by Lily Silver
“Tara!” his voice rose with exasperation. It was bad enough his mother forced the issue of the ball with her manipulative maneuvering. He was not in the mood to tolerate another sulking female.
The door to the hallway opened as if by his command. He turned about angrily to face the water-boys with their steaming buckets he’d ordered the butler to have prepared.
“Shamus, set that down and find Lady Dillon immediately. Ian will see to the filling of the tub.” The boy carried out his orders while his valet began removing his outer garments.
When he stood before the steaming tub completely divested his clothes, the lady of the castle finally arrived at her lord’s summons.
“My lord, you wished to—Oh?”
Adrian stood with his arms folded across his chest, wearing only a frown.
“Excuse me—the boy said—“ Tara stammered, her face crimson as she stared at his nude form.
“Yes, I’m frozen to the bone. And as I’ve conceded in the matter of Sir Ambercromby’s Ball to appease the ladies of the household, I find it only fair that you give me a favor. You can attend me for once.” He slipped into the steaming copper tub with a sigh and gestured for his valet to leave them.
“Don’t order me about.” Tara approached with her emerald eyes narrowed. “I’m not a Ho. If you want to be serviced, find somebody else, Lord Dillon.” Instead of being cowed by his suggestion. She was furious with him.
“What, pray tell, is a Ho?” He asked, unfamiliar with the term.
“A whore.” She stalked around his tub like a she-cat ready to pounce. “Don’t order me about like a whore. I’m not your property.”
“You are my wife, are you not? That makes you my property.”
“Tfff! In your dreams, dude.”
“What … ? Speak plainly woman, I’m in no mood for parlor games.”
Tara stopped pacing. Her eyes pinned him with malice. “Okay, dude. Here is is; plain and simple. You want service, pay a whore.”
Adrian puckered his lips, considering a worthy retort to her blatant challenge. It was difficult as he was not quite certain what she was so upset about to begin with. He picked up the bar of soap and turned it about in his hand, thinking carefully before he spoke. “The nearest whore is in the village of Glengarriff. She is a comely wench, to be sure. Her favors are well sought far and wide.” Adrian offered her a coy smile. “Much as I would enjoy them, I’d be hard pressed to enjoy her favors this night, with the English garrison drinking at the pub.”
It worked. His suggestion had rattled her, just as he hoped.
“And yet, I didn’t summon you here to perform a sexual favor, my sweet. I summoned you to scrub my back.” He waved the soap in his hand with a sly grin.
Seduction hadn’t crossed his mind, until those deep green eyes flashed with fire.
“You are a male chauvinist pig. Expecting me to sit at home by the fire while you cruise about the countryside at all hours of the day? Do you expect me to fuss over you when you finally do decide to come home? Not happening, dude. Get over yourself.”
“I would gladly trade places.” Adrian found himself declaring in a hiss of breath. “I should like to sit by the fire rather than ride in the freezing rain for miles to visit my tenants only to come home to an ungrateful little shrew who is above such mundane tasks as welcoming her husband properly.” Before he realized it, he was standing up, the water running off of him in rivulets. “And, yes, Madame,” His eyes took on a predatory gleam, “I am most unashamedly Male.”
“Oh.” Tara rushed towards him with her hand raised. Adrian tensed, ready for her assault. As she attempted to slap his face he caught her wrist, wrapped his other arm about her waist and sat down, pulling her into the water with him in a tremendous swoosh as the tub overflowed.
“You ass.” Tara gasped, struggling to get up as he held her firmly on his lap.
“We are married, why all the fuss?” He wanted her to become pliable, complacent in his arms, not fighting him like a Cossack. Submission was not a trait in the fine boned Tara. She had the ferocious spirit of Boadicea, the Warrior Queen of the Celts who lead a rebellion against the Romans in the first century.
“Tara, my sweet Tara, must we be enemies in matrimony?” He whispered. “I admit, I was cross with you. Let us cease this dueling of words and wills.” The softness of her body was intoxicating in the warm water. Her cotton bed gown was made sheer by the water, the material clinging seductively to the pert, taut nipples of her creamy breasts. He had no further need to express his masculinity, it rose staunchly apparent to them both.
“Good God.” Tara burst out with a huff. “You are disgusting. Release me this instant or you will be seriously injured.” She twisted about in the tub to face him, sending more water sloshing over the side.
Adrian looked down. Her legs straddled his loins in the most delicious manner. Lifting her gown would be all it would take to claim her as his wife.
“I mean it. I know how to defend myself. You’ll be sorry.”
Her threat was so preposterous it was funny. Adrian’s lips turned up in a smirk. “I’ll be sorry?” His eyebrows lifted with expectation. “I seriously doubt it, my dear.”
The next thing Adrian knew, he was seeing stars, literally. A sharp jab to his eyes made him let go of her in an attempt to shield them from further assault. The little vixen poked two fingers in his eyes and jumped out of the tub when he released her. “Aaaahhh.” He shrieked, kept his eyes tightly closed as tears welled up.
“Oh—oh, my bad. Sorry.” She knelt beside the tub on the soggy carpet, her hands palming the side of his head as he fought the pain she’d inflicted.
“Get out.”
“No, let me see.”
Adrian opened one stinging, watery eye. This was outside of enough. First she attacked him, and now she refused to obey his will. “I said get out, before I make you well and truly sorry.”
Tara stood with a huff of impatience. She continued to stare at him, with consternation now rather than repentance. “Look, I said I was sorry, okay?”
He rubbed his eyes with his palms. The pain was leaving his pupils by degrees. “My God, woman, you could have blinded me.” He stared at her with unfocused eyes as they watered over again. “Is that any way to treat your husband?”
“It was an instinctual reaction. I didn’t even think it about.” Tara rambled on with excitement, looking at him as if he should be pleased by this violent side of her nature. “I just did it. I know Self Defense. This is so awesome.”
Awesome? Another queer phrase. At times, he could barely discern what she was saying with that odd cant she spouted. Adrian rubbed his eyes, the cautious words of Dr. Magnus echoing in his mind regarding marrying a strange woman he knew nothing about. Dr Magnus was wrong. Tara was not an idiot or someone’s doxy; she was a bully.
He looked down at his bath water that was growing cold, his manhood shriveled beneath it as she rattled on about the necessity of women learning how to repel men’s forward advances in her realm. Her excitement over nearly blinding him served only to deepen his humiliation.
“It’s Tae Kwan Do.” She continued on wistfully, staring at her small hands.
“Fairy magic.” Adrian sighed. Well, he would wed a fairy, wouldn’t he? Best to remember that, next time he was vexed.
“No, silly, it’s an ancient art of self defense.” Tara turned to glower at him, as if daring him to assault her further. She did the most peculiar thing. She stood with her feet planted firmly apart, her knees bent slightly and arms outstretched, as if she meant to conjure some wicked sprite to protect her from him.
“Tara. I mean you no harm.” Adrian insisted with more worry than he cared to reveal. “Cease this conjuring, I beg you.”
“I’m simply practicing the stance.” She said, ignoring him as she waved one arm out gracefully in an arc, then the other. “I am starting to remember some of what happened the night of the shipwreck.” She murmured as she closed her eyes and
drew both arms up into some sort of arch over her head. Tara drew them down and placed them palm to palm in front of her chest, as if in prayer. “I read the newspaper in your study.”
“You were in my study?” The proclamation sent warning signals through him.
“You were out and I was bored.” Her tone was matter of fact, not apologetic.
Was nothing sacred, when a man’s private study was invaded by his wife?
“I came to your study to look for a map of this region and found the article about the shipwreck and all of a sudden—bam—there it was.”
Adrian held his breath. He was afraid his bluff was about to be called if she realized they had never been engaged, had in fact, never met before that night.
“I remember a voice shouting, warning me not to touch something but it was too late. I felt this horrible pain as blue and white light flashed about me.”
Tara ceased her practice of magic and bent down beside him, holding on to the tub’s edge as her eyes grew moist. “And then I saw his face.”
“Who?” Adrian whispered.
“My father.” She choked. “The next thing I remember is being here, in the room down the hall, with you bending over me.”
“That’s … good.” He managed, not certain if he should feel worry or relief.
“I saw him, lying there on the deck, as real as ever. And now I’m lost, alone. I’m separated from him forever.”
Adrian cleared his throat, feeling her loneliness resonate in his own soul. “Darling, you are not lost or alone. You are here, where you belong; with me.”
Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked past him, avoiding his concerned gaze. “I wish he were here.” With that, she became the type of female he was accustomed to as sobs claimed the fierce warrior queen. Adrian pulled her into his arms. She leaned into his wet, sticky chest without protest.
Adrian felt sick inside as her tears brought a lump to his throat. That bit about Tara coming here from America with her father escorting her had been a lie, a deliberate fabrication based on actual events he concocted to make sense of her sudden appearance in his life to those about him. Now, damn him, she was weeping for a strange man she could barely remember, believing him to be her father because of his falsehood.
Adrian never intended for it to become so tangled. He should have known it would blossom into a horrid mess. He stroked the coppery curls, wishing with all of his heart he could tell her the truth. There was no logical way to explain it. Tara would hate him. She would leave. He would have to explain to the Sheriff why Lady Dillon had suddenly decided against their marriage. It would bring him back to the same desperate juncture he been at in the beginning. No. It was too late for the truth.
They were married. Tara believed he was her love. And she deserved to be loved. She deserved to be protected, sheltered from the harsh world outside this stone fortress.
“Sweet Tara.” He crooned, his heart aching for her. “Sweet little sprite, forgive me.” He murmured, knowing she would believe he was apologizing for his earlier churlishness rather than his duplicity in marrying her to save his holdings— nay to save his very life.
Chapter Ten
The ride to Cork was trying. It was cold and wet outside the coach.
Much as Tara longed for her husband’s attentions, now that she had them, she was ill at ease. She didn’t know what to say to him, they seemed worlds apart. He plied her gently with all manner of conversation, from the weather to the coming ball and the delights of the city of Cork.
Tara found herself nodding and smiling, unable to offer much in the way of entertaining conversation. Her loss of memory left her at a distinct disadvantage socially. Adrian was doing his best to entertain her through the long ride, in spite of the disapproving presence of Lady Fiona. His mother had been silent for most of the trip, watching the couple with brooding eyes from the opposite seat.
Fresh fish were being hawked by a woman dressed in simple homespun woolen dress and cape as they entered the city. Another street merchant had bushels of potatoes and winter onions in his stall, claiming them to be fresh, free of mold. The markets disappeared as the coach turned the corner and wound through narrow streets.
A loud, persistent creaking above them made Tara lean forward to read the sign swaying in the wind. A large cut out of a red pig heralded the corner pub, The Red Swine. Next door was a bookseller. The coach passed a large open window where sweet treats of every kind were arranged on platters and platform cake stands, enticing the passerby to enter the confectionery and sample the delicacies within.
The people intrigued Tara more than anything. Every lady was escorted by a gentleman and followed by at least one elegantly dressed footman. The men wore long cloaks and beaver hats, much the same as Adrian, and tall riding boots. She noticed a few older gentlemen still wore breeches and buckled shoes. The majority of the fashionables wore the empire style with Hessian boots and cutaway short jackets.
They rode past a park crowded with carriages and horses prancing proudly about displaying their rider’s wealth and position for all to see.
“So many people,” Tara mused, “All out riding, trying to see and be seen just like Hyde Park.”
“You’ve been to London?” Lady Fiona queried.
Tara sat back against the cushions, stunned by her mother-in-law’s question. She looked at Adrian with confusion. “Have I?”
“You recognize our little park as being similar to London.” He commented.
“Perhaps we could rent a mount for her. That is, if she knows how to ride.” Fiona Dillon talked to her son as if Tara were not present.
“Would you like that, my dear?” Adrian included Tara in the conversation as he placed an arm about her, drawing her closer. “I could arrange for two mounts to be brought round tomorrow afternoon.”
Tara welcomed the protection his embrace afforded. This was not the first time he had come to her defense by physically drawing her near or placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder when his mother began pecking at her. His subtle remark of renting two horses further pressed his allegiance.
Lady Fiona picked an imaginary piece of lint form her black frock as she responded to her son’s remark in a icy tone. “I’ve not ridden since James passed on. I’m not up to the exertion. As long as you are ordering from Westley’s, order an open carriage for me, Adrian, so I might ride behind the pair of you, unless,” The dark eyebrows lifted expectantly as they targeted Tara. “Unless you prefer the carriage as well, my dear. Not everyone is schooled in the fine art of equestry.”
There it was again, the ever-present implication of Tara’s common birth.
A sharp exhale of breath from the man beside her gave Tara a start. Both pairs of steel grey eyes locked in challenge as the horses hooves clattered outside. It was Lady Fiona who looked away from her son’s heated gazed in the end.
In the discomforting stillness, Tara was turning about the implication with growing panic. Her limited memory made even the simplest things scary. She leaned into her husband’s comforting frame and whispered, “I can’t recall if I know how to ride.”
Adrian’s dark brows drew together. “Everyone learns to ride at some point of their childhood, darling. Otherwise, how would people get from one place to another.”
It seemed so simple, yet his answer only brought more confusion. A vague image of sleek, shiny, colorful coaches that moved along without horses came to her mind, yet she found no such oddity here in Cork, or in the small village of Glengarriff.
The coach drew up in front of a trim three story brick house with a small yard with an iron fence separating the property from the sidewalk. The coachman jumped down to open the door for Adrian, who descended and reached up to assist Tara’s exit.
“May I present Dillon House, our residence in Cork.” He smiled down at her, waiting for her approval as he tipped his beaver hat to a passing gentleman. His exotic grey eyes illuminated with silvery lights haunted her dreams, leaving a strange yearning in h
er soul.
“Stop this incessant mooning, the pair of you.” Lady Fiona snapped as she waited for her son to assist her from the coach. When Adrian ignored her prodding, a footman stepped up to the door and held out his hand to assist the older woman.
The steady clip clop of horses hooves outside led Tara to the windows repeatedly to see who was passing by. The city seemed so full of life after her confinement at Glengarra Castle. People passed in the street continually, their voices carrying in a pleasant, steady hum through the glass panes that gave Tara’s lagging spirits a much needed boost.
Tomorrow they were to shop for suitable gowns for their visit to Seafield House, and in the evening, perhaps attend the opera. Tara could barely contain her excitement. She didn’t want to wait until morning to explore the sights and sounds of the city, yet Adrian refused to let her leave without his escort. He claimed it was not safe for a lady such as herself to wander about the city alone at night, that it simply wasn’t done in polite society.
It was difficult to be so confined. She really was becoming quite tired of all the rules and endless codes of behavior for ‘a lady of her social position.’ Lady Fiona was ever eager to remind Tara that some aspect of her behavior was irregular.
“A gentlewoman never rushes her step … Nibble, Tara, a lady never devours her food as if she were starved … Among the nobles it is considered improper to cross one’s legs …”
Adrian overlooked her deficiencies in etiquette, reminding his mother of her memory loss if she occasioned to correct Tara in his presence. And yet, Tara was becoming increasingly worried that she might not really be a lady after all, as her mother-in-law kept implying with subtle taunts.
She moved to the window again as the sun was setting on the prominent city. The wizened hunchbacked figure scuttling from post to post like a crab edging along on the beach caught her attention. She watched him as he lit each lamp along their square and then moved on to the next street.
“What is out there that is so fascinating, my dear?” Lady Fiona entered the parlor and joined Tara at the windows. “Mercy, it looks like rain again. Well, a little rain will not dampen our excursions tomorrow. I sent a note to Emily Sheares, my dear friend here in Cork. Her husband is in banking, and he has two fine sons.” The lace curtain was released, as Lady Fiona’s unusually cheerful voice returned to its typical melancholy.
