Dominique’s eyes darkened. “Yes, though you should know it was I who achieved murder that night. Though accidental, there hasn’t been a day that goes by that I don’t wish I could kill him again, and do it without the immaturity that a boy possesses, make him suffer, make him suffer as I suffered, as my mother suffered being married to him… And now you know my darkness, what makes me so repulsive. For what man wakes up wishing to kill a man who is already dead?”
Isabelle sighed and reached her hand to his beautiful face. “A man who has been very wronged, Dominique.”
“I have never spoken of it aloud.” He cursed. “I am a monster,” he said underneath his breath. “I turned into what I hated, by focusing my hate so fully on the one man who destroyed my happiness, I succeeded in ruining my own.”
Isabelle was silent for a moment. “You were but a boy, perhaps the hatred that you held is what sustained you, helped you get better. But with that hatred comes the responsibility to feed it, which you did quite well. I believe now—now you need to let it go.” She held her breath, unsure if he would lash out at her, or simply never speak to her again or trust her with his innermost thoughts and demons.
“I did.” Dominique sighed. “Let it go, that is, the moment I felt the beat of your heart against my hand. The steady rhythm pulled me back from the shadows when all I wanted to do was follow him into the depths of Hell.”
Unable to speak lest she begin to sob all over again, Isabelle held his head between her hands and rained kisses on his eyelids, his cheeks, his forehead.
“Thank you for trusting me with this.” Isabelle leaned forward and brushed a kiss across his lips. “Can you feel this?” She brought his scarred hands to her mouth and kissed across the pinkish white ridges.
With a deep breath, Dominique closed his eyes and sighed. “It feels wonderful. I should have lost sensation, and a whole lot more. Instead, it seems my senses are heightened on my hands.” He laughed. “It was an actual blessing, if you can call it that, for I feel the keys of the piano much better now. It was why I kept playing. My final vengeance against my father, that even in all his hatred he did not keep me from being what my mother wanted most.”
“And what was that?” Isabelle dipped her hands into his silky hair.
“To be a famous composer, a prodigy, something more than just heir to the royal line of princes.”
“You are much more than that, my love.” Isabelle smiled at her husband, bestowing all the love in the world with one single glance, or at least she hoped so. “You are, brave, extraordinary, gifted, and I l—”
Why couldn’t she say the words? He had given everything. Been vulnerable beyond all reason but the words stuck in her throat, the simple truth, which should be so easy, was now the most difficult feat imaginable.
“Shh.” Dominique pressed his finger to her lips. “I’m going to undress you. I’m going to kiss you, make love to you, make you forget the nightmares I just told you… and if you say no, I may not possess the strength to listen.”
Who could say no to such a good argument? Especially when his muscled body was so near hers that she could feel the heat radiating from him.
“Yes. Oh please, yes,” she whispered as he jerked her against himself and pulled at her hair; pins fell at rapid speed to the ground as his hands massaged her scalp and freed her hair of its confinement.
Each of his fingers delicately dug into her head sending shuddering sensations all the way down her body. His hands pulled through her hair allowing the tresses to lay against her shoulders and arms, tickling the sensitive flesh that had suddenly become enflamed by his very presence. Dominique exhaled, his breath a hot sultry mix of brandy and desire. Eyes aflame, he moved his hands to her shoulders slowly turning her toward the fireplace. Her eyes closed, it was just as before on the ship as he nipped her neck with his teeth, only this time she wasn’t afraid, just anxious to feel his heat against hers, pleading in her mind for him to touch her. Body aching, she would have fallen to the ground had he not roughly pulled her backside against him. His desire was obvious as he licked her earlobe, and the very tender spot on her neck just where her pulse roared.
Throwing her head back against his shoulder, she shuddered as his hands, scars and all, grazed her arms. As if he was studying every exposed part of flesh. Endeavoring to engrain and memorize the feel of her body, the taste of her skin on his tongue. Her every response should have been mortifying, instead she felt empowered as he groaned in her ear and aggressively grabbed her hips, most likely imprinting his hands onto her person.
“You’re so soft,” his voice was raspy, almost impossible to hear as he whispered little bits of adoration in her ear. It was music, whispered music, and for the first time in her life she understood the power of words, when said by the very person you love, they can destroy you or set you free. “You are so smooth.” His body shuddered behind hers as he held her firmly against himself, all the while continuing to kiss wherever he desired. She was, in a word, his prisoner.
Not that she cared.
****
He was going to die.
But oh, if death was this sweet, he would welcome it with arms open, smiling like the devil's own fool.
His mind tried to catch up with every sensation he was feeling, every touch, every gasp for breath, the erratic beating of her heart. Oh, how he loved her heart and how it brought him back from the darkness.
Being a besotted fool had never been high on his list of priorities; to be quite honest, it hadn’t even been on a list. But now? Dear merciful heaven, he was drowning in it, lost in her, with no hope of being rescued.
So this was what it feels like to fall?
The exhilaration of the freefall was not terrifying as he had expected and always dreaded. No, in falling, he finally had freedom. Cynics would have liked him to believe that when he let go, he would lose his true self, but it was only when he finally allowed his heart to fall, that he found himself.
In a word, Dominique Maksylov had just been found.
Her heat scorched his body. With a gentle caress she shuddered, a quick nip on her neck and she moaned. Never had he fought so hard to keep himself in control.
And that was when he realized.
Control had been the very definition of his life.
And it was time to let his old life go.
With a smile that probably scared the blazes out of Isabelle, he turned her to face him. Her eyes were glowing, her skin so creamy, like satin. “I’m yours.” His voice trembled as he watched the smile broaden across her face.
“Yours.” He kissed one hand, then the other.
Lost in her gaze, he quickly, nimbly, removed all of his clothes standing before her once and for all, fully exposed within the light of the room, facing the very thing he feared the most in the entire world. Losing his heart, his very soul, to someone who had the power to destroy him.
With a coy bat of her lashes, she slowly, achingly, removed the top of her dress then turned. Devil take it, he was actually perspiring! No longer hindered by his gloves, for he had already decided to relish the feel of his bare hands on her skin forever, he quickly removed her dress and dropped it to the floor where it pooled by her feet.
Isabelle stepped out, and that was all it took. One look, one blasted look from the minx and with a savage growl he threw her onto the bed.
This lovemaking was not slow, it was not sweet as it should have been, nor did he spend any extra time preparing her. It was possession, it was lust, it was primal. His teeth pulled at her lower lip as his body covered hers. Her hands scratched across his back as he plundered her mouth. Breaths mingled as they gasped, both searching and eager to be closer to one another.
Passion-induced haze filled his line of vision until all he saw was her body, her soft curves, delectable smile, everything fit perfectly, and it was all his. Their gazes locked, in a paused embrace as he made love to her, his wife. For beauty had in fact, tamed the savage beast. Finally.
Ch
apter Thirty
What have I done…?
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Dominique looked at the correspondence once again. Surely, it had to be wrong. How many weeks had it been since he had written the letter? In hindsight, he had been so concerned for Isabelle that day that he had forgotten that the letter was sent to the duke.
And now, the script mocked him, the letter itself sealing his wife’s fate. He was coming for her. The letter said they would arrive as soon as possible. They, meaning the duke and his wife, along with Isabelle’s sister who had been miraculously found a few days ago only a few miles away from Dominique’s own estate.
It seemed one of England’s own spies was to thank for the feat, though the only spy in the area Dominique knew of was Hunter. And he had a hard time believing Hunter would rescue a beautiful damsel in distress and not boast about it.
The letter was burning a hole in his hand, but when he set it on the desk, his eyes wouldn’t pull away. How was he to handle this? Was he to admit to Isabelle that he had stupidly written the duke to come fetch her?
Was it silly of him to want her to stay on her own accord because she loved him and would do anything for him? Would she stay? he wondered, when faced with returning to her old life, to her family that she loved more than life itself? How was it that even though she told him where her loyalty was, that he still doubted her affection? Was he truly that insecure?
With a growl he pushed the objects on his desk to the floor. A feat he hadn’t done in weeks, ever since the night of the ball when he had spent the dark hours and early morning making love to Isabelle.
Magic.
And now it seemed the magic was crumbling.
He could only hope and pray that when the day came she would not see betrayal on his face, but that of selfless love, for he would never keep her from her true heart's desires. And though he loved her with every part of himself, she had yet to give him the words he so wanted to hear.
The thought struck a chord within him, for if he didn’t own her heart, he had to wonder who did?
****
Isabelle went in search of Dominique. Usually he spent the morning hours in his study replying to invitations and looking over estate matters.
She whistled on her way to his study, enjoying the smell of the castle, the feel of home it brought to her. Once she reached the large mahogany doors, she pushed them open, for he was a changed man and didn’t care that she barged in. Frankly, it seemed to delight him all the more.
Just yesterday he had laid her across his desk and kissed her senseless until the maid came with their morning tea.
She flushed with the memory as she entered the room, fully expecting to see him behind the large desk.
Empty.
But the fire was roaring and steam made a wispy design in the air from the freshly poured cup.
Strange? Had there been an emergency? And then she noticed the floor was littered with all types of papers from his desk. Something surely must be wrong for him to be this agitated. She hadn’t seen one of his dark moods in weeks. It still caused a shiver to run down her spine, but she trusted in the man he had become, in the promise he had made her to control his temper.
Kneeling in front of the scattered pieces of paper, she started to sort through them in order to return them to his desk.
Within minutes she had the papers cleaned up and returned to rights. She moved by the desk and her skirt caught the edge of one of the stacks. Muttering a curse she knelt down to pick up the few pieces that had fluttered off.
“The Duke of Montmouth?” she said aloud. What the devil would he want from Dominique?
Curiosity piqued, she picked up the letter and read it.
To his Royal Highness, Dominique Maksylov, Royal Prince of Russia, Earl of Hariss,
I have received your letter and will come at once. My wife and I are grateful for your kindness in the matter.
Please be advised that we will take Isabelle off your hands, as you so gently put it, and restore her into the bosom of Society. Her sister, Gwendolyn, has also been located and is awaiting us near your estate. She was found by one of England’s own spies. Apparently trying to locate Isabelle, believing her to be in grave danger.
In such a difficult year, you have given us reason to hope that our family will once more be united.
Many thanks,
His Grace, Stefan Hudson, Duke of Montmouth
Isabelle dropped the paper as if it had burned her fingers. Take her off his hands? Like some… some common mistress!
The note would have had to be sent weeks ago, but that changed nothing! He still wanted to be rid of her! He still wrote it, and the pain was more than she could bear. Had everything been a lie to him? The vulnerability too much? And to think, today was the day she was going to tell him she loved him, couldn’t live without him, and he wanted to be rid of her? The monster! The absolute beast!
The—
“My lady?” A knock came at the door.
Isabelle dropped the paper onto the desk and turned around.
“Some guests have arrived, they asked to speak with you.” Brink’s face was grave.
“Why not my husband?” she spat.
“I was unable to locate him, my lady.”
Isabelle’s chest clenched. So this is why he was angry then? Why he threw the contents of his desk to the ground. He was angry that she was still here, not gone as he wished? The pain was unbearable, like a knife slicing her in two.
Numbly, she walked to the door. “Please show them into the East Salon, I will be there momentarily.”
“As you wish.” Brinkss gave a curt bow and walked out of the room.
Isabelle took three deep breaths. She could do this—she could be the perfect hostess to her guests, whoever they were. Drat! Her hands were shaking!
The pain of his rejection, his betrayal made her knees weak. Ill, she barely made it in time to the potted plant before throwing up the contents of her stomach.
Perhaps now would not be the best time to tell her husband that his worst nightmare had come true. For she was carrying his heir. She had decided to hide it from him in hopes that he would learn to accept the truth, that he would never be the man his father was, he would be the best father, always laughing and joyful.
But now, now she wanted to throw the information in his face, to hurt him as he hurt her.
Gathering courage, she left the room and made the few short steps to the salon. Upon opening the doors, however, she felt her world begin to tilt, for sitting near the fire were her sisters, Rosalind and Gwendolyn, and Montmouth. The last thing she remembered seeing was the concern in Rosalind’s eyes as her knees gave way and her eyes succumbed to the blackness.
Chapter Thirty-one
Can a wrong be righted? Will truth truly set you free? Or will lies and mistakes threaten to overtake the happiness you once saw within your reach? I wonder this and so much more. Is it only when you’ve loved everything that you truly understand what it means to love? For I have nothing left, yet my heart still beats for her. It will beat always for her.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
The walk around the castle hadn’t done Dominique any good, he was just as agitated if not more by the time he returned to the front of the castle. Matters worsened when he noted the carriages out front and the blazing crest on every one of them.
Montmouth.
Dominique truly didn’t have God on his side, for the one thing he wished would not happen had come true. Now, Isabelle would know, and she would hate him, for who would she believe? The beast he once was? Or the man he had become?
Muttering an oath, he took the steps two at a time and entered into the house, only to find Hunter pacing outside the salon as if someone had died.
“What the devil are you doing?” Dominique all but yelled.
Hunter did not still, nor did he respond, merely cursed and closed his eyes.
Dominique took that as an invitation
to shake him.
Which he did.
Hunter just cursed again.
“Get a hold of yourself!” Dominique jerked his friend away from the door. “Now tell me what is going on?”
“If you don’t mind,” Hunter seethed, “I’d like to continue my pacing, it makes me feel deuced better about the fact that the chit I rescued is on the other side of that door and my cover could be completely blown at any second!”
Realization dawned. Despite his foul mood Dominique laughed. “The chit you are referring to, would it be Gwen? Isabelle sister?”
Hunter paled.
“You little liar.” Dominique crossed his arms. “So when I was in bed from a gunshot wound and you flew into the room with stories of being accosted by a woman who smelled of eggs and meat—”
Hunter slapped his hand across Dominique’s mouth. “Do not remind me of that particular woman. This is not she, believe me.” His eyes took on a lusty haze. “This is not she,” he all but whispered. “I discovered her on my way back through the village, to take care of your sorry a—” He stopped himself and shuddered. “At any rate, she was alone, can you believe it? An English miss alone in the countryside asking questions!”
“Yes well,” Dominique removed Hunter's hand. “I do believe women tend to do that when they are lost and searching for answers.”
“She was gaining too much attention,” Hunter muttered. “So I rescued her.”
“Did she see it as a rescue or a capture?” Dominique asked, intrigued.
“I saved her life!”
Truly, Dominique had to fight to keep his expression indifferent. “Are they erecting a statue in your honor? Or perhaps giving you some sort of medal?”
“She doesn’t know who I am, only that I work for the crown.” Hunter ignored Dominique’s teasing barbs. “And she cannot tell her family of my help in the matter.”
“Why ever not? I believe they would be thankful! Joyous! That is unless you took advantage of a single woman, all alone in the woods, with nothing but the dress on her back and—” Dominique stopped talking as Hunter lost color in his face. Quite a feat considering he looked like a ghost already.