by Lily Silver
“T-T-Tele—phh-phoooon?”
His elegant dark brows drew together. “I don’t recognize that word.” He said in a rich Irish brogue that tantalized her overworked senses.
With supreme effort, she lifted her bandaged hand to imitate holding a cell phone to her head, the baby finger pointed at her mouth, thumb at her ear; something so simple, so universal, yet completely beyond these people. She pretended to push buttons on her bandaged palm with her forefinger, then held the imaginary phone up to her ear again, forcing out the word, “H—h-h-helloooo” while the trio peered at her in silence.
The old maid snorted like a worn out nag. “Keeps doing that, sir. I’m guessing the lass is all about in her head.”
“That will be enough.” The man chastened. “Take Maggie and be gone with you.”
“Yes, Milord.” The two females chimed, each bobbed a curtsy to him and then dutifully vacating the room.
Tara gaped at him with confusion. You must be kidding me? Seriously—Milord? What was this, an episode of Masterpiece Theater?
“Forgive Cora.” The enchanting stranger said. “Her tongue is as sharp as an adder’s. She means no disrespect to you or your kind.” He remained at the foot of the bed, observing her with a fascination she found thrilling and a little bit eerie.
My kind? What did that mean, precisely? Tourist? Grad Student? American?
Tara studied him. He looked like a movie star or a cover model for a romance novel; tall, muscular, with an aura of authority and determination. He had jet black hair that swirled about his head in lush waves like an elegant swathe, sort of like Dr. McDreamy on that popular medical TV series. It was longer in the back, secured with a black bow, a queue, she realized, as the term came to her easily. Men wore longer hair tied back with black ribbons in the 18th century, she knew that, too, as if by rote.
Damn, where did all this knowledge come from, when she couldn’t even remember her own name or where she came from? Did she know this dude?
She gazed into his alluring, steel gray eyes. Nothing. Not a clue.
“I am Viscount Dillon. You may call me Adrian.” He sat down on the bed beside her as he said in a quiet, reverent tone, “I know you were sent to me by Tuath an Danaan. Our destinies are entwined. I am pleased to honor the old promise by sheltering you in my home and protecting you from the schemes of mortal men. And I am honored, Dear Tara, that you have agreed to come here to be my fairy bride.”
*
The darkness lessened as a cool, wet feeling intruded upon it. Tara’s eyes focused on the dark figure hovering over her beyond the gray mists. There it was again, that cold pressure on her cheeks and forehead. She turned her head, pushing it back, turning away from the cold reality of pain, seeking the relief that came only in the oblivion of sleep.
“Tara?” The chilled sensation persisted on her face. “Sweet Tara?”
She opened her eyes to face the bold intruder to her bed. It was him, that man who plagued her with endless questions, the handsome man with smoldering gray eyes.
“You are safe here, I swear it. I would give my life to protect you.”
Whoa. That was deep and poetic. Tara stared at this would be rescuer. She had a thousand questions, yet, she couldn’t speak well enough to ask them, and part of her dreaded the answers that would come.
“I told everyone you are from America.” He went on, seeming to think that she understood his odd ramblings. “That way, no one will question your peculiar fey ways.”
I definitely fell down the Rabbit Hole. Yes, Johnny Depp! Bring him on.
At that thought, she giggled, amused at the thought of meeting Depp’s quirky Mad Hatter character—or just plain meeting Mr. Depp, period!
Mr. Dillon assumed she was giggling at his words and grinned conspiratorially.
As they sat silently staring at one another, she slowly became aware of an unfamiliar, unpleasant odor. She sniffed, and then realized too late her rudeness, as it was the pungent smell of the barn clinging to his clothing.
“Yes, I came directly from the stables.” He said, noting her amazement at his odd dress. “I didn’t take the time to change. I couldn’t wait to see you when Cora told me you were awake and trying to talk.”
“S-sorr—re” She warbled, fearing she’d offended him by drawing notice to the smell of the farmyard on his clothing. She had to be careful, if she offended this man, he might toss her out in the cold. With no money or even a rational memory to speak of, it was best to play along with his delusion until she could figure things out a little better.
“Sore, yes I imagine you are very uncomfortable after all you’ve come through.”
Tara huffed with impatience. Must everything be lost in translation? She wished she could have a pen and some paper, so she might convey her thoughts with more precision then this impossible garbled attempts to make words.
“Easy, lass.” His large, elegant hand rested on her arm in a gesture of comfort. “Be assured, we have our share of magic elixirs to banish pain here, too.”
The sleeve of his brown jacket brushing across her forearm caught her attention. Amazed, she reached out with fingertips peeping out of the linen bandages to stroke the unusual material. His jacket was made of actual velvet.
Taken aback by the discovery, her eyes swept over his attire as the oddity of it struck her. The dude wore tan knee breeches made of soft brushed suede and tall brown riding boots. Good Grief! Men quit wearing breeches a couple of centuries ago. His shirt was white linen and the cascade of lace at his throat that resembled an artful waterfall.
His smile deepened at her appreciative perusal. “I know it appears as if I rescued you, yet we both know it is you who has rescued me. I am deeply honored by your sacrifice in coming here to save my hide by wedding me. You and your kind will have my deepest loyalty and gratitude forever. You’ve made me the happiest of men.”
Tara regarded him with raised brows and her mouth agape. There it was again; that whole marriage bit. This rich, sexy man wanted to marry her? And what the hell did he keep going on about how she was somehow rescuing him? Damn, as proposals went, this one was right up there with the line ‘you complete me’ for sealing the deal.
She placed a palm to her chest. Her heart was doing a wild stomp and kick dance step as the reality of her situation crashed over her. She was lost in rural Ireland, with an eccentric but incredibly handsome, rich dude sitting on her bed discussing their forthcoming marriage as if it were predestined, a done deal.
Dizziness came and the room began to fade into grayish mists. She gasped, fighting the queer disorientation that threatened her senses.
“Easy, lass. You are still weak from the magic that brought you to me.”
Magic. Tara sank back on the pillows as sweat misted her brow. “H-ho-ow?”
“How did you come to be here?” He chuckled and then gazed down at her with those mystical silvery eyes. “Our story is that you were aboard the ship that sank on the rocks below the cliffs last week, the Mercy, from America. You are my fiancée and you were sailing here to marry me with your father’s escort. The ship went down at the entrance to the bay during the storm, you were washed ashore and brought to Glengarra Castle.” The melodious tone of his strange accent had the effect of a tranquilizer on her bewildered senses. “That is what everyone has been told.”
His dark brows drew together. He touched her face, tenderly cupped her cheek, giving her a devoted smile before his face pinched into regret. “My men and I are making every effort to find your fabled father. As it is, there have been no survivors from the shipwreck, save you. Only you; and we both know that is because you weren’t truly on that ship, were you, Tara. You came to me from land of the Tir-o-nog.”
“N-n-no—” Tara stuttered, unable to tell him he was wrong. “No …”
Shipwreck? A missing father? The land of the Tir-o-nog? This man was frightening her. She wanted to confront his odd reality and declare it false. She couldn’t, as she had no other history
to counter it with, no memory of who she was or where she came from. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. She tried to communicate her wild thoughts. Her words came out as gibberish, tangled, frantic, and unintelligible.
“Don’t try to talk. All is well. Just rest and let me take care of you.” The man soothed. He cupped her face and brushed tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He seemed genuinely distressed by her quiet weeping.
His words resonated deep inside her; Let me take care of you.
If magic did exist, surely those words were the precise incantation wrought to soothe her very soul.
Let me take care of you.
Deep down, Tara yearned for that scarce and transient luxury. She couldn’t understand why. The inherent promise of being with someone, belonging to someone, having a family to cling to, was akin to being thrown a lifeline as she clawed and kicked and tried to stay afloat amid the storm tossed seas of unbearable loneliness.
Too exhausted to try to converse further, Tara nodded her assent to his words and closed her eyes, seeking the sweet solace of dreams.
*
Adrian summoned the family physician to his study for a private interview.
The thin, graying man watched his patron with glittering eyes that revealed his intelligence. “Your note said you had something to discuss regarding the young miss of a most serious nature.” He took the chair opposite Adrian’s desk and folded his hands on his lap, waiting patiently for Adrian to explain his dire message.
“Do you believe she is well enough to be married before the week is out?”
“Dear me.” The doctor’s hands gripped the chair arms.
As Dr. Magnus stared at him with disbelief, Adrian continued in a defensive tone, “Under the circumstances, I think it is only proper we are wed as soon as possible.”
The doctor sat for a long moment, his quick mind turning over the situation carefully before he advised his patron. He nibbled on his upper lip, sucked in both lips, rolling them before replying, “How fortunate for you that this woman washed up on shore, with Burke pressing a suit with his daughter.”
Adrian’s brow furrowed in agitation. His forefingers were arched together as he sat with his elbows propped on the desk before him. “I trust you will remain discreet.”
“Aye. Only take care in what you do. This young woman may fit nicely into your scheme and become a very proper Lady Dillon for you. You are doing the honorable thing by taking her into your care in the guise of marriage. There are other lords who wouldn’t presume to be noble about their designs on such a comely waif who fell into their lap with no memory of where she came from. If she seems pleased with the arrangement, you have gained a wife and she has gained a comfortable situation. Then again, she may wake up one morning and recall she has a husband and babes elsewhere then where will that leave you, my lord Dillon?”
“She is unmarried.”
“You mean you are hoping that is the case.” Magnus supplied. “Adrian, have you entertained any of the possibilities regarding her situation? She may be a half-wit. She may have been someone’s doxy on that ship or she could be an indenture on her way to the Indies. She could have the pox, for all you know.”
“No.” Adrian shook his head, confident in his assessment of Tara. She was no half-wit or strumpet bound for the plantations. She was the lost fey he’d been cautioned about years ago. And she was helpless, confused in her changeling state. She needed him to take her into his protection just as much as he needed her to elude Burke’s snare.
“If you persist in this mad scheme, and I’m assuming you will, you must be aware that sooner or later, she will realize she is not the person you have made her out to be. She may recover her memory before you are wed, expose your scheme to all, and then Burke will jump on you before you have time to regroup.”
Brushing aside the old man’s warning, Adrian replied, “I want you to procure a special license for me from the magistrate. Considering the circumstances, I should think it would be fairly easy. She is now an orphan, and has been engaged to me for the past eight months, since we were in Italy. That would make me nearly her legal guardian, would it not? Her father was escorting her here for our wedding when disaster took him away from us. She has no one else save me.”
“I say, you do have the advantage in that respect. You are the only person who claims to know her, to be able to identify her. Unless someone appears to claim her your arrangement should go well enough.”
Adrian stood and moved to the window. He turned his back on his guest to glare out at the bay. The illusion of calm waters belied the violence that nature had visited them once more in the night. The small islands were emerald jewels set in a fine mist of silver. Gray-blue ocean swells met the azure cloudless sky. It was a perfectly glorious day on the coast of Bantry Bay.
“I say, my boy. Do you intend to brood there the remainder of the day? If you want a special license, let us make for Cork while the weather is with us.”
*
As the bitter medicine Maggie had given her coursed through her limbs, Tara drifted upon an island of calm. She felt dazed, comfortably numb, like the Pink Floyd song. Maybe if she relaxed and didn’t try so hard to think, she’d remember how she got here and where it was she belonged.
The land of the Tir-o-nog? Was that a hip new travel destination, like Dubai?
The dude kept talking about her being sent to him, coming from another realm.
Didn’t he refer to her as Fey, meaning fairy?
Were fairies like elves? The image of a dark haired young woman with big blue eyes and pouty lips rose in her memory. The woman wore a long, flowing gown and a long blue cloak. Lady Arwen of Rivendale. She knew the woman’s name as well as her own. Another being, similar in form, materialized in Tara’s mind; a beautiful, rather delicate young man with long, pale, white gold hair and dark brows. Like Arwen, he had pointy ears and arched brows. Legolias. The name came to her unbidden.
Her head throbbed as jangled images of white haired wizards, hobbits and dwarves swirled through it. Cave Trolls and hideous Orcs. Tara gasped. Her bandaged hands flew up to cradle her throbbing temples as the loud, eerie music pounded in her head.
Don’t think about it. Stop trying to figure it out. Get a grip on the here and now.
Tara pulled herself up from the bed and shuffled to the window on stiff legs.
She was in an ancient stone castle. The landscape was beautiful. Mist hung above the trees, and the gray-green silhouette of mountains bordered the distant blue sky. Her room was situated at one corner of the castle, giving her a panoramic view of the interior courtyard and the thick forest and gently rolling hills beyond the ancient stone walls. A large black and white cat was serenely sunning himself on the stone bench beneath her window, ignoring the geese, ducks and chickens pecking at the cobblestones around him.
A coach pulled through the opened gates.
A horse drawn coach?
Suddenly, it struck Tara clean between the eyes; no telephones or computers, no bathroom, no electricity. Women in long gowns, and men emerging from horse drawn carriages. It wasn’t so much a matter of where she was, but when.
Chapter Six
Adrian stared out the window of his secluded study. In the past days, he’d become quite fond of the idea of taking the delicious young morsel named Tara to wife.
His mind conjured up tousled red haired boys to romp in the gardens below.
Listen to you, planning your nursery like a besotted fool when there are more important things at hand.
His conscience warred with his desire to live a normal, unremarkable, blessedly boring life. He was Lord Dillon, Viscount of the lands south of the Dingle Bay and north of Bantry Bay, land comprised mostly of mountains with small grazing plateaus on which his family had raised sheep for the wool industry for centuries. And more recently, he was Captain Midnight, secretly replacing his deceased cousin, Quentin Hardwicke as leader of the Fianna, the local branch of the United Irishmen. Ten ye
ars ago, his bold cousin invented the famous highwayman and had become the champion of the oppressed and downtrodden. And three years ago, Quentin had been mysteriously poisoned.
Quentin’s death was a well-guarded secret. No one knew Adrian succeeded him in the guise of Captain Midnight. It served as a buffer for Adrian, as no one would connect Lord Dillon with his legendary cousin’s midnight raids. The only flaw in his disguise was that they had not learned precisely who had slipped the poison into Quentin’s meal. That person alone, save Adrian, Mick and Doc Riley, knew Quentin was truly dead.
A year before Quentin’s death, Adrian’s father had been shot during a raid on the garrison at Bantrytown, leaving Adrian with a grieving mother and a thirteen year old sister to care for, along with the management of Glengarra Estates. What right had he to dream of a family when so many lives depended upon him, when Ireland’s oppressed cried out to him for deliverance and for freedom from British oppression?
“Miss MacNeill is ready to receive you, my lord.” Maggie intruded gently into his musings. With an anxious heart, he made his way up to the guest room to beg an audience with the lady of the mists and try to convince her to take vows with him on the morrow.
The sooner they were wed, the sooner he could focus on the upcoming rebellion rather than on deflecting Burke’s snares. Burke would be forced to foist his daughter upon another unsuspecting nobleman. Baron Bantry was as yet unwed. Perhaps the wily sheriff would pursue Baron Bantry as a son-in-law. The marriage would be far more suitable. Both men were loyalist turncoats, gaining social position on the backs of those they had betrayed. Dread shot through Adrian at the thought of those two becoming allies. Together, Sheriff Burke and Baron Bantry would terrorize the western coast with their greedy aspirations for power and wealth.
He knocked at Tara’s door. A sweet voice answered, bidding him enter. Since regaining her ability to talk in recent days, she hadn’t expended much energy in conversation. She was withdrawn and subdued. Perhaps she wasn’t pleased about being sent to live among mortals Perhaps she’d been sent here against her will. Her silence troubled him more than he cared to admit. He expected her to be full of questions. He’d spent several sleepless nights trying to anticipate each and every one.
