The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

Coquette paused, frowning with puzzlement. She took the parchments Godfrey offered.

  “While the man holds desperately to love,” Godfrey said.

  “What is this?” Coquette asked, her heart suddenly hammering with angst in her bosom.

  “Parchments of Annulment,” Godfrey answered. “His lordship instructed me to give them to you. He means to give you your freedom, milady.”

  “But I have only just won my freedom, Godfrey,” Coquette said. “To be with Valor…’tis heaven. Why would anyone want to be free of heaven?”

  “It is a consideration of fools indeed,” Godfrey said.

  Coquette looked at the parchments in her hand. “The man holds to love,” she said. “Are…are you certain, Godfrey?” she asked. She looked up to see him standing before her, smiling with triumph.

  “As certain as your own heart, milady,” he said.

  Coquette smiled. Her heart swelled with rapture in the sudden inward confirmation that Valor loved her—had always loved her.

  She looked to Bostchelan, to Billings’s Stables and the blacksmith working at the fiery forge within. Lifting her skirts, she set out, running toward the stables. Quickly she tossed the parchments into the blacksmith’s fire, watching with resplendent joy as they burned.

  “Take me to Roanan Manor, Godfrey,” she said. “Please, Godfrey—take me home.”

  Godfrey smiled. “At once, milady,” he said. “At once.”

  To Bid the Beast Farewell

  As the coach approached Roanan Manor, the warm pink of the sun’s rise broke over the mountains to the east. Coquette’s heart beat wildly with anticipation. Mere minutes! Mere moments and he would be near to her once more—Valor! It was hardly she could endure the wait to see him again, witness his handsome face, feel the soft nut-brown of his hair between her fingers.

  Hurry, Godfrey! she thought. Hurry me to my love!

  Richins was awake, grooming a large bay outside the stables as Godfrey pulled the coach to a halt.

  “Milady?” Richins said as Coquette fairly fled from the coach.

  “Good morning, Richins. William,” Coquette greeted. She was frantic, desperate with mad desire, to see Valor.

  “Is Valor about?” she asked. “Has he left the house or does he still rest?”

  “He does not rest,” Richins said. “The truth of it is, he has not rested since you left for Bostchelan yesterday morning, milady.”

  “What?” Coquette asked.

  “He is mad with anxiety,” Victoria said as she approached from the direction of the house. She wore a worried expression unlike any Coquette had ever seen on her face. “Utterly distraught with despair and pain!” she added. “I…I have been fearful for his life. Milady, I fear he may simply expire from grief and hurt. When I saw the coach…oh, how I hoped you were here!”

  “Surely,” Coquette began, astonished at the revelations of Richins and Victoria, “surely he knew I would shortly return. After all, it was he who sent me.”

  “There is a change come over him, milady,” Victoria said, taking Coquette’s hands in her own. “H-he is weak. Weak of mind, body, and heart. He is poorly, milady, and we are all fearful for his well-being.”

  “Where is he?” Coquette asked, her heart hammering with fear and trepidation. Had the wound inflicted at his shoulder become infected? “Have you summoned the physician? His shoulder…has the wound at his shoulder—”

  “It is not the wound at his shoulder that threatens him, milady,” Godfrey said.

  Coquette looked to him, bewildered.

  “Rather he thinks you will not return. It is the wound to his heart that finds him ill and in danger.”

  “But surely he knew I would not accept the parchments,” Coquette whispered.

  “The beast was brutal, milady,” Godfrey said.

  “What beauty would choose such a beast?” Victoria whispered.

  Coquette frowned a moment longer. However, her heart swelled once more, and her inward assurance Valor loved her stoked her courage.

  Turing to Victoria, she asked, “Where is he?”

  “At the garden pond,” Victoria answered.

  Coquette did not pause to thank those standing near. Rather, lifting her skirts, she made for the pond with great haste. Surely Valor did not believe she would accept the annulment parchments! Had the beast been conquered in the space of one day? Further, could it be Valor loved her with such a love as she loved him? She knew he did! As her heart hammered, her feet racing to carry her to the pond, Coquette knew—the beast had gone. The beast had abandoned Valor! And what then? After battling the most grueling conflict of his life, had Valor triumphed, only to think Coquette had abandoned him? She would not let him think it one moment longer!

  Valor raised a weak hand to rub at his weary eyes. How they burned with fatigue and the dryness of too many spent tears, too much worry, too much pain. Why had he let her go, after all he had endured to own her? Still, he knew his reason—unfailing love, selfless love—the truest form of love.

  Valor had watched the coach leave Roanan Manor—watched it carry Coquette away—and he had not found one moment of rest or respite since. The moment the coach had passed the gates of Roanan Manor on its way to Bostchelan, the contents of Valor’s stomach had left his body, emptied onto the floor. Fever had overtaken him and further retching until, after an hour of such miserable disease of mind and body, Valor had managed to make his way to the garden pond. There he had stayed—all through the day and into the night—his mind and body wracked with the pain and agony of loss and heartache and the battling of the beast lingering in him.

  Victoria had come to him often, bringing drink and nourishment, begging him to return to the house. “You’ll catch your death, milord,” she had said.

  And Valor cared not if he did catch it, for to lose Coquette—it seemed death became preferable to life.

  The lurking beast in him argued, Let the siren go! She has brought you nothing but further pain and agony! But Valor had silenced the beast, weary and sickened of its presence in his mind and heart. He wanted nothing save Coquette—no other companion, no comfort—for all seemed senseless without her.

  He would drop to the depths of despair and then rise on the fiery wings of anger at the thought of her there in Bostchelan—happy in the company of her insipid father and selfish sisters. How little they deserved her strong and good spirit, her loving heart. Yet Valor knew he deserved it less, and it haunted him, for the chance had been given him—the chance to win her, to own her—and he had allowed the beast to devastate such a chance.

  Torn with pain, anger, and despair, Valor had been unable to rest—unwilling and unwanting to rest. He wanted nothing, save it were to see her face again, feel her tender cheek beneath his palm, taste the sweetness of her kiss. But she had gone. He had released her, and he must determine a venue of survival—a different venue than that of the beast who had overtaken him before. Yet what venue was left to him—death? It seemed the only path in the dark of the night, for how did a man twice lose such a dream as Coquette and survive?

  Valor watched the fish swimming in the pond—blind to their soothing beauty though his tired eyes were wide enough open. He would watch the fish—linger forever at the pond—for what other course was left him?

  “Milord?”

  The voice did not startle him. It was only Victoria come to beg him to return to the house once more. Would she not leave him to his misery, his defeat, his despair?

  “Milord? Are you well?”

  Valor frowned. His mind, his sanity was leaving him, surely—for he fancied it was not Victoria’s voice speaking from behind him. Even it sounded as Coquette’s, and he knew madness was at last upon him.

  “I am well,” he mumbled, “as I have assured you each time you have inquired of me.”

  “Still, you look worn, milord—tired—and I feel you must take to your bed and rest, else you will not—”

  Valor stood—turned. As in a dream, there she stood—Coquette�
��his beautiful Kitty! He was certain in that moment his heart had failed him, stopped beating at last.

  “Coquette?” he asked.

  Oh, how worn he looked, how tired and defeated in that first moment. His appearance caused Coquette’s hands to tremble, and she wanted nothing save it were to melt into his arms, confess her love, beg for his kiss.

  “Are you…are you well, milord?” she asked. “For I fear you are not.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked, and she fancied there was moisture welling in his tired-looking eyes.

  “I live here, milord. This is my home,” she told him. “Have you so soon forgotten?” Was he truly so unwell?

  “Why are you here?” he asked again. “Have you come back to bid the beast farewell?”

  Coquette could see the sudden trembling that overtook him, the fear in his eyes, and she knew—the beast was gone. In its place there was only Valor. Yet he feared she had only returned to bid him goodbye. He did not yet believe she loved him.

  “I have,” she said, moving toward him. “And I see he is no more. He is gone…but I am here. This is my home. You are my home.”

  Still he frowned, doubted, trembled.

  She walked to him, stopping to stand directly before him. Looking up into his tortured expression, into his tired eyes, she reached forward, taking his hands in hers.

  “He has hurt you, caused you pain,” Valor whispered. “He has ill-treated you, lied to you, threatened you, and endeavored to thrust you away from me. He has—”

  “Ssshhh,” she whispered, reaching up to smooth the frown of his brow. “He is no more. The past is beyond us. We will not linger on it any longer.”

  She watched as his frown deepened, his body still trembling as he looked down at her. She could see the love he held for her manifest in the warm amber of his eyes.

  “I must atone,” he said. “You cannot simply say it is passed. Not with such scars carried as proof of it.”

  “Scars are but evidence of life,” Coquette said, “evidence of choices to be learned from…evidence of wounds, wounds inflicted of mistakes, wounds we choose to allow the healing of. We likewise choose to see them, that we may not make the same mistakes again.”

  “For such wounds to heal, forgiveness is required,” he said. “How can you forgive such wounds as I have—”

  “Sshhh,” she whispered again. She was silent for a moment, looking away from him as tears traveled down her cheeks. “Can you forgive me?” she asked in a whisper.

  “What is there you could ask forgiveness for?” he asked.

  “Can you forgive me for failing three years past?” she said. “For not taking your hand the moment my father refused you? Can you forgive me for not abandoning him for you?”

  “But with your own words you prove there is nothing I can hope to forgive,” he said. She looked to him, bewildered as he continued, “For I had not drunk of Victoria’s tonic last you and I shared kisses before the fire in my chamber. Liar that I was…I was fully awake when you told me of leaving your father’s home after he had refused my proposal. I was fully aware when you told me you sought me at Lionhardt Manor only to find it was I who had abandoned.”

  “You were…you were aware?” she asked. Suddenly her heart beat even more rapidly, with even more excitement. What delicious kisses they had shared that night! What blessed, loving endearments he had spoken when last he had administered the whispered kiss to her warm and wanting mouth!

  “I was,” he admitted. “Do you see what a liar your beast was?”

  Coquette sighed, smiling up at him. “No more will we speak of the past, whether of your beast’s ill deeds or of my own weakness. I love you, Valor! It is ever I have loved you and ever that I will.”

  She heard him draw a labored breath—gasped as he suddenly fell to one knee before her, clutching at his chest with one hand as if experiencing intense pain.

  “Valor!” she cried.

  Taking his face in her hands, she turned his face upward that she may see he still breathed, still lived.

  She was breathless then, robbed of her every sense save awe, as she saw her true Valor before her—handsome and strong. A dazzling and very familiar smile spread across his face as he looked up at her. Valor Lionhardt had returned! Suddenly she felt shy, uncertain of herself. Instantly reminded of his uncanny attractiveness, his power and strength, Coquette began to tremble.

  Still smiling at her, he rose to his feet, his piercing gaze never leaving hers.

  “The past is beyond us,” he said. “And I am Valor Lionhardt—who loves you more than life itself. I love you, my Kitty,” he said.

  Coquette struggled to breathe as his strong hands crushed the sleeves of her dress at the shoulders in powerful fists.

  “Ever I have loved you…only you,” he said.

  Coquette’s mouth began to water for want of his—for want of Valor’s mouth to hers.

  “And it is passed,” he said, his hands moving to her waist as he pulled her nearer. “All of it…your father, mine. Lies, deception, hurt, pain—the beast and cause of it all. It is gone from us both, I can feel it.”

  “You will keep me then?” Coquette asked, her eyes transfixed on his smile, his mouth. “Will you keep me, Valor?”

  “Keep you?” he breathed, taking her face in his hands. “Oh, I will most certainly keep you, Kitty. I will keep you here, at Roanan. I will keep you in my eyes as ever I have—as the lion standing sentinel over my bed has kept the portrait of you painted in his.”

  “What?” Coquette breathed, wanting only to kiss him. Still, the meaning of his words bewildered her.

  He chuckled, delighted by her breathlessness.

  “It is true,” Valor said. “The lion in my chamber, the one you have seen looking down on you from my bed—you cannot see it from so far, but you are there…painted in his eyes as ever you have been from the day the artist put you there—replicating the miniature of you I have kept these years. Now I will keep your person as well.”

  “Valor,” Coquette breathed, tears streaming down her face.

  “Oh, how I will keep you, Kitty,” he began again. “Keep you in my heart and in my eyes and in my arms.” His smile changed to that of delighted mischief—the mischievous smile of Valor Lionhardt Coquette so long loved, so long missed until that moment when it was bestowed upon her again as he continued, “And I will keep you in my bed. Bedchambers of separation are for strangers, not lovers who are husband and wife.”

  “Keep me then, my Valor,” Coquette whispered. “Keep me ever near to you! Never from you. Never again!”

  Valor pulled her into his arms, crushing her against him. She endeavored to return his embrace with all the strength in her. Still, she desired to hold him tighter, breathe more deeply of the scent of his shirt and flesh.

  “Kiss me, Kitty,” he whispered. “Kiss me, and I will whisper to your mouth such promises of love and keeping as to find you helpless against any of my own amorous intentions.”

  “Oh, Valor! How I love you!” Coquette breathed as Valor’s lips lightly touched her own.

  “I love you,” Valor whispered against her mouth. And the whispered kiss was spent, for their mouths melded—drenched in passion—filled with promise.

  Beast: [beest]

  -noun

  A coarse, cruel, heartless, or otherwise beastlike being

  Thief: [theef]

  -noun

  One who steals, especially in secret

  Merchant: [Mer-chuh nt]

  -noun

  One who purchases and sells commodities for profit

  Valor: [val-er]

  -noun

  Heroic courage; bravery, especially in battle

  Coquette: [koh-ket]

  -noun

  Enchantress

  Author’s Note

  (aka, Author’s Ramblings Concerning Her Personal Feelings for the Story)

  Yes, truly one of my favorite fairy tales has always been Beauty and the Beast. To me, the tale of Beaut
y’s beast whispers of so many aspects I love about romance, as well as of life in general—the idea that patience and love see beyond the battered and broken, that the power of love brings change, compassion, sympathy, courage, and triumph. It’s a wonderful lesson, a beautiful romance, and I always wanted to write my own version of it.

  And then there’s the fact that, to my way of thinking, Beauty and the Beast represents the ultimate example of the “bad-boy syndrome” so many of us girls secretly long for and utterly understand…

  I once had a conversation with a young man of nineteen. This young man (we’ll call him Bob) explained to me that he had been what he called a “late-bloomer.” A bit chubby and somewhat shy in his early teens, Bob had been unable to capture the attention of any of the girls he had experienced crushes on in those early years. By the time he was nineteen, he had certainly bloomed, as he put it, but he still didn’t understand the bad-boy syndrome.

  He asked me, “Why do girls always want the bad boys? Why don’t they see us good guys as attractive too?”

  Well, we all know the answer to that question. It’s the “Beauty and the Beast Principle,” as I like to call it—the idea that the gorgeous, brooding, troubled bad boy will fall in love with one of us so completely that his entire life alters. In loving us so desperately, the Beast transforms into Prince Charming! Oh, certainly we girls want enough of the Beast to remain that it keeps things interesting, keeps our Prince Charming masculine, mischievous, and “perfectly imperfect.” Yet to imagine a man could love us so thoroughly, so obsessively, that he entirely gives his heart over, now that’s why so many of us are drawn to the bad boys in our youth. At least that’s my theory.