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.”
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.
“Bea
utiful…” 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?”
Isabelle uttered a sigh and tentatively sat on the bed, as gentle as a mouse. “I—” she started. “I thought you were gone.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Dominique teased.
Poor timing on his part, considering Isabelle burst into fresh tears. With a chuckle he reached for her hand, knowing that his scars were visible in the morning light. “It seems as much as the devil wanted me, an angel needed me to stay here. Soft lips touched mine in the most achingly beautiful kiss I’d ever experienced. Tell me, was it you? Or my imagination?”
Isabelle touched her lips with her hand. “It’s silly really.” Wet, tear-filled eyes answered his question. “I kept thinking that if I kissed you, you’d awaken from your fever.”
“As in a true fairy tale, is that it? The prince is turned from a frog to a prince? The beast into a handsome man?”
Isabelle nodded, red creeping up her neck.
“Did it work?” Dominique asked. The room was still and silent except for their breathing.
Slowly, Isabelle craned her head tilting it this way and that as she leaned over his body and whispered against his lips, “Yes.”
What he wouldn’t give for a little bit of strength, anything to be able to pull her into his arms and prove to her how he would fight, how he would live, how he would die with her name on his lips. “Am I a prince or merely handsome then? Which fairy tale will I be? Hmm?” His lips found a delicate spot on her neck, just below her ear. Fascinated with that tender piece of skin, he flicked it with his tongue, waiting for her to answer.
“Both,” she whispered. “You’re both.”
Chapter Twenty-five
I’ve seen the sun for the first time. Imagine seeing the sunrise without looking out the window. For a moment, can you feel how powerful it would be to see light after experiencing a lifetime of darkness? Of blindness? I can. It is so sweet that it aches, so powerful that for the first time in my life I want to weep with joy, yet…I wonder how long this light will last, how long will it fight against the dark? Will it one day resent the darkness? Resent the way the darkness seems to swallow everything whole? I wonder, I wonder if it is enough.
—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov
Dominique awoke with a start. It had been three days since he had been brought back from the land of the dead. His strength had yet to return full force, and if Isabelle came in one more time yelling at him to lie in bed he was going to go mad. Either that or ravish her, both options seeming quite promising this early in the morning if his arousal and irritation were any indicator.
Footsteps neared his door. He flinched, and ducked under the covers like some small lad waiting to get his ears boxed. The knob on the door turned. He began to sweat. Please, let it be anything other than what he thought it would be. If Cuppins brought in anymore tonic for him to drink he was going to go mad.
Hunter burst into the room a smile plastered across his face. “I have returned!”
“Alert the Regent, it seems we are to have a parade. Let me just lift my wounded arm so I can notify him by letter, oh wait… I was shot.”
Hunter cursed. “Yes, and I rode for days into the middle of a battle. I imagine Isabelle has been nursing you to health quite well. Kissing all your bruises and brushing her breasts against your arm when she gets too close. Yes, it seems like you’ve suffered a terrible experience, while I had to be treated by a doxy who smelled of fresh meat and eggs. I shall never eat again, I fear.”
Dominique burst out laughing. “What was the wench's name?”
“I do not wish to discuss it. I barely escaped with my honor intact.” Hunter shuddered. “Have you ever been taken advantage of in your sleep? Drugged? Unable to move because the chit has poisoned your tea with opium? No?” Hunter lifted his coat tails and took a seat on the bed.
“You were able to deny her with opium in your system? Strong man!” Dominique cheerfully patted his friend on the back then bit back another grin as his friend cursed.
“I was unable to move.”
“So she...” Dominique tilted his head, biting his lip in thought. “Good heavens, you were accosted by a woman!”
“She forced herself.” Hunter shivered. “And do you know the worst of it?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“She didn’t even offer for my hand afterwards. No apologies. I was compromised! And no trap of marriage! She slapped my b—”
Dominique lifted an eyebrow.
Hunter cleared his throat. “At any rate, I at least imagined some sort of thank you.”
“I take it you were given nothing of the sort.”
“Milk. She gave me milk and sent me on my way. I believe my nightmares will now consist of that woman instead of Napoleon.”
“How sad for you,” Dominique said dryly. “Now—” he clapped his hands together. “I need your help.”
“You do realize every time you say that, something bad happens to me, right?”
Dominique shook his head. “Stop complaining. You’ve just spent the night in a woman’s bed! You should be in a better mood!”
“Calling her a woman would be a large stretch, I imagine. Now, what do you need? You do realize I’m a spy, not your nurse maid, as we’ve discussed, so if you plan to trap me in this room with you then—”
“Gads, no. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Every time I hear someone approach the door, I begin to perspire. If I have to drink one more concoction that is said to make me strong as an ox, I believe I’ll fake my own death.”
“Brilliant, just take me with you so I don’t have to drink the stuff.” Hunter leaned back against the headboard, not at all flummoxed that both men
were sitting in the bed like a gaggle of women gossiping about the rag sheets.
“So, your favor.” Hunter inspected his nails. “What is it?”
“A ball.”
“Absolutely not.” Hunter shot up from the bed and began pacing. “You cannot ask me to do it. I will not do it. I refuse. I will end our friendship. I will jump from the window. I will—”
“For Isabelle?”
“Blasted nuisance.” Hunter cursed. “Even if I could manage to plan a ball in her honor, and help you win her affection yet again… No Englishman is safe here, not even your pretty wife.”
“I know,” Dominique said smugly.
“Balls usually involve dancing, lots of dancing, and food, and something else. Oh yes, guests!” He fixed Dominique with a pointed stare.
“I am aware.”
“Smug idiot. Wipe that smile off your face and tell me what you are about.”
Dominique grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
****
Isabelle sniffed the concoction that Cook had made for Dominique. She would have half a mind to pity him if he hadn’t been such a difficult patient. The man was insufferable! Every time she neared the bed he would pull her into his arms; every minute she was in his room it was as if she was going to be seduced at any second.
Not that she minded all that much, but he had been so ill and the idea of losing him, even though he was doing so much better, nearly killed her.
Fighting back ridiculous tears, for she had been extremely emotional as of late, she straightened her shoulders and carried the tray upstairs to Dominique’s bedroom. Oh, she knew a servant would be more than happy to do the job, but something about nursing him back to health on her own, without servants, held its appeal. They were often alone during the day. And in order to keep him from jumping out the window, she had agreed to read to him.
His interests, however, were not the typical books a young lady of gentle breeding read. They were vulgar, and, well, she had to admit, interesting. But Dominique would watch her when she read. His eyes would be trained on her lips as if they fascinated him, and then he would close his eyes and dip his hand into the air as if conducting some sort of invisible song.