“You would kill my father if I do not—” she began.
“Kill him?” Valor growled. Unexpectedly, he chuckled, shaking his head. Glaring at her once more, he said, “He has told you I will kill him if you refuse to submit to me? Then kill him I will.”
Animal, she thought. Beast! And yet she had agreed and was wed to him. She had agreed to wed a stranger—a coward who had remained hidden in shadow even as he delivered a murderous threat to her father. Her father did not know the Lord of Roanan was Valor, and she who had thought to give herself to a stranger now endeavored to convince herself she would be more willing to do so. Yet as the nausea lingering in her stomach before Valor arrived diminished, giving over to something akin to an odd titillation, she knew her mind was endeavoring to lie to her heart. Better to endure what must be endured in the arms of the handsome man she once loved than in the arms of a stranger.
“Then I will not refuse you,” she whispered, looking away and to the fire still burning warm in the hearth.
“No. You will not,” he confirmed.
Coquette startled as a soft knock echoed through the quiet room.
“That would be Victoria,” Valor said. “She is irritatingly thoughtful on your behalf and has brought you warm milk and nutmeg to soothe your tender, innocent nerves.”
Striding to the door, he opened it. Coquette watched as Victoria handed him a silver tray carrying two silver chalices.
He nodded at Victoria, mumbling, “Thank you,” and closed the door.
Lifting one of the chalices from the tray, he drank from it as he approached. “This is a good thing she gives me now and again,” he said, holding the tray out to her. “You will drink it. I will not have Victoria’s efforts unappreciated.”
“I would never be so discourteous,” Coquette said, taking the chalice.
As Valor tossed the silver tray to join his discarded clothing on the chair, Coquette sipped the warmed milk. The scent of nutmeg did serve to soothe her slightly, and the milk was calming to her stomach.
Valor finished his drink, setting the chalice on the mantel as he watched the fire.
“I am not a patient man,” he said, folding his powerful arms across his broad chest and glaring at her.
Coquette hurriedly finished her milk, handing the chalice to him when he held out a hand to her. He set the chalice on the hearth next to his and then reached out, taking her shoulders between powerful hands.
“Would you prefer I play the attentive lover for a time?” he asked. “Or does your preference run toward simple, quick endurance of what must take place between us?”
“I know nothing of either manner,” Coquette told him. She felt strangely warm suddenly, more relaxed than a moment before, even for the line of conversation between them.
“Nothing?” he questioned. She fancied an expression of concern briefly crossed his handsome face. However, had it been concern, it passed as quickly as it had begun.
“No. Nothing,” she assured him, feeling nearly dizzy. “I then leave…leave the manner to you…milord.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Very well,” he said. “You are prepared then to submit?”
“I am,” she said. She felt as if her speech was slow, slurred, and unclear. She wondered for a moment why she had agreed so easily when only a moment ago she had been terrified, anxious, and despairing.
She shook her head, dizzy again as she watched him go to the bed and pull back the coverings. He returned to her, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed. As he laid her down, she could not stop her head from relaxing onto the soft down pillow beneath it. Her eyelids felt heavy, as did her arms and legs, and there was no fear left in her, even as her gaze moved to the lion of the lair waiting on the ceiling above.
“We begin then, wife,” he said as he braced himself on powerful arms above her. “You will bear my child,” he said. “You will.” As his head descended toward hers, as she felt his hot breath on the flesh of her neck, all else was lost to her in the darkness of unconscious oblivion.
The Heartless Night
Coquette slowly opened her eyes. Bright sunlight streamed through the eastern windows, and she smiled, pleased by its cheery warmth. Inhaling deeply, she stretched, feeling as if she had not moved a whit during the night. She wondered that she had slept so long. If the brightness of the sun were any indication, even Inez would have risen by now. Closing her eyes a moment more, she let her head linger on the downy softness beneath it. Never had her bed felt so comfortable. Never had she been so unwilling to fully awaken and leave its warm comfort. Yet the day had begun, and she had far overslept. Opening her eyes, she gazed for a moment on the vision overhead—the lion, his stone throne.
Gasping, she sat upright as memory and realization washed over her. She was not in her father’s house in Bostchelan! The white linens and fine crimson coverlet enveloping her were not hers, nor was the bed they donned! Visions began to burst about in her mind as it lingered on the events of the previous day—and night. Suddenly her anxieties began to return as memories flooded her consciousness—her travel to Roanan in the coach, the unconventional wedding ceremony. She glanced down to see she still wore the lovely nightdress Victoria had chosen for her. Quickly, she glanced about the room, afraid Valor might be sitting in a chair watching her, as fretfulness entered her mind in the wake of confusion. She was alone, save the lion staring at her from overhead. Closing her eyes, she put her hands to her temples, pressing on them none too gently. She could remember nothing after Valor had entered his bedchamber, informed her of his desire for an heir, and handed her a chalice of warm milk and nutmeg. She strained her memory, begging it to release information to her. Yes. She could see him, handsome, alluring, hard-hearted Valor—the Lord of Roanan. She could see him taking the chalice from her hand once she had consumed the milk and nutmeg within. She could feel her body, lifted in his arms, carried to their marriage bed, and she could see him—his fine features, powerful body hovering above her—and then nothing! She could remember nothing further.
Yet here I sit, she thought, in his bed in the morning light. She glanced to the chair by the hearth, where still remained his cast-off coat, vest, and cravat, the silver serving tray Victoria had brought as well. There, on the mantel, two silver chalices. She swallowed hard as she noted the pair of tall boots on the floor near the chair, black breeches, and white shirt abandoned beside them.
Still, she frowned, for she remembered nothing else. How could a person not recall the events of their own wedding night? Had it been so frightful, so terrifying, so unendurable that her mind had simply shut it out?
“Ah. You’re awake.”
The deep, resonate sound of his voice startled Coquette. Quickly pulling the crimson coverlet up to her throat, her eyes widened as she turned to see Valor entering from an adjoining room. She frowned, puzzled at how less intimidating he appeared in the bright light of morning. His hair hung in dark, damp waves about his face and neck. He wore black breeches and was working at tucking a fresh white billowing shirt into the waist of them.
He strode to the enormous wardrobe against the eastern wall and removed a vest, coat, and stockings.
“You are a sound enough sleeper,” he said, retrieving his boots and sitting down on one side of the bed. “I assume, therefore, I did not disturb you.”
Coquette’s mind spun, attempting to find a response. She remembered nothing of the evening following Valor’s carrying her to their marriage bed. How could she possibly respond in earnest? It occurred to her that was exactly what she would do—respond with the utmost honesty.
“You did not, sire,” she said. For it was the truth—she had slept completely undisturbed.
“That is as it should be,” he said, pulling on one thick stocking and then the other.
Coquette watched, her attention transfixed by his very presence. How handsome he was! Her heart fluttered, her breath quickened. How could it be Valor sat near to her, pulling on his boots? S
he wished—oh, how she wished—it was her beloved of the past before her—the strong, kind, compassionate, romantic lover she had known. In those moments, she could almost imagine he was such. And yet, as he glanced at her, the lion-amber of his eyes burning with pride, triumph, and smoldering anger, she winced at the change in him. Though outwardly he was even more handsome than ever he had been, inwardly he had transformed, transfigured into something dark and cruel.
“Victoria will have instructed the maids to prepare your bath,” he said, standing and buttoning the upper buttons of his shirt. “When you are finished and have had your morning meal, you will go to the stables. You must choose a mount, for I am considering allowing you the freedom of riding now and again.”
She was somewhat puzzled at his composed demeanor. Though she still sensed the heated blush on her own cheeks at his viewing her, addressing her as she sat so casually clothed in his bed, yet he seemed unaffected. The part of her mind tainted by worldly gossip wondered. Perhaps it is commonplace for him—speaking to a woman as she sits amid his linens. She swallowed hard, attempting to dispel the need her stomach felt to wretch at the thought. Could it be her father had been correct in his assumption of what Valor Lionhardt would become? Had he indeed taken on the low character of her father?
“Now, I am away to Roanan,” he told her as he put on his vest and coat. She watched as he strode to the large looking glass and began struggling to tie his cravat. “I will return this evening, and you will dine with me at six. I will give you this day to yourself, for I am certain you are fatigued after such events as occurred yesterday…and last evening.”
Coquette felt her blush deepen, suddenly angry she could not remember the night that had passed between them.
“Most of what you require can be attended to by Victoria or the maids. Godfrey will be at your service as well.” He growled and stripped the cravat from around his collar and replaced it, beginning again. “Further, I will allow you respite from your duties as my wife this night. You may sleep in your own chambers.” Again, he growled and stripped the cravat from his neck. “Damnable thing this is!” he mumbled.
Coquette needed escape! She was overwhelmed with torment in his presence. Suddenly, her need to self-preserve found her rising from the bed and going to the place he stood before the looking glass.
“Would you allow me, milord?” she asked him.
His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he looked at her. “It might be you would tighten it too much—attempt to strangle your way to freedom,” he said.
Coquette was vexed he would think so low of her. After all, she had not turned her heart to stone, to violence, the way he had. “I only endeavor to assist you, sire,” she said. He studied her for a moment more and then handed her the cravat. With trembling hands, Coquette wrapped the white length of silk around his neck, under his collar. She had become quite adept at forming a well-fashioned cravat, having tied her father’s for years.
“There,” she said, gesturing he should turn and view her effort in the looking glass. She watched as his eyebrows arched for a moment in approval.
“Were I in the habit of offering compliments,” he began, “I should grant one to you for such a well-fashioned presentation.”
She frowned, noting he had managed somehow to compliment her without literally doing so. She cast her gaze to the floor then as he slowly studied her from head to toe, smiling as if pleased at what his eyes beheld.
“Milady,” he began, “it might serve you to quit my chambers in favor of your own just now—lest I rescind my own word and demand you spend this evening with me as well.”
Coquette gasped at his inference.
He chuckled, obviously amused by her discomfort. “You have to my count of five to make for the door and escape, milady,” he chuckled, “else I will cancel my engagements in Roanan in opt to stay here with you and—”
She was off then, before he could begin to count, dashing toward the door to his chamber. Pulling on the great iron latch, she struggled to twist it as he added, “You offend me, milady. No offer of a kiss to bid me good morning?”
Coquette’s cheeks blazed crimson as she dashed out of the lion’s lair, across the hall, and into her own chambers. Valor’s amused laughter echoed behind her. Closing the doors to her chambers, she stood breathless, feeling as if she had only just outleapt a blood-thirsty predator.
She jumped, gasping, entirely startled as almost instantly there came a knocking at the door. Coquette held her breath. It was he! Valor! He had followed her! He did not mean to let her escape. Again the knock and Coquette surmised then it was not Valor, for indeed he would have pounded on the door rather than this light knocking. Indeed, she surmised he may not have knocked at all—simply opened the door and let himself into her chambers.
“Yes?” Coquette called. “Come in, please.” She could not stop the heavy, relieved sigh that escaped her lungs as the door opened to reveal Victoria.
“The maids have prepared your bath, milady,” Victoria said. “And I have brought fresh towels for you.”
“Th-thank you, madam.”
“It would please me if you would call me simply Victoria, milady,” Victoria said.
Still unsettled by Valor’s toying with her, Coquette nodded. “As you wish, madam.”
“A morning bath is the best refreshment there is, milady,” Victoria said. “Soothing it is to the nerves. Calming.”
“Yes. I suppose,” Coquette mumbled.
“Victoria. Come at once, Victoria!” The sound of Valor’s commanding voice echoing from across the hall sent Coquette’s limbs to trembling once more. Yet she smiled, nearly giggling as she saw Victoria roll her eyes with exasperation.
“What? He’s in a temper already this morning?” Victoria said, smiling at Coquette. She winked and whispered, “You enjoy that bath, milady. It will do you good, and today will not be so demanding as was yesterday. I promise.”
Coquette smiled. She did feel somewhat comforted by the woman’s reassurance. “Thank you, Victoria,” she said.
She felt warmed by another wink gifted her by the woman as she closed the door behind her. The smallest spark of hope flickered in her bosom. Perhaps she would find a friend in Victoria. And if nights spent in Valor’s chamber had no more effect on her than to find her oversleeping into late daylight, perhaps she could endure. Perhaps.
“The stables, milady,” Godfrey said. He clicked his heels together and bowed. With a nod he turned and left. Such stables Coquette had never envisioned! Exquisite, obviously well-bred horses pranced about within a nearby fenced area, and the stable buildings were vast and well cared for.
Coquette had always dreamed of owning her own mount. Her father had never allowed his daughters to ride often or to own their own horses. He feared the freedom of riding would find them lost or injured. Therefore, at the sudden realization she might be allowed to ride occasionally, Coquette’s heart leapt with delicious anticipation.
“Milady?” a young man greeted as he approached. “How may I serve you?”
“I was told to…his lordship instructed me to choose a mount,” she explained, feeling awkward. The young man before her seemed hardly older than herself. Yet the expression on his face told her he saw her as some great lady, not a mere merchant’s daughter recently arrived from Bostchelan.
“Yes,” the young man said. “Milord had informed Richins of the need to choose a mount for you. I am William and will serve you however I might, milady. However, Richins is just inside. I will take you to him. He and the master are discussing matters with his stableboy.”
“The master?” Coquette gasped. She was certain Valor would have been away to Roanan by now.
“Yes,” William said. “He is riding to Roanan but wanted to inspect the new stableboy before leaving. If you would be so kind as to follow me, milady.”
Coquette laced her fingers together, bracing them against her waist. Her hands had begun to tremble at the knowledge Valor
was still about. It seemed she would have to face him yet again, and she wondered whether she would ever find easement in doing so.
Entering the stables, Coquette drew in her breath at the sight of Valor. He stood instructing the new stableboy in the caring of his mount. Taking a currycomb from a nearby shelf, he demonstrated the manner in which he wished the boy to curry the enormous black horse.
Coquette mused that at a distance he again appeared as if little in him were altered. His shoulders were broader perhaps, his hair a bit longer. Still, for all the world he looked like Valor Lionhardt, the man Coquette loved so desperately and had loved for so long.
In truth, he was ever more the most beautiful man to walk amidst Mother Nature’s finery. The straight slope of his perfectly formed nose gave him an instant look of nobility. His squared jaw and his chin boasting the slightest cleft also spoke of a bloodline bold with handsome men and beautiful women. His hair was still the same dark, soft brown, chestnut waves still framing his face to meet his broad shoulders. Would she ever become accustomed to seeing him without being startled by his familiar, yet stranger’s, beauty?
Coquette held her breath as Valor suddenly glanced at her. For a moment, she feared he had somehow read her thoughts—heard her musing of his overpoweringly handsome, lethally alluring physical form. The amber of his eyes, once as warm and bewitching as some sweet fairy’s potion, narrowed, seeming to study her with disdain. Suddenly she felt oddly lightheaded and realized she had been holding her breath far too long. She inhaled then exhaled, yet the dizziness remained.
“Richins,” he called. “Milady has arrived.”
He returned his attention to the horse and stableboy, and Coquette endeavored to breathe normally once more. Still, she found herself incapable of looking away from him, longing to gaze on him at a distance forever.
She closed her eyes a moment to break the spell. It was an aid she had discovered long ago—long ago when Valor had loved her—when, at times, his emotional and physical allure had been overwhelming to her. Many were the occasions in those beloved years past when Coquette had found herself weakened in his arms, gazing into the soft amber of his eyes and uncertain she could deny him anything he might ask of her. Never did he ask for anything beyond what virtue would allow. Yet she often felt, in those long-ago days, that had he asked, her resistance would have been sorely tried. It was then she had learned to close her eyes against the powerful magnetism of his perfect masculine beauty, against the pure and obsessive love for him searing within her.
The Whispered Kiss Page 6
