The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “You seem sleepy,” she said as she studied his handsome, beloved face. “Do you wish me to leave so you may rest?”

  “No,” came his reply and with it the most dazzling smile. “I wish you to stay here…near to me, thus, so that I might…that I might…”

  “So that you might, what, milord?” Coquette asked, her heart hammering madly within her bosom. He would kiss her again this night! She was determined he would. He would kiss her and not for the sake of impressing dinner party guests.

  The fire smoldering through Valor’s veins was like none he had felt in seemingly so long—like none he had felt until Coquette had come to Roanan, that is. Under the guise of being influenced of Victoria’s tonic, Valor knew a freedom he had not known in years—a freedom to play at being Valor Lionhardt, the lover of Coquette de Bellamont—Valor Lionhardt who desired only to please her and possess her heart.

  Tentatively, for he yet feared she would recoil, he raised one hand to her face, cupping her cheek. Amazed when she did not flinch at his touch, he fancied her eyes fairly twinkled pure pleasure, her smile revealing delight. He again began to consider on whether Godfrey had been right. Did he merely have to reach out and gather her to him to win her? Did Coquette still care for him, want him? Even did she love him still?

  “You are fortunate you arrived after I drank,” he mumbled, feigning the tonic intoxication. He would venture further. “For I would aggress toward you were I able.”

  “I fear I might allow you to aggress were you able, milord,” she whispered.

  Valor felt his heart struggling against the cold stone encasing it, and it pained him excruciatingly. His own flesh tingled as her hands grasped his forearm, as she pressed her cheek more firmly against the palm of his hand.

  Surely this could not be! Surely he was dreaming! He fancied that there had truly been tonic in the milk Victoria had given him and that he was hallucinating, imagining the flirtatious words passing between them. Yet he persevered. He would see the farce through, whatever it brought—whether joy or pain, he must know what would transpire.

  Valor chuckled low in his throat. “Such lies do not diminish your beauty in the least,” he said, reaching up and trailing limp fingers over her neck. “Nay, such lies only complement it.” He let his hand loosely encircle her neck, his thumb resting in the tender hollow of her throat. “Further, it is dangerous to tease a beast of any breed, Coquette. Even one so fatigued, so weak as the one before you now.”

  “I am in no danger,” she said, blissful at his touch. This was her Valor! This was her lover, her friend, her heart’s desire! “For when you are thus fatigued, you are Valor Lionhardt, he who was once my lover and protector, and I am secure that neither I nor my virtue linger in impending danger.”

  “Still,” he said, dropping his hand from her and closing his eyes for a moment, “’tis dangerous to tease a beast—no matter your confidence in the man you once knew.”

  “I still know him,” she whispered, her fingers weaving through his soft hair. “He has never left my heart. He is yet companion to my soul, though I miss him with every breath of my life.”

  It was too much! Valor felt moisture in his eyes, felt the ice around his heart threatening to thin. Yet he knew he could not reveal himself as being fully aware. He closed his eyes, resigned to feign unconsciousness. Better to pretend sleep than to falter or reveal too much of himself, of the struggle within him.

  “Valor?” she said, and he did not miss the disappointment in her voice. “No, Valor! Do not sleep yet.” Still, he feigned. Every muscle in his body wanted to reach for her, pull her into his arms, but he resisted, trying to concentrate on the darkness within him, the bitterness of his soul.

  In the next moment, however, his senses were more alive than ever before as he felt her lips press softly to his.

  “Valor?” she whispered. “Do you indeed sleep? Are you lost to me so soon?”

  “No,” he breathed, barely able to keep himself from gathering her into his arms and crushing his mouth to hers.

  “Do you remember, Valor,” she began in a whisper, “when you used to kiss me? Do you remember when you would whisper into my mouth?”

  Instantly, waves of familiar, long-restrained emotion washed through him. He felt hot and cold, weak and powerful in the same moment. Of course he remembered! Did she think him an imbecile? Yet he knew she did—at least she thought it of the fully conscious beast he had become. Still, how could even a beast forget it! Visions of the past flashed through his mind, of his manner of weakening Coquette’s resolve to resist him. The trifle act of affection had never failed to find her trusting, willing in his arms—never had it failed to win her to him. It pained his very soul to remember it, to linger on wondering if the simple gesture would still win her to him.

  “I do,” he mumbled.

  Coquette’s heart leapt, wild where it already pounded madly within bosom. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering, nay reliving just such an instance from the past. She saw it clearly in those moments, her timidity, her awkwardness at holding the attention of the most beautiful man imaginable. She could nearly smell the scent of lilacs, feel the warm sun on her face as Valor Lionhardt had kissed her tender lips—a light, careful kiss at first.

  She remembered the expression on his most handsome of handsome faces, the spark of desire in his eyes as he held her face between his hands, so powerful even then. She had been frightened—frightened of releasing her tightly guarded manners, fearful of revealing the full depth of her feelings for him, terrified in knowing he may break her heart as easily as a footstep snapped a tender twig. And it had been in those moments—as he kissed her again, his lips pressing more firmly against her, understandingly patient, yet coaxing her own lips to part in further acceptance of his kiss—it was in those blissful moments Valor had first broken some invisible seal of fear and released her passion.

  “Do not be frightened, Coquette,” he had said in a voice so deep and resonate as to melt a woman’s very bones. He had kissed her again, coaxing her lips to part, and as they did, he paused in the kiss, at the same time lingering, his lips still touching hers. It was then he had whispered, “I love you. I love you, Coquette de Bellamont.”

  Instantly the memory of his warm breath entering her mouth, the moisture of his tongue’s soft touch to her lips as he had whispered the words, caused the flesh of her body to break involuntarily into goose pimples, just as it had done so many years before. She shivered, delighted by the thrill the memory drizzled over her—the memory she had kept beloved within her heart for so long.

  It had been her undoing, the whispered kiss, his whisper of love carried from his mouth into hers! Instantly she had melted against him, passion exploding between them as his tender kiss ignited to a frenzy, his mouth crushed against her own. The very memory of it caused excess moisture to flood her mouth, and she smiled, remembering how Valor had not forgotten the effect and used it often to deem her weak and helpless in his arms. Never had he misused his power over her. Never had he pressed her beyond impassioned kissing. And Coquette was thankful to him for it, for she was even yet uncertain she could have ever denied him anything once he had whispered into her mouth.

  “Lean close to me, Coquette,” Valor whispered. The sound of his voice wrenched Coquette from her reminiscence.

  “Pardon?” she asked. His eyes were yet closed, and she knew he was close to losing consciousness.

  “Lean close,” he repeated.

  Her heart pounding like a hammer against an anvil, she did lean to him—close then closer until her face was only a breath from his.

  His eyes opening into narrow slits, he said, “I am a wanton man now, Kitty,” he said. “But I am weak in my fatigue. You are safe to place one tender kiss…one kiss the like of the past. Place one kiss to my lips, Kitty, and I will whisper to your mouth…though it may not please you as much as it once did, for circumstances are vast in their change.”

  Coquette’s heart beat so brutally
the sound of it was nearly deafening in her own ears. He was tempting her! Tempting her as the devil himself tempted the innocent. Yet how could she refuse? Her mouth watered at the thought of his whisper in her mouth, craved it as one craves a sweet, sun-ripened peach on a summer’s day. She would have his whispered kiss once more. She would! And if his whispered words were of a nature only driven by physical desire, yet she knew they would linger on her tongue like confection.

  She was breathless, unable to inhale as she leaned forward and pressed her lips tenderly to his. She let her lips linger against his, overcome by the pleasure of his lingering against her own. And then, as her heart nearly stopped from such wild beating, Valor began to whisper.

  “He who you loved is altered, beauty,” he whispered, his warm breath filling her mouth with a sweet ambrosia, the light touch of his tongue as he whispered causing her to tremble. He paused, kissing her more firmly, and then another whisper, “You belong to the beast who once knew him.” Again he paused to kiss her, and Coquette’s arms gave way, her torso relaxing fully against his own. “And the beast will have his heir—the beast will one day have you, beauty,” he continued, and she was herself intoxicated by his charm. “But never against your will.” She felt his weak arms band around her, as tightly as powerful arms weakened by a mischievous tonic could band around her. “This is my promise to you,” he whispered, and she was undone.

  Taking his face between her hands, Coquette freed the withheld passion, so long pent up within her. This was her Valor—the love of her heart, soul, body, and mind! In those moments, no matter what his whisper warned, it was Valor’s voice promising safety. The beast would have her, and silently she hoped the beast’s wanton desire for her grew from the love her lost Valor had once owned for her. The beast would have her, have his heir, yes—but Valor would protect her will.

  His arms tightened about her, his mouth matching hers in its delicious, abandoned vigor. This was Valor! This was her knight, her prince, her heart’s desire, her soul’s mate! This tasted of Valor, felt of Valor, and it was Valor whispering into her mouth each time the seal of their lips broke for breath.

  “Does my kiss please you?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she whispered in return.

  “Greatly?” he asked, still in a whisper.

  “You can never know the bliss of it,” she whispered.

  “Then show me,” he asked, his voice deep, rich, and enticing.

  Coquette was undone! Frantically, she took his face in her hands, pressing her mouth to his in her own demanding, passion-fed frenzy, and he did not draw away. Instead Valor’s mouth endeavored to match the fervor of her own, even for his weakened state. In mere moments, he had both surrendered and returned to dominance within the exchange, and she feared she might swoon in the bliss of the knowledge he possessed her.

  Suddenly, however, and yet somehow expectedly, his kisses began to weaken. Coquette knew the tonic was winning him over, and she cursed its power. But how could she curse the power that had twice freed Valor of the beast? And so, as his kiss weakened, his eyes never opening again, she let him go—placed her soft fingertips to his lips as he drifted into unconsciousness.

  It was then, when she was certain he slept and would not remember, it was then she spoke to him, confessed what she had wanted to confess for so very long.

  “Valor?” she whispered. “You are asleep, and I am a coward. I am a coward, for I could never confess a thing such as this to you were you conscious.”

  Valor tried to appear unconscious, tried to breathe slowly and with regularity—a nearly impossible feat considering the passion blazing in him. What would she reveal? Within his still body, Valor’s heart and mind battled. One part, his stone-covered heart, shouted she loved him still and would accept him—love him if he could but find the courage to release himself. The other part, his mind, shouted he was a fool—a fool to believe she could forgive him his horrid deceit and bitterness. Yet as the battle within him raged in silence, he strained to hear her whispered confession. What could one such as she possibly have need to confess?

  “I abandoned my father that day in Bostchelan, Valor,” she whispered. “After Father refused your proposal, I went upstairs. I cried as I packed a small valise, and…and I walked to Lionhardt Manor. Cecilie answered the door. She said you had gone and that you had left no word as to your destination. I could not believe I had paused—paused long enough to lose you. I inquired of your father, but even he did not know where you had gone. I inquired of everyone…everyone I knew, but you had gone. I know it does not matter now. The past is passed, and you cannot care to know this. Yet something in me wishes you to know it! I want you to know that I did not choose my father over you. I was only astonished at his refusal, confused, and frightened.”

  Valor struggled as he had never struggled to maintain the appearance of unconsciousness while his mind called out in misery and regret, shouted remembrances of his own stupidity and impatience.

  “I loved you, Valor! I only wanted you! I only ever have wanted Valor,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for my ignorance and weakness. I should not have paused. I knew it the moment my mind was clear, and I realized I had done it. Please forgive me. And know this: hell has me in its clutches,” she whispered. “For it is I would rather burn with this beast forever in the hell he knows than to ever keep from you again, Valor.”

  He felt her soft lips linger against his once more, heard the swish of her ball gown and the latch of his chamber door. Opening his eyes, he drew labored breath, coughed, thought he might lose the contents of his stomach. Sitting up, he shook his head, spit out the lump in his throat, heard it sizzle in the fire. Perspiration began to trickle over his forehead, and he struggled to stand, even falling to his knees once with the weakness heaped upon him by what Coquette had revealed to him.

  She had abandoned her father after all! Left to seek her lover out—her lover, he who was too impatient to wait even an hour to see if a mighty change would come about. In his pain, in his certainty to endure deeper hurt and pain, he had fled Lionhardt Manor and Bostchelan, leaving his broken heart and she who had broken it in his furious wake. One hour! Had he waited but one hour, she would have been at his side! The knowledge sickened him, and he again feared he might heave the contents of his stomach to the floor.

  His body trembled, his chest burning with pain and anguish. His legs and arms felt weak and numb, and he was certain he would lose consciousness at any moment. He must ride! Ride out the passion in him begging fulfillment, ride out the disgust he felt for himself and his actions, ride out the sickness of his mind and body.

  Awkwardly he pulled on his boots, shirt, and coat. His body wracked with pain and agony like he had never before experienced, he made his way to the stables, the fresh air of autumn night buoying his strength and resolve to ride. Saddling his mount, he took his greatcoat from the hook in Goliath’s stall, for the night would be cold in the depths of the dark.

  “Goliath!” he growled. “Ride this fever from my brain, this pain and weakness from my body! On, Goliath!”

  The sound of leather and horse’s hooves beating the ground further strengthened him. He would ride—ride to his death if he must. And if he did—well, what more did such a beast as he deserve?

  Coquette lay in her bed gazing at the dying embers of the fire in the hearth. On her lips the sense of Valor’s kiss lingered. She imagined she could yet feel his arms around her, his breath on her cheek, the solid muscles of his chest against her own soft form.

  She thought of his display at dinner and could not help but smile. If Valor thought the gossips of Roanan had fodder before, then he had fed them well this night. She only wished she did not have Victoria’s tonic to thank for his most recent attention to her. If only he could shower such affections on her without the aid of it. Yet it was something—all of it. His championing her at the dinner party, his unguarded, tonic-driven affection—all of it was proof Valor yet battled to win over the beast. And he woul
d—he must! Coquette grimaced as her heart experienced a stab of pain at the thought of the beast somehow vanquishing Valor. It could not be. She would not let it be.

  “He is there,” she whispered to herself. She fancied she heard the heavy beat of horse hooves outside the manor. “Valor is there, and one day, my beast will be vanquished by him.”

  Her eyelids heavy, her body relaxed, Coquette drifted to sleep bathed in bliss-filled memories of Valor’s whispered kiss.

  The Wounded Beast

  Valor heard the thunder of fast-approaching riders. He wondered who else would be riding so near Roanan Manor at such an early hour. Spent with fatigue from a long night of riding, he did not feel up to a social instance, no matter how trivial. Reigning Goliath to a halt, he turned, intent on bidding the other riders a good morning with a mere nod. Instantly, a frown puckered his brow. His muscles tightened as he saw three riders approaching. They were dressed in capes and masks common to highwaymen. It was certain these devils meant no good intention toward anyone.

  He paused for a moment, just long enough to remind himself he dared not face three at once as he might have weeks earlier—before Coquette had come to Roanan. Something in Valor was changing. He did not view the approaching highwaymen as a challenge the way he might have in the days before Coquette was again near to him. Now they were a threat—a danger. He would turn his back and ride away rather than risk injury.

  “On, Goliath!” he shouted. Still, he drew his sword as he turned the horse and urged the beast to a gallop. He knew he had paused too long in considering what course to take. In mere moments, they were upon him. Valor shouted as one of the villains plunged a sword into Goliath’s hindquarters. The horse stumbled and fell, throwing its master to the ground.