Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (7 page)

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Isabelle awoke to Dominique tossing and turning. His thrashing in the bed could have woken the dead, and she was already having a difficult time sleeping knowing that his hard muscled body lay only a few inches away from hers. Dare she wake him?

She hadn't even known he was in the same bed with her until his thrashing woke her. The minute he had escorted her into the room they would be sharing for the evening, he had grumbled orders about her getting her rest and slammed the door behind him, making it the second night in a row that he refused to touch her.

Lonely, Isabelle had swallowed down her tears and readied herself for bed, with the help of Miss Ward, who tried to keep Isabelle’s spirits up by chattering about Dominique’s grand castle. If anything, it made Isabelle feel worse to know Miss Ward felt sorry for her.

Dominique groaned and then his lips moved, he moaned again and then shuddered, the blankets fell from his chest and she gasped. His golden body was evident even in the night. With a tentative hand she caressed the muscles of his lean form. It seemed to relax him, for the moaning stopped. Only, something more dangerous occurred— Dominique pushed closer to her. His body moving slowly toward hers.

Abruptly, she stopped caressing him, and the moaning began again, this time so painful, so full of sadness that she brought both hands to his back and continued to rub. Within minutes he stopped again, rolled over and pulled her into his arms breathing heavily into her hair. His touch would have been intimate, had his gloves been removed before bed. But when she asked if he was going to remove them, he sneered and looked like he wanted to roar or at least strike something.

So she quickly pretended to fall asleep all the while wondering why he would need to protect his hands. Being eccentric, it made sense that he would choose to protect something so precious; after all, his hands were his life. Then again, what could be so horrible at night-time to cause harm to the very instruments that brought life to music?

A low moan escaped his throat as his grip tightened around her body, and then because she didn’t know what else to do. She began to caress not just his back, but his arms, his face, every piece of warm, golden skin that was exposed.

Just as she was about to fall asleep again, as her hands were beginning to fatigue, she heard him mumble in her hair, “Thank you.”

The next few nights followed suit. They would eat and go to bed, and eventually she would awaken to his nightmares, only to lull him back to sleep with her touch. And every night just as she was about to close her eyes, she would hear him mumble, "Thank you".

She never asked him about it in the morning. It didn’t seem necessary. Besides, her own sleep was affected enough that she began sleeping during the day and staying awake during the night to make sure she could chase his demons away.

Not that he had done anything to deserve it, for he was still just as monstrous during the days as he had been since she’d met him, but he had said "thank you" and for some reason, those words on his lips were enough to forgive a multitude of sins.

On the final day of travel, Isabelle was awakened by a loud screeching. It sounded of a gate that had not seen the benefits of oil.

Stretching, she looked out the window and gasped.

“Welcome, Princess Isabelle, to Castle of Ogan.”

It was a fairy tale, every bit as dark and dangerous—as well as insanely beautiful—as a gothic horror story. The iron gate squeaked as it was forced open, the carriage came to a stop and Isabelle jumped out, craning her neck to see the giant fortress in front of her.

Hundreds of rooms must occupy this space! It had a moat! And boasted of a maze of gardens before one even entered the door! Magic, she felt magic everywhere she glanced. She didn’t even notice she was smiling until Dominique scowled in her direction.

“Pay him no mind,” Hunter said next to her as Dominique made great haste entering his home. “It is one of his many summer homes. He rarely goes back to his country, rather he favors rusticating, or as I like to put it, molding away here in Belgium.”

“It is beautiful,” Isabelle whispered in awe.

“Might I make a suggestion, my lady?” Hunter hooked his arm around her shoulders and led her into the grand entrance. “Perhaps you should keep your admiration to yourself; my friend despises this house. But as you can see, it is closest to your home. I believe he wants you to feel comfortable.”

A laugh escaped Isabelle’s lips. “Comfortable? That is his desire? Have you met the man? If anything he has been going out of his way to make me uncomfortable.”

“Give him time, Princess,” Hunter mumbled.

Chapter Eight

What do you suppose a broken man looks like? Is he wealthy but poor of spirit? Does he plunge himself into debauchery trying to make himself whole again? Is he the fellow that laughs in the face of danger and challenges Hades at every turn? He is all of the above, but most of all, he is me. His reflection is the one I see in the mirror, and his eyes are hollow, for the love that once lived behind them was stolen, the day my father took his last breath.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Dominique shuddered as he imagined blood-curdling screams echoing off the walls as if his mother’s spirit was still in between Heaven and Hell. He began to sweat as his boots clicked against the hard marble floors. He knew where this path would lead. It would be the same destination his tiny feet had taken him some fifteen years ago.

His trembling hands reached out to touch the smooth wood of the door before pushing it open. Dust-filled air greeted him. His instructions had been clear. No servant was to enter the practice room, lest they wish to find employment elsewhere. And by no means were they to even contemplate cleaning up the mess.

His heels clicked across broken glass. Cold air swept over him and he shook with the memory laid out at his feet. A mother’s betrayal, a father’s jealousy, and finally a little boy’s confusion.

Blood still stained the floor where the bodies had lain, and the fireplace still held burnt pieces of music. The same music he swore he would never play again. And the piano. Dominique swallowed as he neared the piano, its keys dusty from sitting in such a frozen state.

His white glove caressed the keys, coming back with dust and debris. He imagined that his tears still stained the keys, never had he cried as much as he did that night.

With a heavy sigh he took one last look about the room. The air was thick with memories of early death and sorrow. Perhaps it was a mistake returning to this home. But it seemed if he was to keep Isabelle for himself, as a monster would keep his princess in a tower, then he should at least have her close enough to her home that she could easily visit her family.

After all, Belgium wasn’t as far away from London as some imagined. Though the political unrest in Brussels was something to be leery of, they were far enough away in the woods to be safe. And the stories surrounding his haunted castle did wonders for the travelers and French soldiers occupying the area.

As he closed his eyes to shut out the view of the room, his mind conjured up a perfect image of his father. Of his sad smile the night Dominique’s mother died, and of his horror stricken face the night his life was stolen from him; in the same room where he took a life, his was forfeited. Was he truly a beast? Just like his father? To save a girl only to condemn her with a life shackled to him? Her alternative would have been far worse, though he wasn’t sure why he believed so. Perhaps it was instinctual, but she wasn’t safe in London. At least here, she was safe.

Even though, with her presence, his own safety had been called into question. With one final glance about the room, he made his exit, shutting the doors quietly behind him.

Tonight, at dinner, he would notify her of his expectations during their marriage. Intimacy being at the top of the list, and running the household at the bottom. Isabelle must understand that he would claim his husbandly rights, horrid as she may believe them to be.

Above all she needed to understand that he would protect her at all costs; he would gladly die for her, give her everything a person could want. Everything but the thing he had lost long ago. His heart.

“Dominique?” Hunter’s voice echoed in the grand hallway just as the door to the practice room shut. “Your pretty little wife needs to be shown to her rooms.”

Dominique grunted and followed his voice to the entryway. “The butler will see to her comfort—”

“Alas, I felt that you, being the master of the house, should give her a grand tour, after all, the butler has suffered a serious injury to his…” Hunter looked at Brinks and made a choking sound. “Foot, his foot is ailing him.” He nodded his head to Brinks who must have remembered he was supposed to have some sort of injury and began hobbling on one foot. The theatre was not in his future, although it was comical to watch the normally stoic and oddly tall man hop around with such a lack of grace.

“And what about Miss Ward?” Dominique turned to glare at his friend.

“Lost.” Hunter shrugged.

“Lost?” Dominique crossed his arms and examined Hunter. Though he was a fantastic spy and even better master of deception, it seemed he was out of sorts when his actors forgot their lines.

Hunter nodded gravely and lifted hands as if to say,
whatever is a fellow supposed to do
?

“And the footman, I imagine something dreadful happened to him as well?” Dominique inquired, searching for any of the staff, though he knew it was in vain. The castle had been without a full staff for a great while. It would be up to Isabelle to hire whom she saw fit. Until then, they would have to make due.

“I regret to inform you, highness—” Brinks put both feet firmly to the floor, then remembered his ailment and began limping with the wrong foot, “That the footmen are busy helping the stable hands with the horses. We are, after all, without much help.”

Dominique let out a hearty sigh. “Indeed. Well, where is the girl?”

“Your wife,” Hunter began, putting unnecessary emphasis on the word
wife
, “is at this moment getting the sordid tale of the origin of the castle."

Letting out a curse, Dominique hurried in the general direction of his retired butler whom he hadn’t the heart to let go when the man grew too old to run the household. Instead he stayed in his employ and often told those who were brave enough to visit, the different stories the walls of the castle held. There was only one place he could be, in the kitchens. For he was convinced that nobody should ever be without a warm meal and drink. If Dominique had any luck at all, he would be able to steal away his wife before she became completely foxed.

Cuppins Port was also a strong believer in spiking one’s tea, something Dominique was convinced Isabelle had never been privy to until this disastrous day.

His quick footsteps took him to the kitchen. Laughter soon echoed off the walls.

“And then, the young master ran through the house with nothing but the skin God gave him, he was such a wild boy that one.” Cuppins laughed. “How’s your tea, my lady?”

Within fifteen minutes of their arrival, the elderly man had not only regaled Isabelle with embarrassing stories, but attempted to get her foxed. If Cuppins were thirty years younger, Dominique would have his head. But as it was, he didn’t have the heart to throttle an eighty-year-old man.

Just as he was ready to step into the kitchen, his eyes beheld something he had never seen before in his existence. Rather than be scared off, put off, upset, or even disgusted that the retired butler would take a well-bred lady into the kitchens and attempt to pour ungodly amounts of brandy in her tea, Isabelle reached out her hand and laid it across the knotty one of Cuppins.

The old man’s grin was enough to send dangerous constrictions to Dominique’s heart; he watched, unable to look away as Isabelle squeezed the man's hand and said, “Tell me more.”

She was mad! But she was also the most compassionate woman to say such a thing, for Cuppins lived for his stories; they were all he had after his strength was taken from him.

So, Dominique, in a moment of sheer insanity, leaned against the wall and listened for the next few minutes as Cuppins told another story. When Dominique thought it was acceptable to interrupt, he walked into the dimly lit kitchen.

The bright smile that occupied his young wife’s face darkened. Suddenly aware that it was his old, retired butler who had brought such joy to her face, and not himself, Dominique wanted to curse.

“Pardon us, Cuppins, but I thought the lady might wish to see the rest of the castle, now that you’ve scared her out of her wits, I’m sure, with your stories.”

Cuppins let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, we were just having ourselves a bit of fun, weren’t we, milady?”

Isabelle giggled and kissed the man on his cheek. She kissed him! Dominique’s jaw dropped. Why was it that he had to steal kisses and she freely gave them to a man more than twice his age! And a servant no less! It just proved the point that women were fickle in their feelings, something he needed to be reminded of after spending a lust-filled ride in the carriage with her.

“Until tomorrow, Cuppins,” she whispered and then turned her beautiful eyes on Dominique. With a nervous throat clearing, Dominique wasn’t sure if he should grasp her hand, offer his arm, or merely snap orders.

Unfortunately he chose the latter. “Hurry along, Isabelle. This way.”

Chapter Nine

At times I wish I had no memory, for then I wouldn’t have nightmares. I would have peace. But my wish is a double-edged sword, for if I had no memory, how could I remember the notes? The Music? And in the end if I did not remember my scars, the very ones that rip away at my soul—then I would have no excuse to be what I am—The Beast.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Isabelle could not help that her nostrils flared in annoyance. Nor could she help the irritated flip flop of her stomach when Dominique had first entered the room. To think that the man she wanted to stab with a knife was the same one who evoked such desire in her belly was appalling.