Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) by Rachel van Dyken Page B

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?
    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