Some Enchanted Waltz (29 page)

Tara swallowed hard, willing herself not to give in to the aching within, to hide her tears from the man beside her as they traveled home; to his home. A place that was her home only because she agreed to his bold scheme and now she was financially dependent upon the cad. Tara was furious; with him and with herself. He could be so passionate, taking her breath away with his sensual charm, yet, as soon as his passion was spent he could revert to this proud, aloof lord.

“Before I answer your question, I would ask you explain to me these words you throw at me whenever I do not bend to your wishes. What is a
chauvinist
? I’ve been called one so often I should know the term, yet I do not.  What perfidy do you imply lies within me that you must assault me with such offensive terms?” The offense in his voice hung between them as they were jostled back and forth in the plush coach, elbows knocking and thighs pushing together and apart.

With her head held high, Tara answered in a pain thickened voice.  “A chauvinist is  a man who treats women in a different way than he would treat a man. It can be an act of chivalry, like putting women on the lifeboats first. Or it can be demeaning and insulting when you treat women as if we lack intelligence or as if our opinions about things do not need be taken into account, when you treat us like we’re stupid, silly sentimental—“

“Tara.” Her name on his lips was a caress. Sensing disaster about to be unleashed with her restrained tears, Tara scrunched her eyes closed and sucked in her breath, fighting to keep the dam of emotions from erupting at his brusque tenderness.

A nude finger reached up to brush away a traitorous tear as it trickled down her nose. He’d removed his leather glove to wipe away her tear. “Don’t cry, darling.”

It was the last thing she wanted to do, the very thing she was fighting.

When those powerful arms wrapped about her, drawing Tara carefully into the shelter of his embrace, the battle was lost. The floodgates opened. She could no more restrain the rushing tide of tears then she could restrain the waves of the ocean.

“Come, lass. I’m sorry.” Adrian was crooning, his anger dissolved as she melted in into a weeping heap of misery. “What did I say to hurt you so?”

“It’s--it’s--” Tara tried between sobs. “It’s what you don’t say.”

“What I do not say upsets you?” Adrian echoed with perplexed amazement. “Is it because I do not speak of our courtship?”

Tara could only nod helplessly as annoying sobs continued to rack her frame.

“Sweetheart—“ He began, his voice raising an octave, “I thought I’d made myself clear. Dr. Magnus believes you should regain these memories on your own. My telling you could be damaging—“

“You expect me to believe that bullshit?” Tara challenged him with a croaky voice and tear filled eyes. “This is exactly what it means to be a chauvinist. If I were a man, would you withhold the details of my life from me for fear of causing me harm?”

He was taken aback by her snarl. He merely gazed back at her, open-mouthed.

“You
are
patronizing me as if I were a little lost child. As if I’m incapable of facing the truth because it might be unpleasant. What are you keeping from me, Lord Dillon?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“
What
?” It was Tara’s turn to stare back at him in disbelief.  

“I need you. I need you in my life. I care for you too much to risk harming you. Amnesia can be a treacherous ailment. Dr. Magnus tells me of soldiers who come back from the wars with the affliction who are driven mad trying to reclaim the details of a past that eludes them.”

Tara heard only the first part. Adrian said he cared for her; he needed her. “Does that mean . . .?” She paused, afraid to give the words voice.

“Does it mean what?”   

“Does it mean that you love me?”

There, she said it. She’d never ask again, never again stoop to fishing for the endearment for as long as they were together, she vowed, bracing herself for the worst.

A confused frown rumpled his features. “Isn’t that what I just said?”

Tara closed her eyes as a rush of relief filled her. “You never said it--not once. You said we were engaged--that I was sent to you from the fairy realm--that we belong together--but you have
never
mentioned anything about being in love with me.”

“Tara, you were sent to me. You are my gift. A precious treasure sent to me by the exalted ones. How could I fail to love you?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer as his lips claimed hers with an urgency that fed upon her own desperation and nursed it until they were lost in a frantic embrace.

As the coach pulled up to the drive of Castle Glengarra it was an unwelcome interruption to their lovemaking. The footmen opened the coach door. Adrian swept Tara up in his arms, emerging with her bundled in his cloak.  He carried her through the front door, past the servants lined up to greet them, and up the stairs as the servants stood watching their retreat with sly smiles and expressions of surprise. 

Chapter Eighteen

The days moved by in a luxurious harmony, as enchanted lovers waltz leisurely about the dance floor with awareness only of each other. Tara felt as if she were living a fairytale as Adrian devoted himself to her in the week that followed. Gone were the endless days of boredom and loneliness Tara experienced before their trip to Cork.

One cold, misty morning Adrian went to the stables to look in on the new foal that had been born in the night. Tara felt the dampness of the late February rains settling in her bones and turned down his request that she join him there. She preferred to stay nestled on the chaise near the fire with a book of Irish folklore she found in the library. She loved the stories of Ancient Ireland, of the warrior Finn McCoul and his men, the Fianna, and the story of Brian Boru the High King of legend.

Bryce, the anemic butler entered the parlor to inform her that a man of questionable means insisted upon seeing Lady Dillon in the great room. “I tried to send him away, Madame, as he appears to be a wandering peasant. He pushed his way past me and sat down near the hearth. Refuses to leave until Lady Tara Dillon agrees to meet him.”

“Who is he?” Tara closed the book, marking her page as she spoke. “A tenant?”

“I do not believe he is one of my lord’s tenants. He’s a great Goliath of a man. One could hardly forget meeting him. He may be a gypsy. I’ve sent for his lordship, if you care to wait here until he comes from the stables. Odd thing, the man described you to a fault, demanded to see you, specifically, Madame, not his lordship.”

“What would he want with me? I don’t know anyone here. Tall, you said?”

“Extremely, Madame. Most intimidating fellow.”

“Did he have a beard and very blue eyes?” Tara rose, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

“Yes, Madame. A giant of man with graying blonde hair and deep blue eyes.”

Bryce brushed his teeth thoughtfully with his tongue, creating a grotesque facial expression of thin flesh stretched over a skull. His eyes widened as he regarded Tara with alarm. “My lady, he claims to have been rescued by fisherman a full twenty miles south of here, near Baron Bantry’s estates about the same time you were brought here.”

Tara gasped. “My father?” She pushed past the boney butler, down the corridor, and into the great hall. Bryce followed after her, cautioning her to wait for his lordship to return and deal with the situation.

There he sat, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the medieval chair; an extremely large man with graying blonde hair and a full beard.

“Tara!” The broad grin on that familiar face brought relief as he rose from the chair.

“Father, you’re alive.” She rushed forward and into his outstretched arms without hesitation, feeling only safety as he hugged her against his colossal form.

“Tara. Thank God, it really is you.” He breathed, his voice cracking with emotion.

Tara laughed. She hugged the tall, stout man, sensing a deep bond between them.

“I’ve wanted to search for you right away. I was injured badly. Electrical burns, and shock. I was paralyzed for a short time. A fisherman’s family took me in until I recovered. It’s been weeks.” He hugged her again, and drew back to scrutinize her. “You look gorgeous, all decked out like a rich chick. I prayed that priest was right. He learned last week that Lord Dillon recently married a red-haired girl named Tara from America, a girl who had been rescued from the sea, just like me. I was afraid to hope. Damn, it is you.”  He squeezed her against him, groaning like a great bear with relief.

“Hurry, lads, he’s killing my lady.” Bryce burst into the room with a vase upraised to defend the mistress against the giant crushing her. Five footmen followed him, brandishing a curious assortment of furnishings with malicious intentions. They surrounded the pair, the small men bludgeoning the giant with canes, urns and Lady Fiona’s tapestry frame.

“Unhand her at once, ye blackguard.” Skinny Bryce assumed an authoritative air.

 Tara pushed the men away, shielding the stranger with her slight frame. “Stop it. This is no way to welcome my father.”

The men froze, some with their makeshift weapons lifted in mid-air, inches from the giant’s pate.

A deep sorrowful groaning came from behind her. Turning about, she exclaimed, “Papa, did they hurt you?”

“No.” The blue eyes gazed down at her with anguish. “
Papa?
Is that how you remember me?” He studied her for an anguished moment. “Oh, God, I need a drink.”

Father?
  Dan shook his head, blinked and looked at Tara again. She must be suffering some sort of prolonged lightning shock. He rubbed his beard, trying to recall the effects of being struck by lightning from his nurse’s training. Shock, temporary paralysis.  He’d experienced those.  Shattered ear drums, severe burns? Nope, those symptoms didn’t seem to be present. Disorientation, temporary amnesia.

Amnesia! Shit.

Tara sat before him in a graceful pose. She’d been completely transformed from the tomboyish grad student of 2012 into an old world countess. She was wearing a long velvet dress instead of jeans and a tank top, satin slippers instead of Doc Martins, and a  rope of pearls about her neck instead of a crystal. Her hair was pinned up in a fancy coif instead of hanging down her back in a rumpled braid. She was ordering the servants to attend to his needs with the ease of a princess born to the role, calmly assured in her mind that he was the person she believed him to be; her father. Dan took in her changed appearance, shocked at how easily she seemed to fit in here at Backwards Castle.

 “Are you hungry? Of course you are, oh, you look as if you walked all the way from Seafield House.” The bright eyes took in his muddied boots and soiled, sodden clothing. “We were just there two weeks ago. Lord White gave a ball at Seafield House in honor of the recently appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Army. You were so close to us. And to think Adrian searched every mile of his lands for you weeks ago.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet he did
. Dan thought, left speechless as Tara rattled on in her little delusion. He reached inside the jacket for the pouch of tobacco and pipe the priest had given him, fingering the long stem thoughtfully. Yes, he had walked most of the way from Ian O’Ryan’s cottage across the bay. He managed a few rides here and there from farmers, and he’d spent the past few nights sheltering with a bunch of smelly livestock. And to think he found the straw pallet in the corner of the O’Ryan’s cottage primitive!

“You must be frozen, with the recent snowfall. I’ll order a bath . . .” The girl beside him chattered on, blissfully unaware she was as lost and out of place in this primitive culture as he was and clueless that they were not truly related.

“A bath sounds great. I’ll wear a sheet, if it’s clean and dry.” He attempted a dash of humor, deciding it best to play along until he could figure out what the hell had happened to Tara and why she thought she belonged here as Lady Dillon.

“Here, let me.” She rose and moved to the hearth with a graceful swell of her skirts. She bent, lighting a stick in the flames and then brought it to him to light his pipe.

She was too damned domesticated. What happened to the saucy redhead with deliciously long legs beneath tight denim shorts who played DJ at the radio station while working her way through college? The girl who read historical romance novels voraciously as an antidote to the long hours of research she needed to do each day for her thesis paper? She was living in one of those damn novels, which was the problem. Dan sucked the pipe until the bowl glowed, curbing his thoughts about her legs as he remembered that he was supposed to be her
Papa
.

“Everyone believed you didn’t survive the shipwreck in the Bay.”

“Fisherman named O’Ryan found me floating and fished me out of the water. He took me to his place to recover.  When I was stronger, I stayed with the local priest for a few weeks in Bantry Town. He helped me figure out where you were. I ended up over twenty miles south of here. How much do you remember about our life before coming here?” Dan wreathed his words with tobacco smoke. “How did Lord Dillon find you?”

Tara sat down once more. This new, ladylike Tara was enchanting. Quintessentially feminine. All of the women were in this era. It was kind of refreshing. A guy didn’t have to worry about offending them by opening a door only to find they were militant femi-nazis who considered the gesture insulting.