Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (13 page)

Isabelle began to shake in Dominique’s arms. He held her close and kissed her head. “Are you all right?”

“Y-yes. I thought we were safe here! Heavens! What if they would have seen the horses?”

Dominique grimaced. “Yes well, we were fortunate that they didn’t notice much of anything, we weren’t exactly concealed.”

“How did you know there was danger? It could have been an animal, or even Hunter.”

Dominique actually blushed and looked away. “We should return.”

Isabelle put her hands on her hips. “Not until you tell me. What are you, some kind of spy? Is that how you and Hunter are friends? You both work for the Crown? Is that just another secret you’re keeping from me?”

Dominique’s face turned murderous. Isabelle backed up, knowing she'd pushed him too far, and so soon after the progress made!

“I am not a spy,” he spat. “And if you must know, I am a trifle mad, at least that’s what you’re going to think.”

“I would never.”

“Save me your pity. Yes, you will.” Dominique mounted his horse, not giving his aid for Isabelle to mount her own. “I heard the music.”

“The music?” Isabelle repeated dryly. “I didn’t hear anything.”

Dominique let out a heavy sigh. “You wouldn’t. You don’t have my curse. I hear….” He swore and took a deep breath. “The reason I took you when I did was because I heard music. It was the same music that haunted me when tragedy struck my heart as a boy. And when the twig snapped, I heard it again.”

“So you…hear… music.” Isabelle had to say it aloud to believe it herself.

“Yes, I believe that’s been established.”

“And it tells you things.”

Dominique cursed and stopped his horse. “It doesn’t speak to me. Well, I guess in a way it does. Just...never mind.”

“When you saw me, when you took me, you said the music changed, were you…” Isabelle swallowed the dryness in her throat. “Were you worried for my welfare? Was I truly in danger?”

Dominique shifted on his saddle and looked away, before digging his heels into the horse’s flesh.

“No…Dominique, wait.” She pressed her boots into the horse's sides to catch up to his trot. “I’m just trying to understand.”

Dominique laughed bitterly. “You will never understand. Nobody will ever understand me. Don’t you get it?” He urged the horse faster; she increased the pressure in her heels to keep up. “No matter how many walls you break down, no matter how many lessons you give me. You will never understand my pain, you will never be close enough to understand what haunts me.”

“I want to be.” Her voice trembled.

“No, no you don’t. You want to fix me; you think you can heal what’s been broken, what’s been so utterly destroyed. But you cannot redeem the damned, Isabelle. No matter how hard you wish it.” His words were just above a whisper when he said, “I thank you for trying. And as I have shown you, I will try as well, but please, do not continue to wish for things that will never be. I will never be more than I am right now. You must accept that.”

Isabelle nodded as she watched him gallop off. He didn’t hear her say
I do
, nor did he see the slippery tears that ran down her cold cheeks. It was more than the physical scars that kept him so tortured, though she hadn’t seen any evidence of such in all her days with him. But she decided then and there that she was going to discover what haunted him, even if it killed her.

She watched him jump off of his horse and stomp through the back door. With a sigh, she brought Horse back to the stables and slowly made her way back to the castle. Hunter greeted her, a grim look on his face.

“I take it things did not go well?” Hunter offered his arm. She took it as he led her into one of the salons.

“You could say that.”

“Truly, I do not understand why you would have so much difficulty. He’s such a shy, gentle fellow.”

At that precise moment a loud bellow was heard throughout the house and then a thunderous yell, followed by something shattering.

“I’m sure he’s just redecorating. Hates the color purple, often makes him agitated and prickly,” Hunter offered.

Isabelle laughed in spite of the somber mood she was in. Perhaps Hunter would tell her what haunted Dominique so.

“Won’t you tell me about my husband?” Isabelle gave him her most reassuring smile, the same one she used to give the cook in order to receive the hottest biscuits in the mornings.

Hunter’s eyes widened just slightly before he leaned forward and clasped his hands. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. Put you in a room with a few French soldiers and they’d blurt out every battle plan and strategy that existed, and all for one of your smiles or for a kiss. But I am made of stronger stuff.”

“Of course you are,” she said, breathlessly.

“As I said not a few seconds ago, I admire your flirtation, and I would normally take you up on such an offer, though we both know you’d rather be shot than lie with a wolf. Not when your heart so irrevocably belongs to him.” Hunter sighed and pushed away from his seat, he walked in front of the large window.

Isabelle watched his taut muscles flex and stretch beneath his fitted jacket. Lifting a hand to his head, he rubbed then cursed. “It is not my story to tell, Isabelle.” He looked agitated and uncomfortable before taking a seat again. “Sometimes, it is best for the ones who have been wronged to tell how they were wronged. For me to steal that from Dominique would do irreparable harm to your relationship, for how can you be the salve that heals him when he doesn’t trust you with his life? I cannot take that from him. I refuse to steal the one thing keeping you apart from one another.”

“Isabelle!” Dominique’s voice shattered the moment between her and Hunter. Isabelle looked back toward the door. What the devil did he want? It was nearly time for luncheon and…

“Have you forgotten your lesson?” Dominique stood in the doorway, hands behind his back; whatever scowl he must have worn while shouting minutes ago was gone and in place of it, a demure smile that made her slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps he was
drinking and redecorating
as Hunter put it.

“Apologies, I hadn’t realized you wished to commence lessons so soon before luncheon.”

“You will join me in the music room for luncheon,” Dominique said in a clipped voice then glared at Hunter. “Don’t you have some place to be?”

Hunter jumped from his seat. “Yes, well, any place where I’m welcome. Perhaps the local tavern has some wenches I can pay to talk to. After all, I’m merely a man starved for conversation. Besides, I’ve already had my kiss for the day.” He winked at Isabelle. Wide-eyed she could only shake her head. The fool truly didn’t know when to stop talking.

Dominique rolled his eyes and pushed the door open as Hunter walked briskly out before returning his attention to Isabelle. “You have five minutes to change out of your riding habit and into an afternoon dress. I’ll be waiting.”

Clenching her fists at her sides, Isabelle wanted nothing more than to yell at him. She knew why he did it. Why he was so hot and cold. He only gave her glimpses of the man he could be. Instead he hid behind all of his anger, his bitterness. It was easier to push others away when one shielded oneself against emotions. And he had spent the better part of his morning bleeding for her. In all honesty, he was most likely spent for the day and exhausted.

Managing a small smile, she curtsied to her husband and walked toward the stairway. If he wanted to be in lessons the rest of the day, she would be in lessons. Anything to discover his secrets to help him heal.

Chapter Sixteen

I always hated it when my parents would raise their voices. Often times I was told I spoke too softly. But I felt the need to balance out the loudness, to blot out the anger. Yet, I am my father’s son, as much as I loath to admit it. For the anger that destroyed him I see in my own reflection. It scares me more than I care to admit, for I hate giving into fear. But I reek of it. The stench of fear is what I bathe in. For every moment of every day I wonder when I will turn out just like him.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Dominique was actually quite patient. He just didn’t want anyone to know about it. He would be happy, sitting at the piano and drinking tea all day with Isabelle. But he noticed that the minute he began to sit and think was also the precise moment he was tempted to give into every single feeling he had. Silence made him want to speak, and when he was in her presence he wanted to speak of it.

But she would hate him again if she knew.

She would recoil in disgust, not just because of his physical scars but because of the sins he committed in honor of them. Isabelle wanted to know, she wanted to fix him, she had said as much hadn’t she? Music was the common ground. He needed it to be able to think clearly. If the music surrounded their time together then perhaps he wouldn’t be tempted to open himself up too much.

“Dominique?” Isabelle’s sweet voice called to him. Sometimes he wondered if she understood how completely beautiful and clear she sounded to him. If he was in a crowded street in London and she spoke his name, he would still know it was her. The inflection of her voice sounded like a bell; unclouded, strong, unwavering, and every time she said his name, she lingered at the end as if she didn’t want the word to finish pouring forth from her mouth.

Obviously, he was mad to think so, but he imagined she liked the way his name sounded on her lips. Not that he cared, for any time she spoke he wanted to close his eyes and listen. Her singing voice was in desperate need of help, but he was thankful for it. What would he have done had she had a beautiful singing voice? Along with all the rest of her gifts? He shuddered thinking of it.

“Are you well?” Isabelle was leaning over him, her eyes a mask of worry. Blast, it felt good to have someone other than his servants concerned for his well-being.

He cleared his throat. “Fine, just fine. Now, why don’t we have a little to eat while we discuss your lesson for the day?”

Nodding, she took a seat across from him. “Shall I pour the tea?”

“Absolutely.” He smirked and watched as she began to pour the hot liquid. Such a perfect little English wife. Posture rigid, face emotionless, and body amply hidden by a prudish-looking afternoon dress. One that hid every curve of her body.

Pity.

“Take off your dress.” He heard himself speak, a little shocked that he was being so rakish.

“Pardon?” Isabelle paused mid-pour. “Did you just tell me to take off my dress?”

“So you can breathe better,” Dominique half-lied. Naturally it would help her breathing, but part of him, the part that yearned to see the curves of her body, demanded she take off the one piece of fabric that kept his eyes from feasting on her form.

“I can breathe just fine, thank you.”

“No, you can’t, it is why you have trouble singing, but if you want to continue to sound like a dying dog, by all means keep your dress on—”

“Fine!” Silverware clattered as she dropped the teapot onto the tray and began hurriedly undoing her dress. After several minutes in which he watched her wiggle this way and that, she asked, “Can you help me?”

“I don’t know, can I?”

“Will you help me?” She ground out, nostrils flaring.

Would
he help her? Any red-blooded male would trip over himself for the chance to touch her. Trying not to look too smug or pleased with himself, he slowly rose from his seat and walked the few short steps to where she sat. Turning her back to him, she waited.

His hands itched inside his gloves, they trembled, they shook, and they wanted to feel the warmth of her skin. But, he kept his gloves on as he nimbly and quickly loosened the dress's hold on her body.

When he was finished, he adjusted his cravat, because it was quite hot in that particular room, and took a seat, as if he hadn’t just been aroused beyond his wildest imagination.

“My thanks.” Isabelle’s face was flushed. “Now, am I to eat in my corset and chemise, or did you have any other excuses for me to strip the rest of my clothes from my body and sing naked?”

Dominique choked on his tea. Clearing his throat he answered, “I imagine you would sing even better naked, love. But I doubt I would be able to give you any sort of lessons of the musical nature. They would be more…carnal, if you understand my meaning. Now why don’t you eat some sandwiches while I discuss our next lesson.”

Isabelle snatched a sandwich and lifted it to her lips. Why the devil was he watching her so closely? It was as if his body was no longer listening to him. As if she now commanded its allegiance. Her every move, the way her tongue wet her lips, the look of her chest as she took another breath. Perhaps it was a poor choice for her to remove her dress. But he truly
did
have an educational purpose for it. At least that’s what he told himself every time he was tempted to reach across the table and pull her into his lap.

After fifteen of the longest minutes of Dominique’s life, they were finished eating and he was able to focus on music rather than her breasts, or her arms, or her shapely legs.

“The lesson,” he began, as he rose from his seat, “has to do with breathing.”

“Gathered that.” Isabelle stood and approached the piano. “Now, what will you have me do? Strip naked? Dance around? Scream at the top of my lungs? Tell me, what mortifying thing will prove to you that I am earnest in taking these lessons? Is your aim to teach or merely gawk at me?”

Amused, Dominique chuckled. “I imagine it’s a little bit of both. Now, cease talking and close your eyes.”

****

Taking a soothing breath, Isabelle closed her eyes and waited. The only reason she was able to go through with taking off her dress was because she saw the vulnerability on his face when they were in the forest. If he could reveal parts of himself that he’d kept buried all his life, then she could very well take off her dress. If, and only if, it was for academic pursuit. The cold air in the room chilled her.

That is until she felt warm breath on the nape of her neck. “Now, when a woman wears a corset it is often too tight for her to breathe properly. One must breathe here.” He moved his hands to her lower stomach near her hips and pressed just slightly. “When you sing, Isabelle. You often sing from here,” he touched her throat but left one hand on her stomach. “I’m going to loosen your corset, just slightly, and I want you to take a deep breath, but I want it to come from here.” Again he pressed against her stomach. She waited while he tugged at her corset. Satisfied that it was loose enough, he grunted, and returned his attention to her body.