Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(48)

Cuppins rose slowly to his feet, a grimace crossing his weathered face. He took his time leaving, stopping twice to catch his breath before reaching the door. “Give him something to live for,” he repeated again, and left her alone with her husband.

What could she possibly say? Or even do? To show him, to make him understand that she would be here for him, take care of him. Love the unlovely.

As another tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto her thumb, she gasped. It was the first time they had held hands. Ever.

The scars came alive on his hands. White and pink skin lined the inside of his palm as well as the top of his wrist. Oddly, it seemed beautiful to her, as if his scars were a representation of what he had overcome. Even more amazing was that he could still play the piano. He was a walking miracle and didn’t even know it. Was he not aware that fate had somehow needed him to live for a purpose greater than his own imaginings?

She carefully threaded his fingers with hers as if they were the most delicate treasures she had ever seen. And slowly she began to massage them as well as his arms.

It was an honor, she realized. To be his servant, to wash the scars that made him the man he was, but no longer would she allow them to define his future.

“I love you,” she whispered kissing his right hand. “I love you,” She kissed his left hand, tears dripped onto the scars and slid down his arms.

“Live.” Her lips grazed his.

Isabelle fell asleep holding his hand across her heart.





Chapter Twenty-four


I have a secret. I’ve never felt love. What I had for my parents was duty, what I have for my music is passion. Perhaps I am not made to love, maybe that is what God traded music for in my life. He gifted me with something extraordinary, but in return, took the one thing people will go to the ends of the earth for. It hardly seems fair, but my life has never been fair, nor was I ever promised it would be. Sometimes, I think I catch a glimpse of love when the music is perfect, but it never sustains me, or fulfills me. Would life be different, I wonder, had I been born out of love and not obligation? These are the things I muse about when I’m writing my music. Mayhap, that is the reason behind the music’s sadness. People weep when they hear it, because love is not present. And where love is not present, people cannot experience joy. Only pain.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov



The fire was fading. He remembered the minute it began to decrease in its heat. Cold lips had pressed against his, and then his scarred hand had been placed across something warm. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was warm, just that it was. And then he felt a rhythm. It was perfect.

He hadn’t felt such a rhythm in his entire lifetime. He had searched for an eternity to feel such a steady and strong beat.

It wasn’t until the heat began to leave his body that he realized what the rhythm was. A heart.

Moments passed, or perhaps days, even years. Dominique could not tell. All he knew was that he felt oddly at peace.

The smell of fresh biscuits made his eyes flutter open. Isabelle was sprawled next to him on the bed.

And she was holding his hand.

Without his gloves.

He thought she was sleeping, that is until her lips moved ever so slowly. Was she speaking to him? Praying?

Ears straining, he waited.

“Beautiful…” She sighed and kissed his hand. “So beautiful.”

Shock radiated all the way down to his toes. If he could have roared or at least shouted, he would have. Beautiful? Surely she was dreaming! Impossible that she was holding his scar, his beastly scar, and commenting that it was beautiful. He opened his mouth to say so, but she sighed again and moved, this time releasing his hand and wrapping her arm around his chest.

It felt nice.

Perhaps he would pretend to sleep for a little while longer.

She pressed closer to him, her breath coming out in lazy movements against his neck.

Memories of the past few days, of Isabelle being in danger, almost losing her, and finally getting shot came flooding back. He should be panicked, outraged, irritated, and most likely dead, considering he must have been feverish.

Instead all he felt was contentment.

Isabelle let out a faint feminine sigh and tucked her face deeper into his neck.

Perhaps he did die, and this was Heaven.

Dominique fought to keep his lips from turning into a smug smile, he truly did, but in the end, he could not help himself.

“You’re awake!” Cuppins announced from the door.

He should be fired for his insolence.

Men should have a sixth sense about such things, especially concerning women. Dominique narrowed his eyes, but Cuppins didn’t seem the least bit affected.

Isabelle jerked away from Dominique, nearly tumbling off the bed. “I was, I mean. I was helping you...”

“Oh, believe me, love,” Dominique winked. “You were helping. Care to help some more? Cuppins? Go away. My wife has it on her mind to be helpful. Who am I to deny her such a simple request?”

“Right away, my lord.” Cuppins grinned and stepped back out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

Isabelle flushed when Dominique gazed at her.

And then she did the oddest thing.

She burst into tears.

What sort of world did he wake up in? “Isabelle?” He tried to move but his body was so fatigued. The best he could do was pat the side of the bed where she had previously been sitting. “Is this how you mean to help me? Showering tears across my bed seems unnecessary, considering I’ve been a victim of my own sweat from fever, but won’t you tell me what plagues you so?”