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.
Surely she was mad, for he was nothing more than a animal set to imprison her in the cold, dead walls of the rocks around her. It would be so much easier if it were ugly instead of beautiful. Or if the servants were mere shades of Dominique’s personality. Instead, they were lively, happy even. A trait it seemed Dominique hadn’t acquired in all his years.
“And here we are,” Dominique said, his voice a deep echo in the great hallway.
“And here is?” Isabelle asked.
“The wall of the strange and even stranger.”
“Pardon?”
“Strange, this wall. It’s ugly and haunting, and well, to be honest, I despise it, but I’ve been given the task of revealing all my family secrets to you. And reveal I will.”
His personality had changed again. Dominique looked irritated, nervous and uncomfortable as if the very pictures he looked upon would suddenly spring to life.
“Your ancestors, then?” Isabelle prodded.
“All of them, even Alexander the first.”
More evidence that he truly was a prince, the remainder made her all the more uncomfortable. “I imagine your family is proud of your musical accomplishments.”
“My family ceased being proud of me a great while ago, wife.”
What an odd statement to make.
Dominique pulled her hand as he led her hurriedly to the end of the hall. Just as she was about to round the corner, her eyes caught a glimpse of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. With ebony hair and crystal blue eyes it was undeniable that it was Dominique’s mother. Next to her picture was a man, his large aristocratic nose framed by a harsh face. He looked every bit the type of diplomat that people would follow. A man who could lead.
“Who are they?” She pulled Dominique’s hand, hoping he would stop.
He looked at the pictures, his face a mixture of hurt and anger. “They are dead, and that is all you need to know.”
“But...”
“Enough!” His voice snapped and his icy blue eyes burned holes through her. “I will show you to our room, but there are a few things you must first know about the castle.”
“Other than it’s haunted, you mean?” Isabelle whispered.
“Cuppins likes to talk, do not take his words for truth.”
“So you didn’t run around naked during a royal dinner?” Isabelle wasn’t sure what made her feel the need to tease the man who merely seconds ago had scolded her so harshly. Perhaps she was going mad.
Dominique actually smiled, though she could tell he took great pains to hide it, which proved a simple task considering all the scruff on his face. “Yes well, when I was a boy I had a great need for affection. I thought nobody would ignore my presence if I were, uh, naked.”
“And did they?”
“Did they what?”
“Ignore you?”
Dominique swallowed and looked down. “Always.”
Isabelle reached a comforting hand to Dominique’s face. His eyes closed as her skin made contact with his.
“Please, don’t,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Pity me. I would rather you hate me, rather you dream about my death, than extend the same pity and compassion to me that you do Cuppins.”
It made no sense that the man wouldn’t want comfort, after all, hadn’t he just finished explaining the lack of attention he received as a boy?
“Why?” Her other hand went up to touch the other side of his face, bringing it dangerously close to hers.
“Because, I am undeserving. Of your loyalty, your goodness, your compassion. Everything. I would rather die than receive it.”
“Do any of us truly deserve loyalty? Love? Forgiveness? How can you earn such things in the first place, Dominique?” Her heart leapt as she said his name. She pulled back as if burned, noting the fierceness in his gaze as he looked at her lips then back at her eyes.
“What I have done has earned me a spot in the inner most circle of Hell.” His hand caressed her neck up and down, until she leaned in wantonly, needing more of his touch.
“The rules.” He cleared his throat and stepped back. “As I stated before, are simple. Dinner is always at eight, you are to dine with me every evening.” She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head and continued talking. “You have free reign of the castle, but you may not under any circumstances enter the second practice room located near the stairs. It is locked, so it shouldn’t pose a problem to your morbid curiosity.”
Isabelle watched as he bit his lip in obvious frustration. “What’s in the room that you’ve forbidden me to enter? Corpses?” Her sarcastic remark was met with so much rage in his face that she took a step back. Truly, she had meant to lighten the mood with humor. Was it truly littered with such as she said?
“It is none of your concern! Do I make myself clear?” he roared.
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
He cursed and turned on his heel, pausing after only a few steps. “And Isabelle?”
She lifted her head just in time to see a devilish smile dance across his face, bringing wicked intent into his eyes. “You will share my bed. Every night.”
“But—”
He marched back in her direction and grabbed her arm, pulling her against him. “You are my wife, and you will act as such. In every way.” His eyes dipped to her bodice and then back to her lips. “If you find the idea so repulsive, then close your eyes. Hum a song, think on happier things. Blast it all, you can even pretend it’s Hunter rather than myself, but you will be mine.”
Cursing, he left her in the dark hall, his boots stomping all the way down the stairs.
****
Isabelle sat in silence, and watched as Dominique’s form disappeared. She still had no idea where her rooms were, nor in which direction to go. Within minutes, Miss Ward came up the stairs that Dominique had just exited and led her to a bedroom on the second floor of the castle.
By the time Miss Ward had helped her dress for bed, she was a bottle of nerves. The house did not boast of any lady’s maids, something she was told to take care of whenever she was ready, so Miss Ward took it upon herself to regale her with stories of the enchanted castle, all the while Isabelle had to fight to keep her teeth from chattering.
He would stay with her tonight.
He would be in her bed. Yes, he’d stayed with her before, but there had been something in his tone earlier that lead her to believe that things would change…and soon.
When Miss Ward left, Isabelle’s shaky legs took her to her side of the bed. She extinguished the candle and dove under the covers. The minutes went by with agonizing slowness, until finally she heard the unmistakable click of boots against the marble floors.
The bedroom doors opened in a rush.
Dominique stepped inside, though she could only see his shadow, nothing more. With jerky movements he pulled off his clothes, making Isabelle’s face heat even though she couldn’t see his form. She could imagine it, and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine. Soon, his weight forced the bed to dip almost causing her to topple towards him. And then, he exhaled and was still.
How in the world could he be still? How was it possible that the man wasn’t the least bit affected sleeping in the same bed as her?
At the Inn, they had both been exhausted, but now, here, in their bedroom, in the castle they would share…
He was sleeping.
And her body was
refusing to relax.
Every muscle was clenched tight. She tried to breathe evenly but her breaths came out in short gasps, and then something touched her.
His leg moved next to hers, body heat radiating from his person. Her stomach tumbled and tightened. The feeling was foreign as if she was almost weak or exhilarated from his touch.
As she scooted to the farthest edge of the bed, a thought occurred. How was she to survive sleeping in this bed every night for the rest of her life?
Chapter Ten
Those who cannot carry a tune should not attain to try, for they try in vain and my ears can only take so much torment before I contemplate removing them with a blunt object to rid them of the ringing horrid music brings. If society stopped teaching young girls to sing and play piano when they showed no true talent, I would be much obliged. Yet, every year it seems a new debutante finds a way to torture me with a note not yet found on the scale.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Dominique winced. “What the devil?”
“Ah, so you hear it too then. I was wondering how long it would take for you to catch on to the little lady bird.” Hunter smiled and folded his broad arms behind his head as if readying himself for sleep.
How was the man even closing his eyes at such a time?
“Hunter? What the blazes is that noise?”
“Your lady bird.”
Dominique paced in front of him. “Do you truly think that pet name fits at this point in time?”
On cue another ear splitting noise broke into the room. Apparently the lady bird had discovered a new note that hadn’t yet been sung. Brave of her.
“I believe,” Hunter kept his eyes closed, “That she was trying to reach for a high C?”
“I believe,” Dominique mocked with a curse, “that she was trying to kill us off. That blasted noise has been waking me from sleep every single night this week! I thought it was—”
Hunter opened one eye. “A badger in heat?”
Dominique forced himself not to smile. “Yes, well, apparently I was wrong.”