The Whispered  Kiss  
by Marcia Lynn McClure

(Please note, this title is not available in bookstores.)

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At last!  At last!  At last!  The Whispered Kiss if finally available for order!  

 “The word-count for The Whispered Kiss approximately doubles that of Born for Thorton’s Sake and Sudden Storms…nearer the length of The Visions of Ransom Lake!   If I had to compare it to another story…I think it follows the same feel as Shackles of Honor …woven with drama, intense anticipation, etc. it was a very emotional book to write…very like Shackles of Honor.  Even the kissing seems more sizzling because of the intensity of emotion in this story…that’s what friends always tell me about Shackles of Honor, too—that the smooching is more passionate because of the time-period and verbiage.  The Whispered Kiss is a very emotionally driven adventure with a ton of imagery I really like…such as the vision of the hero’s greatcoat flapping and thrashing in the wind as he rides astride his magnificent horse, Goliath!  I love that!” - Marcia Lynn McClure

Excerpt from The Whispered Kiss

The dark Lord of Roanan stood silent, studying his newly acquired bride.  Removing his coat and tossing it to the nearby chair, he grinned as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, then his vest.  From the back she was more than comely—she was exquisite!  He pulled his vest from his torso, carelessly tossing it to join his coat on the chair.  Loosening his cravat, he pulled it from his neck, freeing his collar and first three buttons of his shirt.

Striding toward her he paused a moment, a frown puckering his brow.  What must this beauty think of the Lord of Roanan?  What must she think of a man who would threaten to take her father’s hands then accept a woman’s life in exchange?

Inhaling deeply, he straightened to his full, intimidating height, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.  He was Lord of Roanan!  He had not time for compassion or thoughtfulness…

Coquette sensed the Lord of Roanan was near.  She heard his bootsteps as he moved to her, yet she could not turn—she could not face with the man who was now her husband.  She grimaced, her determination wavering as she felt him take her hair in his hand, lift it to his face and inhale its fragrance.  Tears welled in her eyes and she thought of all the young women in the world who had known her fate—given to a man she knew nothing of and expected to endure lifelong…

She startled when warm fingers touched her neck from behind, slowly sliding down over her shoulder to her arm.  Without turning her head, she yet ventured to glance at the hand resting on her arm.  It was large, sun-bronzed, with the look of strength and power.  She frowned, curious as to the rather rough condition of the hand and fingers—clean though they were, the remains of small wound on the back of the hand near the palm surprised her with its presence.  Likewise, these fingernails, although unsoiled and trimmed, were quite lacking in pampered care.  Had the sheer power and intimidation hanging thick in the air not told her otherwise, she mused this might be the hand of a field laborer and not a great Lord.

Coquette held her breath as she felt the Lord of Roanan’s free hand brush her hair to one side.  She winced, trying not to cry out as she felt moist lips press against the flesh of her shoulder.  She could not endure!  She could not!

“I am the Lord of Roanan,” the man mumbled, his lips lingering near her shoulder. 

“I…I am Coquette de Bellamont,” Coquetted stammered, breathless, terrified, close to panic. 

“You are now the Lady of Roanan,” the man said and she bit her lip as she felt a strong hand slip beneath her hair at the back of her neck.  “And you will respectfully turn to face me...”

For a brief instant, Coquette considered casting off his demand, refusing to face him, hoping to prolong avoiding what must be.  Still, the powerful intonation of his voice frightened her. She thought of the dark Lord’s threat to take her father’s life and, though her virtue was paramount, the dark Lord of Roanan was her husband.  Better to sacrifice her virtue to he who legally owned it than to sacrifice her life and her father’s for fear’s sake.

Swallowing hard and casting her gaze to the floor, Coquette slowly turned to face the dark Lord.  Her eyes caught sight first of his boots.  Large they were and she looked from the rather dusty black tips of them to the red leather cuff just below his knee.  His breeches were black as well, and she shuddered at the pure size and apparent power of his long legs.  Slowly, for her courage was shallow, she began to raise her head, studying the broad expanse of his torso and shoulders, the length of his arms covered in the billowy white of a gentleman’s shirt.  He’d stripped himself of his coat and vest, and released the upper half of the buttons of his shirt.  The solid contours and muscular definition of his exposed chest and flesh further unsettled Coquette and she tightened the lacing of her fingers at her waist.

By the time her gaze had traveled the length of him to his throat, her courage had abandoned her and she could not look to his face.  He was, indeed, a beast of a man from the neck down—tall, muscular, profound in his physical perfection.  Still, she paused before witnessing his face.  Such a form could only belong to the handsomest of men, and yet, it mattered not to Coquette—handsome or vile in appearance, her body and soul was abhorrent to know him.

“I will not devour you, milady,” he said.  “No matter what stories have been told you about me.”  Coquette swallowed hard once more, struggling to find more courage as he continued, “Look then.  Look to he who now owns you as wife.”

She raised her gaze then to see, for the first time, the face and features of the Lord of Roanan... 

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