warmth and spice?

  Suddenly she remembered Valor’s abrupt appearance the previous time she had awakened in his chamber. She moved to raise herself to sitting, but as she turned, she saw him, Valor, lying as a tangible dream on the bed next to her. She held her breath, afraid she had disturbed him and that he would suddenly open his “predator’s” eyes and see her there beside him. He did not stir, and she paused in contemplation of the man next to her.

  He wore nothing save his breeches. One strong arm lay across his stomach, the other outstretched at his side. His massive, muscular chest rose and fell with the slow ease of slumbered breathing. His eyes were closed, his face serene and free from anger and frowning. It gave him a look of peace Coquette had never before witnessed in his countenance. His hair, rather tousled, caused a smile to spread across Coquette’s face. Boyish, it enhanced his peaceful appearance, and she desperately wanted to reach out and weave her fingers through its nut-brown softness.

  She was possessed with the intense desire to take his face in her hands and kiss him exactly on the mouth! She wished he would awaken, see her gazing at him, and pull her into his strong embrace. She wished to see into his very soul, to see beyond the beast, to see if his core were really as black as it appeared. Such thoughts both delighted and frightened her. She carefully removed herself from the bed. Tiptoeing to the door, she lifted the latch, looking over her shoulder to ensure he still slept. He did.

  Once outside his chamber, thankful that no one else lingered in the hall, she quickly made her way to her own room.

  “Oh!” Victoria gasped as Coquette entered her bathing room. “You startled me, milady.”

  “I could not remain asleep,” Coquette quickly explained. “I thought I might wander in the gardens awhile before breakfast.”

  “Certainly, milady,” Victoria said. “Would you wish I should cease in preparing your bath then?”

  “Um…no. No, I think you are right. I think a soothing morning bath would serve me well,” Coquette replied.

  “Good,” Victoria said, smiling as she poured an amount of oil from a glass vial and into the waiting tub. “I do love this scent, milady—sweetened vanilla bean. So heavenly. How did you come by it?”

  “My father is a merchant, you remember,” Coquette answered. “I have loved it since first he brought it for my mother when I was a child.”

  “Lovely,” Victoria said, corking the small glass vial of scented oil. She stirred the surface of the water in the tub with her fingers, patting them dry on her skirt. “And…and how do you find the master this morning, milady?”

  Coquette swallowed. Did Victoria know? she wondered. Did Victoria somehow know the bride of Roanan could not remember the nights spent in his lordship’s chamber? Suspicion rose in Coquette’s mind once more, for it was Victoria who had again brought the nutmegged milk. Still, what reason would Valor’s housemistress have for wanting her to forget her nights in Valor’s chamber? And Valor certainly could not be responsible—he who wanted nothing from her save she should provide him with an heir. She would consider on it later, when she was again alone in her chamber with her thoughts.

  “The master is yet asleep,” Coquette answered, making her way to the waiting tub of warmed water and scented oil.

  “Good,” Victoria said. “Then he will have no n
eed of either of us for a time. Here, let me help you to the bath.”

  “Oh,” Coquette said, quite astonished Victoria should offer to assist her in bathing. “I am quite capable of—”

  “Oh, yes, milady,” Victoria said. “I only meant I might linger and talk with you awhile, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Very well. I suppose.” It seemed an odd ritual—speaking to the housemistress while bathing. Still, Coquette surmised it might be commonplace in titled households. In fact, she suddenly remembered her mother once telling her and her sisters of a favorite maid in her own father’s house who, on occasion, sat and talked with her of careless things whilst she bathed.

  Victoria turned and began to arrange a mound of towels set on a nearby table. Coquette, though still somewhat disconcerted, knew this was her prompt to enter the tub. Removing her nightdress and underthings, Coquette swiftly slipped into the warm, fragrant water.

  “Oh, it is a nice fragrance, is it not?” she sighed as the comfort of warmth and scent enveloped her.

  “It is, milady,” Victoria said. “I bathe often in the evening—when the house is all settled and the master quieted for the night. Godfrey…now there is a man who does not enjoy the comforts of life.”

  “How so?” Coquette asked, though she had often thought Godfrey a bit stiff and was not surprised at Victoria’s opinion of him.

  “He bathes in barely tepid water, or so the stablemen tell me,” Victoria explained. “And he has nothing whatsoever to do with pastry. How can a person enjoy life without indulging in pastry? Even the master has his confections—peppermints and other candies he purchases from the shop in Roanan. It is ever I am finding half-eaten bits in the pockets of his breeches.”