Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales 2) (18 page)

Frozen in place, Isabelle didn’t want to turn, or think, or even blink for fear of what would happen. Unmistakably, the man was speaking French.

Another man laughed, “
An English bird
?”

Isabelle’s own understanding of the language wasn’t what it should have been, in fact it was nearly impossible to translate, but she was convinced the man just asked if she was English. Either that, or a bird, not that it mattered.

Slowly, she turned, and couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips as her eyes locked on five French soldiers, fully armed, looking her up and down as if she was on the menu for devouring.

“
A very pretty English bird, most likely alone
.” The man who had been speaking stepped closer to her and held his hand up for the other men to back away. “I said…” his accent was thick, “You are alone, yes?”

“No.” Isabelle stepped toward her horse; a few more feet and she could make an escape, that is, if she didn’t get shot first. “I am with my husband.”

At that, the men burst out laughing. The one in front of her spit on the ground. “What kind of husband leaves a beautiful woman alone in the forest?” He took another careful step toward her. “Your husband is an imbecile, no?”

Isabelle opened her mouth to say
no
, but movement in the trees stopped her. Heart pounding, she glanced out of the corner of her eye; something else moved and then she saw Dominique.

She had to think quickly, but she didn’t know how to distract them. The Frenchman lifted his eyebrow in mockery. “He is not an imbecile, as you delicately put it. You see, we, um, we like to play games.”

“Games?” he repeated. “Interesting. Are others invited?”

“Always.” Isabelle managed a saucy smile. “In fact, he often uses me as bait, in order to make things more… interesting.” She swallowed the bile in her throat as the man walked purposefully toward her. He was going to hurt her; his face was menacing, his eyes hard and cold.

“I think I would like to be the first to play,
oui
?” His gaze narrowed on her bosom. She pulled tightly at her cloak and crossed her arms.

“Ah, patience, my love, don’t I always go first?” Dominique’s voice was calm and reassuring as he stepped into the clearing. “After all, there is enough of you to go around, wouldn’t you say?”

What was he doing? Her eyes widened in horror and then she saw it, he tilted his head just slightly; she looked in the direction he indicated and noticed Hunter pulling out a pistol.

“Yes, well, last time, that is to say, l-last time, I was so fatigued after just one round that I nearly fainted…” Isabelle stammered, thoroughly disgusted with their topic but knowing it was necessary.

“But dear, you’re forgetting.” Dominique walked to her side and pulled her into his embrace; it was then that she noticed how thick his accent was, as if he had reverted back to his Russian heritage. He didn’t seem English at all, not that he was completely English. But at this moment, he seemed foreign if not more foreign than the soldiers. “I own you, remember? Won you fair and square from the idiot, Wellington.”

All five Frenchmen spit on the ground at the mention of the Duke's name. No love was lost on the man fighting against their fearless leader.

“You won her, you say?” The Frenchman cursed. “I would have liked to see that man’s face when you stole this piece from his arms.”

“She’s nothing but a whore.” Dominique clenched his arm tighter around her. “So she meant nothing to him. I imagine it was his pride that was hurt, not the loss of a beautiful woman.”

The men nodded their agreement as Dominique turned Isabelle to face him. Laughing, he tilted her chin up and kissed her hard across the mouth. He forced her onto the ground and pulled out a pistol.

Everything happened so fast. One minute she was in his arms and the next she was in the dirt watching him open fire on the men. Firing his weapon, Hunter jumped from the brush. The Frenchmen cursed and shot their own pistols.

Isabelle tried to close her eyes. Attempted to cover her ears, but she was paralyzed with shock and watching in utter horror as one of the last men standing opened fire on Dominique, sending him sailing to the cold hard ground.

Hunter knocked the assailant unconscious and was immediately at Dominique’s side.

“Isabelle!” Hunter yelled.

She couldn’t move.

“Isabelle! This is not the time to play the frightened woman. You may cry later; right now Dominique needs you.”

Nodding, she jumped to her feet and rushed to Dominique’s side. Blood poured from a gunshot wound in his shoulder. His gloved hands were covered in blood.

“Hold this tight, right here.” Hunter ripped a piece of fabric from his shirt and placed her hands over the cloth covering the wound. “Listen to me, Isabelle. I need you to take Dominique back to the castle. You just get on the horse and it will take you back, do you understand? I need to know you understand!”

Isabelle felt her head jerk into a nod. “But where are you going?” Her voice sounded hollow, foreign to her own ears.

“Wellington. I need to be sure he knows that we’ve not only killed five French soldiers, but that they are this deep into the country. They were supposed to be near Brussels, not…” He looked down at his hands. “Not here, it isn’t safe. I must go. It’s my job to go. If I don’t...” his voice trailed off. “I was already planning to leave, now it’s of the essence.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Isabelle swore.

“See that you do. I’ve never lost a soldier yet.” Hunter nodded and went to his horse. “Horse is just behind the brush. Help me lift Dominique onto her, and I’ll send you on your way.”

Her husband was heavy, not that she shouldn’t have thought as much. The man was finely built, muscles protruded from every tight angle of his body. It was torture trying to do a man's work, lifting such dead weight, but together she and Hunter managed to lay Dominique across Horse. Fortunately for them, Dominique was still semi-conscious and able to move his body enough to help.

Isabelle launched herself onto Horse’s back but nearly fell; it was impossible to sit like a lady ought to when she had the beast of a man in front of her.

“Apologies,” Hunter muttered before he reached underneath her skirts and ripped the fabric. “Don’t tell Dominique, he’d most likely shoot me in the head. Now, off you go.”

“Off I go?” Isabelle, still shaking, grabbed the reins. “Do you mean for me to sit...”

Hunter cursed. “Wrap your legs around the horse, Isabelle, and hold the man we both know you love close to your chest. Do not let him go. Notify Cuppins of the wound. The nearest doctor is over a half-day's ride away. I’ll notify him in the next town. Until then, stop the bleeding and cauterize the wound. Cuppins will know what to do.” Hunter whistled and Horse took off in a slow trot back to the house. Dominique was conscious enough to hold his weight even, though she couldn’t be sure, considering she was so terrified she was going to fly off Horse before they made it back to the castle.

Terror nipped in the corners of her mind. What would she do if she lost him? Even after everything they had been through, she couldn’t bring herself to imagine a world without the beast. Surely, it would be a world devoid of beauty as well. Fighting back tears, she leaned over Horse as they made their way out of the forest. The castle loomed in the distance.

“Please,” Isabelle sobbed, allowing tears to flow freely down her face. “Please, please let him survive this.”

Dominique moaned. After being shot it was evident that he had hit his head on the hard ground rendering him unstable. Not only did she need to worry about infection, but the trauma done to his head as well as his hands. They were soaked with blood and she wasn’t sure if it was someone else’s or his.

As Horse neared the house, Isabelle began to scream for help. Within seconds servants poured out. Cuppins limped toward Horse and began calling for the footman and any able-bodied man.

“He, h-he, was shot, and I was in the forest and the French…”

Cuppins cursed when he heard the word
French,
and his ruddy face went pale with worry as his eyes took in Dominique’s wound and form. “How long has he been unconscious?”

Isabelle racked her mind. “Minutes, it’s only been a few minutes. We came as fast as we could, and Hunter, he...” Her lip began to tremble. “He went to tell Wellington a-and, and...” She burst into heavy sobs as she watched the men carry Dominique into the house. Cuppins held out his arm. Old and unsteady as it was, she took comfort in his gesture and leaned against him as they hobbled back into the house.

Chapter Twenty-three

I have tasted death twice in my life, both times at a young age. The taste of death is something one never forgets, it takes over every other sense in your body until you fear you may go mad. To return to those moments in my life or to face death of my own accord absolutely terrifies me. I imagine I will be the sort to walk into death blindly knowing that I will not be returning into the land of the living. I know what death tastes like, and when that taste returns, I’ll welcome it with open arms. Through death, perhaps, I may find my redemption, I may find my light.

—The Diary of Dominique Maksylov

Haunting dreams overtook Dominique’s thoughts. Dreams of dragons and monsters, of his father and his tragically beautiful mother.

She reached out to him, but her hand was cold, frigid. His entire dream reeked of death. His mother’s eyes turned black, she threw back her head and laughed, and then his father entered into the dream. His eyes a blazing fire of hatred, he lifted a torch into the air and burned Dominique’s hands for the second time, laughing as he did so. Dominique tried to scream for him to stop. After all, he was a man now; he could kill his father, the right way this time, not by accident.

The sob, the scream—everything died in his throat. And then heat, so intense, overtook him. His limbs were on fire, everything ached. His father reached his hand to Dominique’s shoulder and pushed.

A scream erupted from Dominique’s lips as his father increased the pressure, taking pleasure in Dominique’s pain. “May you never play again,” he said, over and over again until Dominique's face was wet with tears. Suddenly he was a boy again, reliving the worst nightmare of his life. He wanted his mother, but more than that?

He wanted Isabelle.

Lost in darkness, all he wanted was her light, so he said her name, quietly at first and then louder until finally his own voice shattered the nightmare, broke through the pain. “Isabelle!”

His head shook back and forth, so hot, he was still too hot, but he felt peace as something cold touched his forehead. He struggled to open his eyes. When he finally managed the difficult feat, everything was blurry. His tongue was thick in his mouth. Speaking would be impossible, blinking seemed to hurt all the way down to his toes. One last desperate attempt toward clear vision ended in a brilliant reward.

“Isabelle,” he croaked, his voice raspy.

Her smile lit up the room. Bending over him she placed a kiss upon his cheek. “Sleep, Dominique, you need to heal. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

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.