Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales #2)(38)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

“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.