Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(13)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Confusion blurred his thoughts. The trip to the first coaching inn was going by faster than he expected. It was, however, helpful that Isabelle had been asleep most the journey so he was able to try to gather his thoughts as well as resolve not to touch her once they were again alone.

Hunter found the entire situation most amusing. Unfortunately, he had chosen to ride in the carriage rather than use one of the horses, saying that his back had a dreadful ache that riding in the carriage would surely fix.

But what he meant was, his back ached and the only remedy was sitting next to Isabelle and irritating the devil out of Dominique each time he leaned in and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, like the true wolf he was.

“If you value that nose of yours, cease from sniffing my wife.” Dominique groaned and looked around the carriage for something to hit. Something that wouldn’t give his friend a bloody nose or a bruised eye.

Hunter just chuckled and crossed his arms. “I’m here to help you, friend, not steal your lady, though the idea of it seems rather exciting. In her current state, it would be too easy and you know how much I enjoy the chase.”

Yes, Dominique knew his friend’s secret past. It seemed the very goodness that made Hunter a loyal spy still wasn’t enough to blot out the darkness that often made itself known within the man. As a friend he was irreplaceable, as a spy he was the best London had to offer, but as a foe, he would be deadly.

“Control your urges, Hunter.”

“Fine.” He sighed heavily. “I still don’t know what else you expect me to do.”

“Help.” Dominique looked out the window at the passing trees. “Support. The usual. I need to know her character. I need to see that she is safe, well, healthy. But I refuse to be the one who looks after her. I cannot allow myself to grow—”

“Close,” Hunter finished knowingly.

Dominique shifted. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see to the woman without crossing his own emotional boundaries, never mind the physical ones. He couldn’t see straight when his physical needs were present along with Isabelle. But Hunter, he trusted. His friend would be sure that Isabelle was well-received within the staff, was happy, could find enough to occupy her time, and in the end that she would feel grateful for her position as a Russian princess and English countess.

So lost in thought was Dominique that when the carriage pulled to a stop, he jumped. Isabelle’s eyes slowly opened. “Get up.” He tried not to issue orders this time, softening his voice as he commanded.

Dominique groaned when they entered the inn. Apparently someone had notified, not only the patrons, but the innkeeper himself. For the minute Dominique’s boot touched the threshold of the place, a cheer erupted from everyone’s lips.

“Here, here! To the Royal Prince, may God preserve him!” the innkeeper shouted.

“Here, here!” The audience joined in lifting their ale to the ceiling. Dominique was always uncomfortable with praise but even more so with Isabelle on his arm. Her shocked expression also didn’t help.

“Close your mouth, beauty.” He chuckled.

Her eyes widened even more when the crowds parted for them as they went to the innkeeper to obtain rooms.

“Your Highness.” The innkeeper bowed low to the floor. “In honor of your return, we have set out a wonderful dinner in your room. Is this lovely lady to be staying with you tonight?”

Dominique fought back a smile. No doubt she thought he the type of man to throw her to the wolves, proclaiming she was nothing more than a cheap courtesan. “This, my dear fellow, would be Lady Harris, the new countess and, as you all see, the new Princess of Maksylov.”

“Princess!” The innkeeper’s face turned red with excitement. “Another toast!”

Hunter came up behind them and lifted his ale in the air. “Yes! A toast, to the most lovely princess I have ever laid eyes on. May your smile enchant, your heart captivate, and your lips proclaim the goodness that is our dear prince. And if for some reason he should meet his death, may I be the one to warm your bed during the cold nights!”

Cheers erupted. Dominique’s hand clenched her shoulder as he sent a seething glare to Hunter, who was already off dancing with a tavern wench.

Chapter Seven

It is worse at night. I cannot help it. The melody haunts my dreams until I awake in a pool of my own sweat. So I hardly sleep, instead I play the music until it finally quits, until I have peace. It is harder when I am away from my piano, for it seems every time I close my eyes, the demons of my past threaten to kill me. One day, I fear they will succeed.

—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?