The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Valor was on his feet at once, sword at the ready, as the three highwaymen dismounted and encircled him.

  “You chose the wrong man to rob this day, cowards,” Valor growled. Still, his great fatigue and instability of mind worried him. His strength was not what it would be had he received a proper night’s sleep.

  “Rob?” one of the men said. “Why, Milord Lionhardt—we do not intend to rob you.”

  “Of your valuables, at least,” another one chuckled.

  “Rather, it is your life we will rob you of this day,” the third said.

  A long-absent form of fear welled within Valor. All he could think of was Coquette—his need to see her face, his obsession with owning her. He would not die and lose the sight of her smile. Even at that moment, even when faced with such a threat as being murdered, his mouth watered at the thought of her—the thick stone and ice around his heart thinning further.

  “Then you have certainly chosen the wrong man to murder,” Valor growled a moment before he lunged at the first cloaked villain. Steel clashed, and disarming his first opponent, he spun to avoid the attack from behind. Stepping aside, he took hold of one man’s wrist as he lunged at Valor and missed.

  “I have no wish to drain you of your blood,” Valor said. He pulled hard on the villain’s wrist, causing him to lose his footing and fall to the ground.

  “But we wish to drain you of yours!” the first man shouted, wielding his sword over his head as he approached.

  “Then you will die!” Valor warned, raising his sword in defense.

  Swordplay between the first man and Valor continued. The clash of steel to steel echoed in the quiet autumn morning.

  An arm encircled his throat from behind. He kicked his facing opponent in the midsection, causing him to stumble. Flipping the hilt of his sword in his palm, he spun the weapon to face away from his frontal opponent and toward the attacker behind him. Valor clenched his teeth and plunged his blade into the man at his back. The arm around his neck slackened and then fell away. But there was no moment to reflect, for the two remaining men were upon him.

  Valor shouted. He grimaced as he felt the hot sting of a blade deep in his left shoulder. Still, he fought, matching sword stroke for sword stroke with each man.

  “Cowards!” he shouted as they fought. “Idiots! To assume three of you would be enough to…” He plunged his sword straight into the midsection of one of the men, adding, “To vanquish me!” as he watched the man crumple to the ground. Inhaling deeply, he wiped the blood from his sword on his left thigh and raised the blade toward the last man standing.

  “You and I,” Valor said, “we will go ’round a bit, but you will fall in the end.”

  The man paused, looking from one fallen comrade to the other. Valor could see his opponent’s hand tremble as he wielded his weapon.

  “I may let you live,” Valor said, “but only if you confess your reasons for this ambush!”

  The man continued to look at the fallen men on either side of him.

  He tightened his grip on his sword. “Do you really think you can best me?” Valor asked. “You do realize that I am the Lord of Roanan, do you not? You do realize I have never been bested in swordplay, whether for recreation or in earnest.”

  “Y-you will let me live?” the man sputtered.

  “If you confess to me why this was attempted, then I will consider it,” Valor said.

  The man swallowed hard. Valor could see he was fearful, terrified, and well Valor knew he should be.

  “Lord Springhill,” the man finally replied. “He hired we three to…to vanquish you, Lord of Roanan. I do not know his reasoning.”

  “Springhill?” Valor roared. “Springhill paid you for this? Why?” he asked, lunging toward the man and holding the tip of his sword at his throat.

  “I do not know, milord!” the man pleaded. “I do not know! I swear it!”

  “Unmask yourself, that I may know you!” Valor shouted.

  “B-but, milord—” the man protested.

  “Reveal!” Valor demanded.

  He watched as the man slowly reached up and pulled the mask from his face. He did not recognize the man and was glad of it. He had feared someone in Roanan had been willing to murder him.

  “Pl-please, milord,” the man began, “I beg of you…do not kill me.”

  “I should run you through here and now,” Valor growled. “But I want to know why Springhill would see me dead.”

  The man shook his head and winced as Valor’s sword cut into the flesh at his throat. “I swear, I do not know, sire! I know only that you have wronged him somehow…taken…taken possession of something promised to him. A merchant’s promise of a thing of rare beauty, he said.”

  Valor frowned and whispered, “A merchant’s promise? A thing of rare beauty?” In the next moment, his mind was cleared, and he breathed, “Coquette!” Holding the man at bay by his sword, he growled, “I have let you live. Therefore, you will honor me by riding to Roanan and sending the constable to Roanan Manor House. Do you swear you will do this? Swear it! For if you do not swear it, I will run you through! If you do not do as I demand, I will find you and run you through! Swear it!”

  “I swear it! I swear it!” the man gasped.

  “Then go! For I must make for Roanan Manor,” Valor said. Sheathing his bloody sword, he went to Goliath. The horse’s wound was deep. Valor feared riding him, and yet—Coquette!

  Quickly, he gathered the reins to a horse belonging to one of the dead men. Mounting, he shouted, “Make for home, Goliath,” and rode off at a gallop, his greatcoat flapping in the misty autumn breeze.

  “His lordship rode out quite early this morning, milady,” Victoria said.

  Coquette enjoyed another bite of one of cook’s breakfast cake. Though she’d had the cake before, it tasted better to her for some reason. The morning sun seemed brighter; the autumn leaves dancing on the breeze appeared more brilliant in their hues of crimson, gold, and orange. To Coquette, everything was improved upon, enhanced, and she knew it was for the fact her heart was full of hope and joy.

  The evening before, spent before the fire and in Valor’s arms, tasting of his kiss—it had inspired her to hopefulness. The beast would lose its battle to retain Valor—Coquette would win. She was certain of it.

  “I can see why he enjoys these morning rides,” Coquette said with a contented sigh. “And morning rides in autumn must be best of all.” Finishing the last bite of cake on the plate before her, Coquette rose from her chair and retrieved her wrap from across its back. “This morning is too lovely to ignore, Victoria,” Coquette said, tightening the wrap about her shoulders. “I think I cannot neglect a walk in the gardens any less than milord can neglect a ride.”

  “Certainly not, milady,” Victoria agreed. “Autumn is the most glorious of seasons, and the Roanan gardens proclaim it with perfect vibrancy.”

  “You will call for me if his lordship returns and is in need of my company for any reason. Won’t you?” Coquette ventured.

  Victoria smiled, quite delighted in the bright color on her mistress’s face—quite proud of herself for risking the Lord of Roanan’s wrath and leading milady to believe he had drunk of the tonic the night before. No wrath had yet appeared, and though she did not know what, if anything, had transpired between milord and milady, by Valor’s urgent need to ride out in the late hours of night and Coquette’s nearly constant expression of secret delight, she knew something had happened. An impassioned kiss, perhaps? She could only hope it was so.

  “I will be sure Godfrey informs you when milord has returned,” Victoria answered.

  “Thank you,” Coquette said. Then she took her leave.

  Victoria’s smile broadened. Poor, poor Valor. He could not resist her much longer. Coquette would melt the cold ice and stone surrounding his heart. Victoria knew it was true—to the very tips of her toes, she knew it.

  The gardens of Roanan Manor were indeed glorious! Tender rosehips lined the paths, rich wi
th deep maroons and pleasant golds. The leaves in the maples wove a canopy of crimson and green as the cool breeze breathed a delightful chill on Coquette’s soft cheeks.

  The frost had gone. Though Coquette had admired its artist’s-fancy on her windowpane upon rising from her bed, she wished now it had lingered longer so she may admire the weave of its crystal lace on the leaves and rocks.

  “Good morning, Lady Lionhardt.”

  Gasping, startled from her tender reveries, Coquette spun around to find Lord Springhill standing not far behind her.

  “Lord Springhill!” she exclaimed. She was instantly frightened, terrified! The man’s very presence had always frightened her, but his unexpected appearance in Valor’s gardens—surely he had not been invited to visit, especially so early in the morning and with Valor away.

  “Yes,” Lord Springhill said. “I thought I might join you on your morning walk.”

  “I was only about to return to the house,” she said, stepping onto a nearby path that would lead around him and yet back to the house.

  “But you have only just begun,” Lord Springhill said, stepping onto the same path and in her way.

  “Milord will want to know you’re here,” she said. “Surely he will want to join us.”

  “Your lord will not be joining us, milady,” Lord Springhill said. “Is he not out for a morning ride on that great black beast of his?”

  “Surely he has returned by now,” Coquette said, every inch of her flesh alive with apprehension and panic. “He will be along shortly, for it is our habit to walk the gardens in the morning,” she lied.

  “How came you to be wed to the Lord of Roanan?” Lord Springhill asked. “How came you to be wed to such a beast, when it was only three months past your father promised your hand to me?”

  “What?” Coquette breathed. “What…what are you referring to? My father would never…” Coquette’s own words caught in her throat. Had not her father sent her to wed a supposed stranger? Still, surely Lord Springhill spoke in lies. Surely.

  “Wouldn’t he now?” Lord Springhill said. “Wouldn’t Antoine de Bellamont promise the hand of his youngest and, I must say, most beautiful daughter to a wealthy and titled lord? Especially if there were something to be gained for himself in it?”

  “I do not know what you’re talking about,” Coquette said, making to move past him. What did he speak of? She knew nothing of such an agreement between her father and any man. Furthermore, certainly her father would not enter into negotiations concerning her hand with such a vile creature as Lord Noah Springhill. Yet again she was reminded—he had sent her to wed the Lord of Roanan, had he not?

  Lord Springhill’s hand took hold of her arm, staying her.

  “Release me,” Coquette demanded, her heart hammering with fear. “The Lord of Roanan will—”

  “The Lord of Roanan will do nothing, pretty Coquette,” Springhill said, pulling Coquette against him.

  Coquette struggled, kicking his shin with her small foot. “Let me go! Let me go! You disgust me!” she cried, pushing herself away from him. Yet before she could fathom it, he had drawn his sword, holding its tip at her stomach.

  “I disgust you?” Lord Springhill growled. “You will pay for that remark.”

  Coquette gasped then screamed as she felt the hot sting of steel at her side. Looking down, she was horrified to see her own blood soaking the fabric of her morning dress. The wound was painful indeed, but her fear dominated her sense of the pain.

  She was in danger, in danger of being brutalized or even killed! The knowledge washed over her suddenly and with great force until her soul cried out by venue of her voice.

  “Valor!” she cried. “Valor! Help me!”

  “Valor?” Lord Springhill chuckled. “Valor will not be coming to your aid, Coquette. And it is sad to see one widowed so young. Yet your first betrothed, the man you were meant to marry—I will see you are taken care of.”

  “Do not speak to me!” Coquette cried, covering her ears with her hands. “Valor! Come to me, Valor!”

  “You will die for this, Springhill!”

  Coquette allowed the tears to spill from her eyes, dropping to her knees in grateful thanks at the sound of his voice. “Valor!” she whispered. “Oh, my Valor!”

  Looking up, she thought her heart might burst with joyous relief at the sight of him. There he stood, Valor, the damp locks of his chestnut mane falling around his face and neck. He looked tired, winded, as if he’d been battling hard and long. Further there was blood soaking his clothes at his left shoulder. He had been wounded!

  “Lionhardt?” Lord Springhill growled.

  “Oh, yes,” Valor said, drawing his sword as he approached. “Your foolish henchmen could no more vanquish me than they could a wounded pheasant.”

  “Foolish, indeed,” Springhill said, drawing his own sword. “Still, I see the wounded beast before me…but wound you was not what their appointed task was, and they will pay with their lives when I have taken yours!”

  “They have already paid, Springhill,” Valor growled. “And now…you will join them!”

  Steel met steel as Valor advanced, engaging Springhill. Springhill’s counter was brutal and strong, yet Valor’s parry was swift and effective. Valor was already winded, fatigued, and Coquette’s heart beat madly with fear for his life. Springhill would kill him if he could—she knew it!

  Sobbing, she turned and fled for the house, calling for Godfrey as she went. Frightened she was to leave Valor, yet wounded and so obviously spent; she must summon help to him at once! She could hear the blades meeting with brutal force as she ran, but she must find Godfrey, for her heart knew he would be the best to aid.

  She reached the back steps of Roanan Manor House, and as she began to climb, Godfrey himself appeared by way of a side door.

  “Milady? Did I hear you call?” he asked, frowning as he looked at her.

  “Come quickly, Godfrey!” she panted. “Yet arm yourself, for milord is being attacked in the south gardens! Lord Springhill means to…he means to—”

  “Milady!” Godfrey shouted, his attention suddenly captured by the blood at her side.

  “I am well, Godfrey! Please! Valor is tired, wounded, and Springhill is fresh!” she cried.

  Drawing a dagger from a sheath in his boot, Godfrey raced down the path from which Coquette had only just come. Turning, she followed him, though his speed far out measured her own. Her side stung with pain, and she could feel the warm blood soaking her dress. Yet Valor was in danger!

  Rounding a corner and only a short distance behind Godfrey, she could see Valor battling Springhill in the distance.

  “Hurry, Godfrey!” she called through her tears and breathlessness.

  Suddenly, Godfrey stopped. Instantly he was still, and Coquette could not fathom it.

  “Godfrey!” she cried as she reached him, nearly collapsing in his arms. “Help him!”

  “The young Lord of Roanan is not in need,” he growled.

  “What?” Coquette asked, looking from Godfrey to where Valor stood, his foot pressed hard against Springhill’s throat as the villain lay on the ground.

  “You had better finish me if you have the courage, Lionhardt!” she heard Springhill shout. “For if you do not, I will yet kill you and take your lady for my—”

  Coquette gasped, her hand covering her mouth as she watched Valor drive the blade of his sword through Springhill’s chest.

  “You will not harm her,” Valor panted, “nor me.”

  “Valor!” Coquette cried, pushing past Godfrey and rushing to Valor. She did not pause to look at the dead villain at her champion’s feet, only flung herself against him, weak and sobbing.

  Valor withdrew his sword from Springhill’s corpse, tossing it to the ground as he endeavored to embrace Coquette. Yet he was weak from battle, lack of rest, and the wound at his shoulder. As Godfrey reached them, Valor sunk to his knees, still labored in his breathing.

  “Valor?” Coquette gasped.
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br />   “He is winded,” Godfrey said.

  “Winded?” Coquette asked. “He is far more than winded, Godfrey!” She was angry, furious, that Godfrey did not recognize the seriousness of Valor’s condition.

  “What is this?” Valor breathed then. “He has wounded you?”

  Coquette looked to see his eyes fall to the wound at her side. Still kneeling, he reached out, tearing the cloth of her dress, exposing her side and the wound.

  “Godfrey!” he shouted. “Send for the physician! At once!”

  “It is only a scratch,” Coquette said, knowing the wound at Valor’s shoulder was far more severe.

  “A scratch?” he shouted.

  She gasped again as Valor spit on his hand, wiping at the wound of her side in order to better see the damaged flesh of it.

  Godfrey too dropped to his knees to investigate Coquette’s wound.

  “It is not so deep, milord,” Godfrey said.

  “It is a frightful wound!” Valor growled, spitting on the wound itself and dabbing at it with the hem of her dress. “You will bring the physician! Make haste!”

  “It is not so bad, sire,” Coquette told him as she reached down and pulled aside the torn leather and fabric at his shoulder to reveal Valor’s own wound. “Not near so severe as this,” she added, looking to Godfrey.

  “I will ride for the physician at once,” Godfrey said, nodding at Coquette with understanding. Coquette’s wound gave her pain, yes, but it was not but a scratch compared with the wound at Valor’s shoulder.