The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  I tried to explain my theory to Bob, but he just couldn’t quite grasp it. And so he gave up, eventually telling my daughter (at the time she was fourteen), “Sandy, you are going to be a goddess! Total eye-candy! But do me a favor—don’t overlook the plain guys and the good guys. When you’re, like, eighteen and a goddess…give those guys a chance.” He certainly had a point but had simultaneously given up on trying to understand my “Beauty and the Beast Principle.” So off Bob went—off into life with his unanswered question.

  Well, shortly after Bob left on his grand post–high school adventures, I watched the movie A Walk to Remember, based on the book by Nicholas Sparks. Voilà!

  “That’s it!” I told my husband. “That’s what I was trying to explain to Bob!”

  That story is such the perfect example of my own “Beauty and the Beast Principle”—good girl falls for bad boy and the bad boy falls so in love with the good girl so he completely alters his entire way of life—that it boggled my mind for a moment! As soon as the opportunity presented itself, I relayed my findings to Bob. I’m not certain Bob ever really grasped the concept, but it further solidified my own feelings on the matter.

  Whether Bob ever really got it, I know you do. And in understanding my theory, you’ll further understand why I love the story of Valor and Coquette—which began to imprint itself indelibly in my brain this past summer. A handsome hero, tormented, bitter, angry—for all appearances a beast—acquires a sweet, beautiful “good girl.”

  The story was blending and ripening in my mind one day when my friend Amanda was over for a visit. Of the many stories playing out in my mind, Amanda was inquiring as to which one I would finish next.

  “Well,” I began, “I’m a little nervous about it.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because…I’m thinking of doing another fairy tale retelling,” I confessed.

  You must understand this is a nerve-wracking thing for me. Whenever a story is playing out in my head, I’m always afraid my readers will hate it.

  “Oh!” Amanda said. “Which one? I wish you would do Beauty and the Beast,” she said. “It’s my favorite!”

  “Mine too!” I exclaimed, feeling a tiny wave of relief wash over me.

  “Except I think the beast should be gorgeous instead of ugly. I think he should be really, really handsome, and his heart should be what’s ugly,” Amanda said.

  “Exactly!” I replied, another wave of relief washing over me.

  It was then I decided to let Valor and Coquette leap from my mind and onto a page. Amanda had given me the affirmation and courage I needed. (Thanks, Amanda!)

  August was upon me, and I had written the prologue, first chapter, and first whispered kiss encounter between Valor and Coquette. Off I was to a book convention, my flash drive in tow. Valor and Coquette, however, needed liberation, and I couldn’t get the story out of my mind. Therefore, one August night—as my good friend Marnie and I were sitting around in our pajamas in our hotel room listening to Bon Jovi and Harry Connick Jr. and eating jerky and cookies—I asked Marnie if she would read the prologue and first chapter of the book I had entitled The Whispered Kiss.

  As I sat on the bed in my Tinkerbell pajamas, Marnie read the prologue out loud. At one point, she paused and asked, “Where do you come up with this dialogue? How do you think of having them talk like this?” referring to the style of verbiage Valor used. I was momentarily bewildered. What did she mean? I didn’t think of it—Valor talked that way!

  “Well,” I began, “That’s the way he talks…in my head. When I hear his voice, that’s how he speaks.”

  Marnie laughed, grabbed another cookie, and read on. It was then, however, that I realized something: I had to share my “Beauty and the Beast” story. I had to let Valor and Coquette out of my mind and into your hands.

  I’m always nervous about a new book, fearful of disappointing friends, not entertaining to the fullest. And I will admit, releasing this story for all to read causes a certain amount of anxious trepidation to linger in my bosom. The Whispered Kiss is burned deep into my heart. I love its Beauty and the Beast flavor, its lessons of patience, love, understanding, and triumph. I love that it’s a retelling of Amanda’s favorite fairy tale, that Marnie ate cookies and read it out loud to me while wearing her pajamas one warm August night. I love that my dear friend Amy called me up one day after reading over a few chapters and uttered two sentences that still make me laugh so hard I cry whenever I think of them! I love that my daughter realized the name of the city “Bostchelan” [bost-sha-lan] came from a blend of Boston (the intriguing and historically rich city) and Chelan (a beautiful blue lake in Washington state our family once visited). I love that my friend Kay-Ron found that I couldn’t spell Godfrey the same way twice. I love that Valor has amber eyes and that Coquette is named after a line in a song sung by Bing Crosby in the Disney version of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

  In the end, I love this beauty and her beast—this good girl and her bad boy—one of my favorite fairy tales, retold just for your heart and mine.

  ~Marcia Lynn McClure

  And now, enjoy the prologue and partial first chapter of Saphyre Snow—

  another beautiful fairy tale romance

  by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Prologue—Saphyre Snow

  The cool frosted moonlight of early winter lent a beautiful and blue shimmer to the falling snow. There were those who had witnessed the rare and miraculous event before—the soft and quiet splendor of indigo-laced frost drifting from a clear sky, as if the diamonded stars in the heavens sprinkled small, lustrous sapphires from their fingers to bejewel all the still earth. Indeed it seemed the soft blue moonlight and indigo frost whispered to the woods and meadows—breathed of a secret—a secret something of extraordinary worth. All who beheld this pageant of nature’s artistry believed it to be a herald of benevolence from above—a remembrance that moments of peaceful respite were of far more merit than wealth. All who lingered in the blue moonlight, all who felt the cool radiance of the sapphire frost sweet upon their faces, knew respite and hope. Thus, this quiet, beautiful rarity of occurrence—the serenity borne of the blue light and frost—became known among the people of the Kingdom of Graces as the sapphire snow.

  Indeed, the sapphire snow was uncommon. No man could call down from the heavens a cool, blue moonlight and downy flakes of frost. Even the king of the kingdom could not summon the mystical sapphire snow. Thus, as is often the way with rare events, it was on one of these uncommon evenings—an evening of beauty and peaceful wonder, of blue moonlight and indigo frost—that a young mother gave birth to an uncommon child. On this evening of serene enchantment—of blue frost and indigo moonlight mingling to blanket the earth with beauty—the princess Saphyre Snow was birthed.

  All those living in the Kingdom of Graces wept with happiness; each subject, common or noble, rejoiced when King Jordan announced the birth of his granddaughter. A good king, beloved of his people, King Jordan was resplendent with merriment himself at the birth. The lovely Queen Penelope was at the king’s side when he heralded the coming of the princess Saphyre Snow. The babe’s father, Prince Michael—only son of King Jordan and Queen Penelope—stood at the casement with his king father and queen mother as the king offered proclamation to the people of the Kingdom of Graces of the birth of a new royal. Prince Michael’s graceful and beauteous young wife, the Princess Felice, listened as all the kingdom cheered their joy at her daughter’s coming. Yes, the birth of Saphyre Snow was the most blessed event in the kingdom—a kingdom beloved by her king and queen, who were loved by their subjects in return.

  The father of Saphyre Snow, Prince Michael, was sole heir to the throne of the kingdom. A good and handsome prince beloved by all his father’s subjects, Prince Michael owned much honor. He had commanded legions, warriored well in battle, and owned titles for doing so. Still, perhaps most wondrous of all, Michael had won the heart and hand of the Princess Felice of Avaron.

  Hair
as dark as midnight and eyes as violet as the velvet curtains of twilight, Felice of Avaron was an exquisite beauty, both of body and of spirit. The daughter of a king and queen in a far-off land, Princess Felice had been greatly sought after. Many men had battled for a mere chance at gaining her favor. Yet Felice of Avaron was bred of a long lineage of honor—and of true love. Descended from a mighty line of a great kings and noble queens, Felice of Avaron did not give token of favor in light manner. Nevertheless, upon first sight of Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces, the Princess Felice of Avaron had known at once where her heart would ever remain. Thus, Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces gave full his heart to she who filled it, and a betrothal followed forthwith.

  On their wedding day, the Princess Felice gifted her young husband a token—a favor of such profound worth that all who witnessed the giving of the gift knew the heart of the beautiful Princess Felice would never waver. The favored gift was a sword, forged long ago, generations before, by a master craftsman. The sword was named the Crimson Frost and had been forged in honor of a great knight who had once lived and walked the earth in such glory and honor as to birth eternal legend—a knight who had risen to king, a king who had sired progeny, progeny from whence descended Princess Felice and the babe princess, Saphyre Snow.

  Thus, though Prince Michael was handsome, every subject of the Kingdom of Graces hoped that the babe, Princess Saphyre, might grow to be as beautiful as her mother—that the strength and honor of the royal family might mingle with the legendary power and beauty of the Princess Felice’s ancestors to craft as rare a princess as was rare the miracle of nature’s artistry for which she had been named. It was not long before the king and queen, Prince Michael and Princess Felice, and all the subjects of the Kingdom of Graces began to see that the wee princess would indeed inherit of her mother’s beauty. As Saphyre grew, it was certain to all who looked upon her that she mirrored her mother’s beautiful image and countenance. Hair as black as silken ebony, skin as soft and as fair as porcelain, and lips as sweet and as red as any ripe cherry or fragrant rose were those of Saphyre Snow—an immeasurable and truly ethereal beauty. Yet perhaps the most striking feature of the Princess Saphyre was the color of her eyes—as deep and as bright a blue as any sapphire on earth, with such a spark of life in them as to enchant any who might own the blessing of her gaze.

  Further, it was certain to all who knew her that her mother’s strong ancestry had fared well in her blood. The child Saphyre Snow owned a rare gift of empathy and compassion. An obedient child, she was yet strong of will and did not linger in despair. All who looked upon her admired her, all who spoke with her felt joy, and all who were privy to her company in any manner loved her.

  Thus the young princess grew in love and happiness, cherished by all her family and every soul in the Kingdom of Graces. Beautiful and happy and safe lived the princess Saphyre Snow—for a time.

  Seven Souls

  Saphyre paused, leaning against a strong pine for support. The crisp, spiced scent of the forest—of tree bark and leaf litter blanketing the ground—did little to soothe her. Brushing a strand of ebony hair from her tear-stained face, the princess attempted to catch her breath before pressing on. Her bosom ached from breathing the cold night air. She looked to her arm—to the wound there administered by a mean-spirited holly branch she had intruded upon while running through the wood. The lesion, though not profound in size and no longer bleeding in profusion, yet stung painfully. Saphyre winced and determined to ignore the discomfort. She was cold and frightened and alone, without any conception of how she should proceed. No time had been allowed her—no time to consider or plan. She had known only the necessity of escape, and she had fled. And she must yet elude—run—keep far from what lay behind her—pray it was not yet following.

  Crumpling to her knees, careless of the moist pine needles, leaves, and other forest spoils littering the wooded ground, Saphyre buried her face in her hands and bitterly wept. How could such things be? How could it all have come to such a dreadful spectacle? She thought of her mother and wished with all her heart she had not died. The queen had passed from earthly life the year previous, and oh, how Saphyre missed her! How she missed her mother’s loving embrace, her wise counsel, her beautiful smile. Saphyre shook her head, brushing the tears of pain and fear and frustration from her cheeks and chin. Her mother had died, and her father had altered entirely. He was so thoroughly changed—so very altered in countenance. Her father’s wits had been complete about him before her mother’s death. Everything and everyone—the whole of the kingdom—had been happy and safe. It seemed to Saphyre the Kingdom of Graces and all its subjects had begun to weaken as a whole. Upon the death of the beloved Queen Felice, the kingdom began to transform, taking upon itself a dark countenance—a countenance in similitude to the one it had begun to exhibit shortly after the death of Saphyre’s grandmother years previous. In this, even King Michael had changed. Gone was the tender, loving father Saphyre had known. In his place there lingered a stranger—one who frightened Saphyre, struck her with feelings of uncertainty and vulnerability. Thus, how desperately Saphyre missed her mother now. How desperately she longed for the sense of safety and hope her mother had ever exuded.

  Saphyre raised her head, closed her eyes, and listened. Sometimes, if she endeavored with great determination, she imagined she could almost hear her mother’s voice on the evening breeze—nearly feel the soothing touch of her gentle hand. Yet the caution-call of a black crow in a nearby tree startled Saphyre. There was not time to linger in recollection or regret, for an ominous evil yet pursued the princess Saphyre Snow—fairly nipped at her heels.

  Leaping to her feet, Saphyre ran—fled further into the depths of the forest—for darkness was fast falling. Saphyre knew she could not endure another night in the frigid forest uncovered and unprotected from the elements—and anything else choosing to prey upon her. Autumn threatened to come early to the Kingdom of Graces and all the forest surrounding. Saphyre knew this night would be colder and crueler even than the night before. Nearly frantic, she looked about for a cave, a tree with a drooping branch, anything that might provide her shelter for the night. Yet there was nothing, and so she pushed onward—onward until she thought her feet could carry her no further—onward until she could see nothing through the dense forest now blocking the moon’s light. The night was cold—nearly frigid. Saphyre’s arms and legs burned with weariness borne of unfamiliar striving. Such a weariness was upon her as to cause her to wonder if she might not simply drop in her own footsteps.

  Then, suddenly, a large and weathered structure—veiled in night’s shadows—loomed before her. It seemed a ruin of some sort—still, a ruin with remnant walls. And even remnant walls would provide some shelter. She wondered for a moment what other creatures had considered the same—perhaps taken up residence within. The ruin broke the canopy of tall trees, and by the moonlight, Saphyre could see it looked to be the vestige of an old castle keep. Saphyre then remembered. As a child, she had heard tales of a once-great castle of the Kingdom of Graces. It was said the castle was lost—destroyed by an ancient war battled generations before. She wondered whether this ruined keep was perhaps all that remained of the place—the legendary castle of which stories were now rarely told. Saphyre frowned as she gazed at the moss-covered stones and a weathered, yet quite solid, oaken door. She fancied the keep must once have been a great stronghold indeed, for anything that could cling so long to pure existence must surely have known strength beyond understanding. Reaching out, Saphyre placed a hand against its mossy outer wall. She was assured then—it was indeed real. She had not fallen asleep, exhausted from two days of running aimlessly, to find herself dreaming. The musty velvet moss grew thick on the outer wall, further testament of a vastly aged edifice.

  Through an opening in one damaged stone wall, Saphyre tentatively entered the ancient keep. Without the forest of trees to impair, blessed moonlight beamed in through the nearly vanishing ceiling and roof. A
ceiling there was, yet once massive beams were now rotted, and moonlight streamed through great holes and cracks. Saphyre closed her eyes, thankful for the full moon, for it gave her enough light to look about. Several doves startled as she stepped further into the keep. Saphyre gasped as they took flight, escaping through the damaged roof. She stood quite still as her gaze fell to a fire pit in the center of the room. Dying embers there breathed more warmth than Saphyre had felt in two days, and though the prickle of the hair at her neck, the whispered warning in her heart, admonished caution, she could not resist moving nearer, dropping to her knees, and rubbing her hands over the still-glowing cinders.

  Saphyre glanced about her once more, wondering who had built the fire, knowing it must have burned hot and bright only hours before. Still, her overwhelming weariness and need for warmth numbed her sense of caution, and she remained kneeling before the fire, warming herself as best she could. She mused that whoever had built the fire had long since taken his leave. Surely it was safe to linger for a few moments more, to perhaps lie down on one of the nearby logs and rest a moment—only a moment. It was all she was in need of—only a few moments of respite. Would not it be safe to merely close her eyes—for just a moment?

  No sooner had Saphyre closed her eyes, however, than she began to dream—to dream of the nightmare her life had become. Her dreams were disordered—lovely visions of her mother, followed closely by ghastly ones of her mother’s death—moments spent in the safety of her father’s arms, mingled with visions of her father, the king, battling perplexity, struggling to maintain the strength of his mind. Visions of her grandfather, King Jordan, were in her dreams—of the great man he had once been—of the love she had once known for him. Vile visions of her step-grandmother intruded—her step-grandmother, Queen Carmen—of her great beauty coupled with obsessive vanity. Even visions of Kornelius were somehow provoked—of handsome Prince Kornelius, the subject of every young woman’s dreams.