by Lily Silver
Burke’s jaw dropped. He sat forward, carefully weighing every word Dillon had just uttered. “What’s this, now? Ye’ve recovered some poor waif from the wreckage?”
Adrian moved in for the final thrust with a sardonic smile. “Yes, Harlan. My fiancée was on that vessel.”
“Fiancée?” Sheriff Burke sputtered as the ale he had just taken clogged his throat.
“You do recall my mentioning an attachment I had to a certain young lady?”
Burke sobered, obviously stunned by the reality of the bride.
“Oh, she is real, my friend. Mick Gilamuir brought her to me early this morning, along with the news of the wreck.” Adrian choked out the words with emotion. “I am as yet nourishing hope that her father survived. I shouldn’t dare to bring such horrific news of his demise to my love as she lies recovering from her own injuries.”
Burke took another swig of his ale, his expression grim. “And what am I to tell my girl, she was expecting you to declare yourself, Lord Dillon.” The grotesque little man snarled as he bolted from his seat, his carefully laid plans disintegrating before his eyes.
“Why should she expect a declaration from me? I’ve not courted her, nor have I sought out her company. We’ve met by chance alone, amid ample spectators at various social gatherings.” Dillon rose from his chair. “Perhaps her father simply suffers from an overactive imagination.”
“You’d best come out, Sir.” Mick stood in the doorway as Adrian was taking his leave. “I think we may have found Mr. MacNeill.”
“Tara’s father?”Adrian allowed his voice to rise with emotion. “Is he alive?”
“No. You’d best come identify him, Sir.”
Burke sprinted to the door, his button black eyes wary, as if sensing the charade being played out for his benefit. “What does he look like?” He persisted, pushing his protruding paunch into Dillon’s frame as he looked up at his with accusation.
“Tall.” Adrian insisted, “Taller than most men … taller than I.” He spread his arms out to emphasize his own athletic frame. He looked over the short sheriff’s head to Mick, who frowned and shook his head negatively.
“Let’s go see.” Burke insisted. Mick shrugged as Burke charged on ahead, anxious to see proof of the fiancée, be it her own corpse or that of her father.
Mick closed the gap between himself and his lord as the sheriff vacated the small sitting room. “The man we just found was average size. Well, dressed, looked to be a businessman. I thought that would work well enough. We’re running out of candidates, with a priest, a cabin boy, a black slave, five women, and various crew members being accounted for. Why are you making this father of hers out to be some kind of giant?”
“Short, tall, fat, thin, what difference does it make? He doesn’t exist.” Adrian replied. “All that matters is that Burke believes my bride is real.”
“My lord, since you said the man was tall, tell Burke this one is not him. We’ll say the man is missing. That happens with shipwrecks. Bodies wash up days or weeks later.” Mick advised him as they hurried ahead of the Sheriff. “We don’t need a body to prove ourselves. You have the woman in your possession, that’s proof enough.”
Chapter Four
Annie hummed as she worked the needle through the heavy woolen cloth. Her husband was out at the nets for the day and the children were at the hedge school. Soda bread was baking on the hearth, its pungent scent mingling with the sweet smoke of the peat fire. She had finished her chores, save tending the stranger Ian found on the far shores of Lord Bantry’s land, thirty miles south of the wreck they’d heard about across the bay near the town of Glengarriff.
The man groaned, tossed one way then back the other, muttering something she couldn’t make out. She put down her sewing and went to his side. He was a big one, this stranger her Ian had brought home. A giant of a man with fair blond hair that was etched with gray. He had frightful marks upon his pale body. It was almost as if he had received the mark of Cain, the reddish purple feathered lines on his arms and chest were like trails of angry lightning breaking up the sky.
“Tara … “
He had uttered that one word many times in the past hours. Not once had he opened his eyes. As he was found so far from the wreck they could scarce believe he was one of the seamen, yet he was a stranger to these parts. A giant such as he would not travel long in the land unnoticed. It was possible his body drifted south with the currents, or he may not have any connection with the wreck further north. They wouldn’t know until he himself could tell them his sad tale.
Doc Riley had looked in on him for the price of her best laying hen. He cautioned them to keep the man’s presence a secret until they could learn his identity. He might be a messenger from Lord Fitzgerald in Dublin with news of the planned uprising this spring.
The wind howled outside, rattling the door and window with eerie fingers. Annie pulled the woolen shawl tighter about her.
“Tara—no—don’t touch the transmitter —” The man sat bolt upright, his blue eyes laced with terror as he struggled with the covers in his delirium.
“There, ye be safe, stranger. Lie back and let Annie give you some warm broth.”
“Tara, where is she?” The raspy voice pleaded.
“That I Cannae’ say. My man fished you out of the sea. Thought you was dead, he did, so still did ye lie. Then, when he laid you in the boat, ye turned about and sat up. Took five years off his life, I’ll be bound. Thought it was the Day of the Lord with the dead rising up from their graves.”
The stranger merely gazed at her with dazed pale blue eyes. Ah, so blue, they made the sky pale in their brilliance. The soft lines about his face told her that he had seen much in his journey through life.
“I’m Annie O’Ryan, man. You’ve been in our cottage for three days, in the sleep of death. We’ve no news of a lass found in the wreckage, if that be your Tara. Are you a survivor of the Mercy?”
A blank look was his response.
“The ship that crashed on the Garnish Point, man. We found you by the grace of the Almighty, you and none others.”
“It was the storm, the lightning struck …” The stranger faltered, having run out of breath.
“Aye, they say lightning struck the mast and the high waves from the gale forced the vessel upon the rocks. All hands went down. Bantry Bay is famous for her treacherous seas. Back in ‘96, the whole French fleet was forced to turn back when a gale swept most of their ships out to sea, and nary a soldier set foot on land.”
The stranger sat up slowly, leaning on one arm for support. “French fleet?” He muttered with confusion, rubbing his beard. He looked about the room, blinked, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and looked about him again.
“Aye, the French. Lord White, was just Squire White in those days, but he rallied his men and sent a warning to the English in Cork. Might know, his family came here from England fifty years ago. Why, perish the thought of an Irishman turning in his lot with our conquerors.”
The man waved his hand at her, frowning as he dismissed her words. “I served in Iraq in the First Gulf War. Since then, Iraq and Afghanistan have been the main theaters of action. The French? What the hell are you babbling about, woman.”
“Ach, ‘tis a sad tale. Wolfe-Tone, he convinced the French to aid us, and the invasion was set for December of ‘96. As I said, a gale force—“
“Invasion–why would France want to invade Wisconsin, and its July, for God’s sake, why the fire? We’ve had the worst heat wave in history—open a window.”
“July, says you. Tis January, have ye slept away the years in the land of the Tir-o-nog?” Annie looked at him with worry. Was the man daft, then?
“I live in Wisconsin, what the hell kind of joke is this? Am I on an episode of Lost or Survivor? Who’s paying you to dupe me and how much?”
“This is Ireland, Sir. I know naught of this Wisconsin you keep screechin’ about. Ye be lost, tis true, and ye’ve survived a shipwreck, but it is
January of 1798.”
“Arggghhh.” The man slumped back on the cot. “God, I’ve gone over the edge.”
“Easy, lad. You’ve suffered more than a cold bath, but a bit of fairy mischief. Have ye a name, sir, or did the fairies steal that away from you as well?”
“Daniel Wilson.” The giant gave Annie a level look. “Thank you, for taking me in.”
“Aye, and I’ll just be getting you a bit of broth.” Annie moved to the hearth.
Dan scanned the small cottage with worry. His limbs were stiff and sore, his head ached. He hadn’t the strength to argue with the woman regarding the year, but this was definitely not his grandparent’s cabin in Fish Creek as he’d been dreaming with the smell of fish, an open fire, and fresh bread baking.
Ireland–1798? Was he lying in a hospital bed having a drug induced delusion? The crack he did in the army might have caught up with him after all. He went from Surgical Nurse to civilian faster than he could wink when they found him stealing morphine to feed his addiction. And twenty years later, he was finally a paramedic on the Marinette County Rescue Squad.
Where the hell were his buddies now, damn it? He had suffered a severe jolt of lightning but somehow he was still breathing. Why didn’t these people call the hospital, for God’s sake? It hurt to think about it. It just plain hurt to move or think, even to breathe. Yeah, he’d had quite a jolt. His limbs still tingled from that powerful surge of electricity. He was lucky to be alive, even if he was delusional. Must be the drugs they were feeding him through his IV tubing. Yeah, that was it, he was dreaming. Had to be.
Annie was back at his side, holding out a clay bowl of steaming soup. It smelled delicious. Dan struggled to sit up once more.
As she handed him her offering, he noticed her queer get-up. She had on a plain gray wool dress, a black shawl wrapped about her shoulders, and a large white cap on her head. Her shoes were high ankle boots. What the hell. Was this Little House on the Prairie? God, any minute, Pa Ingles might be coming through that door.
He glanced about the primitive cabin. There was no stove, just the stone hearth with a black iron pot hanging from it. The walls were white, some kind of crude plaster. There were chickens in the rafters, he noticed, when one dropped a load on the floor beside his bed. He covered his soup with his hand, suddenly losing his appetite.
“Ma’am?” He searched her face as she pulled the stool next to the bed and took the bowl from his hand. It was an honest face, the weathered face of a pilgrim from the puritan days, no make-up, no jewelry, just a kind smile. “There was a girl with me. I have to find her.”
“We found no one else.” Annie lifted the spoon to his lips, her voice became sad. “There’s bodies aplenty washed up. If some lass were with ye, she’s likely with the angels now, Sir.”
“We were not on a ship. We were at the radio station.”
“All I know is that there was a shipwreck some miles north of here, and all hands went down, save you. If ye like I’ll send for the priest. Ye’ve suffered quite a blow, now, haven’t ye?”
Dan nodded. He was not Catholic, but he was just scared enough to convert.
Chapter Five
Tara looked about the strange room with awe.
It was like a set from a Jane Austen Movie.
The walls were oak paneling, the kind you’d see in an old English manor house.
Tapestries hung on the wall, and not the cheap catalogue copies you could get for under a hundred bucks. The ones before her had a rich heaviness that bespoke the dust and the weight of several centuries. She admired the scene depicting a rich medieval landscape. A couple sat on a blanket in a forest enjoying a romantic lunch. The woman had long waves of blonde hair trailing over her shoulders and faded pale silvery eyes Tara guessed were once blue. The woman’s expression was wistful as she gazed at her companion, a young man dressed in the rich attire of a thirteenth century noble. A distant castle could be seen in an opening in the trees beyond them and a unicorn was nestled in the brush in the foreground.
As she studied the tapestry, Tara was enveloped in an oasis of much needed calm.
She’d awakened into a void. She couldn’t remember anything about her life. She didn’t know where she lived, or with whom. She did not live here, that much she did know for certain. She tried all morning to think of someone she could call to come and take her home. Nothing came. No names, no faces.
Calling someone. Now, there was a good reason to crumble into hysterics!
She could not think of anyone to contact, no family, lover or friends.
Tara rose from the bed with difficulty. Her body was stiff, sore. Had she been in an car accident? She tried not to trip over the overlong white cotton gown as she shambled across the room like a zombie to the antique wardrobe. She opened the door then drawer inside it. Her cell phone was there along with her car keys and her iPod. A green hair bungee with Celtic designs lay nestled beside the items.
No wallet. Ah, but that would make things too simple, wouldn’t it?
No wallet meant no driver’s license, no clue as to her home address. No credit cards and no money. Her khaki cargo pants and lace camisole top were folded neatly in the drawer, having been washed by the staff of this odd hotel.
She picked up her phone with her bandaged hands and pressed the ON button. Nothing. No bars, no signal, not even a welcome screen. Her battery must be dead. If she couldn’t even get it to turn on it meant she’d been here more than a few hours. Damn, if she had a cheaper phone instead of this model with the expensive data package that sucked the batteries like a vampire emptying a crack addict, she’d still have battery power. Without a charger, she was screwed and it wasn’t likely they’d have one here that would work with her phone.
Given her weakness and confusion, Tara had to have been here for a few days instead of hours. Her iPod still worked, for all the good that did. She could listen to Meatloaf, Madonna and Motley Crue while trying to find her way home. If her phone worked, she’d have GPS capabilities so she could figure out where she was, and at the very least she could send a text message.
And who would she send it to? Would she recognize the names listed in her contact list? That was the scary part. Tara was lost, like in one of those stupid reality TV shows where the contestants got dropped off in a strange land and had to find their way back home first to win a million bucks. Unlike the people on the show, she was stranded, with no instructions, contacts, money and no freaking idea of who to call to pick her up and take her to the airport. At least on the reality shows they were given detailed instructions.
She searched the drawers of the ornate desk. There was no phone in her room and no phone book. None of the hotel literature one would expect to find in a place like this. She couldn’t even call a taxi. Even if she had a phone her speech was too garbled to be understood. The hotel maid didn’t understand her so she wouldn’t get far trying to call anyone.
Texting! Now that was a different matter. Or Email. Yes, that would work, if she could get to a computer. Tara wiggled the tips of her fingers, peeping out from the heavy linen bandages swaddled over her hands. Her fingers were still pretty numb and stiff, but she could probably pull off the hunt and peck method. They had to at least have a computer in the lobby. All hotels had them in lobbies now.
“Welcome to the Hotel California,” the Eagles song echoed in her mind. “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
Not Hotel California, but Hotel Ireland. She learned that when she tried to question the maid who delivered her breakfast tray. She could only manage the word ‘where’ amid her garbled speech. The maid informed her she was a guest at Glengarra Castle overlooking the Bay of Bantry in County Cork, Ireland. At least they spoke English here—sort of. It was hard to understand Maggie’s accent and her queer way of phrasing things.
Terror didn’t begin to explain the gnawing in her gut as her eyes darted about the stately room filled with antique furnishings. Geez, there wasn’t even a
freaking television. Usually they were hidden in the wardrobe closet in the fancier hotels. Her wardrobe closet was empty save her few belongings.
Fear was making her queasy. Tara didn’t want to vomit again, because she’d have to use that quaint porcelain pot under the bed to throw up in because no one seemed to understand her request to be taken to the restroom. There wasn’t a bathroom attached to her room, which, while odd was logical in an ancient building such as this. The hotel owners wouldn’t want to risk losing their Historic Registry standing by knocking down walls and drilling holes through stone floors to install modern plumbing in every guest room. Still, a phone would be nice so she could ring room service.
Definitely not a five star experience here, despite the rich furnishings.
Fatigued from her trek across the room in search of a phone, Tara returned to the bed. She clutched the velvet coverlet in her bandaged hands, ignoring the tears stinging her eyes. So, she was stuck in a hotel somewhere in Ireland with no memory of how she came to be here. And no credit card. Damn. They’d be kicking her out of here real soon.
As Tara sat clutching the covers and worrying about the hotel concierge demanding payment for this lavish Irish holiday, there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat at the door.
Oh, God, here it comes, she though, steeling herself for the confrontation.
A tall, dark haired man of about thirty entered the room. His clothing was odd, like he’d just stepped off the stage set of a costume drama. Ignoring his peculiar clothing, she focused on his face. A peculiar feeling of déjà’ vu swept over her as she gazed into his steel gray eyes. Was he the hotel manager or the tour guide? Did he know her?
The young maid, Maggie, followed behind him as if he were royalty.
“Tara, you’re awake at last. Cora tells me that you are upset. What is it you need, my dear?” His tone was reassuring, kind. He didn’t seem upset about the hotel bill.
