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.