Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(47)

Leave? Where would he go? He wanted to scream at her to take back everything he had said that morning, get down on his hands and knees, beg for her to stay and never leave him.

His inner dialogue was so good, he cursed the idea that she couldn’t read his thoughts. “Please,” his voice begged. “Don’t go.”

Smiling, she patted his hand. “I haven’t left your side yet.”

****

Isabelle tried to put a brave smile across her face, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. It had been the first time in two days that Dominique had opened his eyes. His wound had worsened with infection, and the fever seemed to leave for a few hours only to come back stronger.

His body was blazing hot, despite the packed snow and water she brought to his bedside. Every time his fever spiked, he would either scream out her name or scream out his father's. Mostly, he would revert back to the language of his childhood making it impossible for Isabelle to know what he was murmuring about. Worse, Hunter had yet to send word, and the doctor hadn’t shown up, which could only mean that he had trouble making it to Wellington, or he was injured in the process.

Her mind would not allow herself to linger on the simple fact that Hunter could have failed in his mission.

“How is he this morning, my lady?” Cuppins walked unsteadily into the room. His forehead perspiring from exertion up the stairs.

“He isn’t worse.” Isabelle reached for the cold compress and held it to Dominique’s head once more. “He keeps saying my name, then he begins speaking in Russian, and screams at his father. He must have been a horrid man.”

Cuppins snorted. “A horrid man? No, my lady. That would be an understatement. Horrid does not even begin to describe the type of man the late prince was. Selfish, arrogant, prideful, hateful, he was the worst sort of man. His hate destroyed his relationship with his wife, forcing her to seek love elsewhere, and his disdain for Dominique’s accomplishments at such a young age made everything worse."

Dominique twitched, his eyes moving behind his eyelids at a rapid pace. And then his hand jerked out from the blankets and grabbed Isabelle’s arm.

His eyes flew open. “I killed him.”

Hatred dripped from Dominique’s fevered voice as he repeated the sentiment over and over again until finally he laughed and closed his eyes. “Death will not keep me from killing him twice.” His eyes fluttered closed again.

Shaking, Isabelle removed Dominique’s hand from her arm, placing it gently back at his side and tucking the blanket around his shoulder. The scars seemed to scream for vengeance. What tragedy befell Dominique? What would cause such twisted scars to appear on one’s hands? And were these the same hands that stole the life from another?

“Who is he speaking of?”

Cuppins had gone silent behind her. The only sounds in the room were the heavy breathing of the old man and the shallow breathing of her husband.

The elderly butler took a seat on the other side of Dominique near the bed and cursed. “I’m going to need this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. Grimacing, he tipped back the entire container and wiped his mouth.

“Hunter made me swear I would allow Dominique to tell you his story, when he was ready, but I think now is as good of time as any.”

Now meaning what, exactly? That he was doing to die. Fear pricked her heart again as she reached for Dominique’s hand. For some reason, if she could touch him—it seemed to her that he could use her warmth, her strength, to pull through.

“As I said, his father was an evil man. On one particular evening, much like the thunderous evening we experienced a few nights ago, Dominique went in search of his father. Predictably, his father was in one of the large practice rooms, drinking. Much like the dreaded practice room where he had, just two years previously, shot and killed not only Dominique’s favorite teacher, but his mother. Dominique witnessed the murders.”

Isabelle gasped. Of all the horrors for a little boy to see, that would have to be the worst.

“I will not explain the pain at having experienced such a nightmare, but I tell you this so you understand the grief and guilt the late prince was under. When Dominique approached him…” Cuppins cursed and rubbed his tired eyes. “His father tried to attack him. Dominique was quite small and fast; he moved out of the way but his father tripped and fell through the window to the ground. It wasn’t such a high fall, but he had lost his balance so severely that he landed on his head. He died instantly.”

Fresh tears ran down Isabelle’s cheeks and onto Dominique’s scarred hands. “What type of man tries to kill his own son?”

Cuppins looked away, his eyes filled with unshed tears. “The type of man who does this.” He lifted Dominique’s other hand.

Isabelle shook her head in confusion. “Surely, surely his own father did not—”

“His own father did this. When Dominique wakes up, and believe me, he has to wake up… I will allow him to tell you that part of his story. I have stolen enough from him already. But a favor, my lady?”

“Anything.” Her heart pounded in her chest. Palms sweaty she reached out and touched Cuppins’s hand trying to convey the emotion welling within her. Her desperation to help Dominique out of this darkness was her heart’s greatest desire.

“Give him something to live for.”