Some Enchanted Waltz (16 page)

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 her 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.

“I had hoped to secure a match for Althea with one of her sons. Granted, Horace, the older one would have been a bit of a bore. Still, he is well born, and stands to inherit his father’s estates. Jasper was more the dashing beau, to be sure, and closer to her age. She fancied him, and he her.”

“And who are we discussing, Mother?” Adrian paused in the doorway.

“The Sheares brothers, and Althea, of course.”

“Ah, the Sheares. I sent them a note suggesting we meet at Reynolds for luncheon tomorrow. I thought I would leave the shopping to you ladies.” Adrian commented as he unfolded the newspaper and took his chair near the hearth.

“You gave me to believe you disliked them immensely when I was suggesting a match between our families last spring.” Lady Fiona remarked as she sat down beside Tara on the divan.

Adrian appeared distracted as he sat opposite them and began to peruse the Gazette. “I simply took Althea’s side in the matter of a match with Horace, a rather vain, weak minded sort. I don’t believe he would have suited Althea very well. Jasper, on the other hand, is too much the rogue. I would hardly endorse such a man as a suitable husband for my sister.”

“Althea would have been well placed in society, and well provided for.”

“And miserable.” Adrian returned.

Tara didn’t understand the pair. They seemed to be unable to agree on any subject broached, being of conflicting opinions about everything, including the weather. They argued continuously, yet politely as mother and son, an odd relationship. She wondered privately if her husband didn’t derive some secret pleasure in disagreeing with his mother’s opinions.

“It is the duty of every young woman to marry well for her family’s advancement in society.” Lady Fiona argued. “You still haven’t explained how you have come to be on such intimate terms with the Sheares brothers. Your days at Trinity ended over a decade ago.”

“We have similar interests, business connections.” Adrian remarked coldly, his grey eyes swiftly becoming silver icicles at the prodding tone of his mother’s voice.

“What business? Banking? Or that rebellion rubbish.” The older woman’s voice rose.  “You know how I feel about Lord Fitzgerald and that O’Connor upstart. You have a wife and family to look after, you cannot waste your life at the beck and call of that madman and his insurrectionist ravings.”

Startled, Tara glanced furtively from Adrian to his mother.
Fitzgerald
--there was something very alarming about that name, something frightening.

“Edward is not a madman. He simply wants what is best for Ireland.” Adrian replied calmly, looking at Tara. He laid the paper on his lap as he continued to regard her with concern. He looked as if he were about to say something to her when Lady Fiona interrupted his attempt to soothe Tara’s apprehension.

“What is best for you is to mind your own affairs instead of running off with the revolutionaries and getting hanged for treason.” Poor Lady Fiona was nearing hysteria. She rose, her face livid with rage, her hands shaking as she marched to the door with her back ramrod stiff. “You will end up just like your father, Adrian, and Tara will be a desolate with grief. Is that what you want, to destroy her life, her hopes for the future and mine as well with your folly.”

Adrian stood, as did Tara. The air felt suddenly chilled as she gazed up at him with horror.

“Tara, darling—“

“You aren’t involved in some seditious plot, are you?”

“Mother is over-reacting. Now, sit down and stop looking at me as if the Sheriff has issued an order for my arrest.” He advanced, touching her arm with concern. “You’re shaking. Would you like a glass of sherry?” He attempted to lead her to the divan.

 “No, I don’t want a drink to calm my nerves.” Tara jerked her arm free and paced to the fireplace. She stared into the flames. “Your mother drinks all the time because she can’t cope with the fear of losing not only her husband but also her son to a cause destined to fail.” The words spilled out with force Tara shook from emotion of them. 

“How can you know that?”

Tara turned to face him.  It was her turn to look at him with bewilderment. “I don’t know.”  How did she know such a thing? Lady Fiona spoke of rebellion. Despite his denials, Tara suspected Adrian had thrown in his lot with them. If he was involved with Lord Fitzgerald, his life was in danger.  In her mind the very name
Fitzgerald
was synonymous with danger, imminent disaster. 

Why?
  She knew Fiona Dillon was justified in her anger and her fear, but the reason for it was beyond her grasp, beyond the dark veil of her memory.  

Adrian joined Tara at the hearth. He took her hand. “Mother has been filling your head with nonsense. Fitzgerald and I were at Trinity together.”

 Tara wanted to believe him. She gazed up at Adrian with fear, desperate hope and hunger. She didn’t want to lose him, not when she hadn’t really had him, when they were still strangers. Married strangers.

He pulled Tara into his arms as he gazed down at her with enticing silver-grey  eyes. His lips hovered above her own. Yearning. Hesitant. Taunting her with promise.

She wanted to taste him. Fully experience a deep, passionate lover’s kiss. She wanted to feel his warm skin pressed tight against hers, taste the sweet saltiness of it.

It seemed ages passed instead of seconds before his lips captured hers.

He was gentle at first, reverent, as if unsure of her response. As she met his lips with boldness, seeking, demanding more from him their kiss deepened. The sweet taste of wine lingered on his tongue as it plied her own. Tara’s hands went about his neck. Her fingertips sought Adrian’s thick raven mane. She loosened the bond restraining his thick ponytail and his glorious locks were freed, spilling over his neck in a silken waterfall of ebony waves cascading into her waiting fingertips.

“Lord Edward Fitzgerald to see you, Sir.” The stoic voice of Murray, the butler intruded. Tara and Adrian broke apart.

“Adrian. Forgive me, I had no idea you were entertaining this evening.” A tall, elegant gentleman near Adrian’s age teased in an odd brogue.

“Edward, may I present my darling bride, Lady Tara Dillon.” Adrian stepped back to place an arm about Tara’s waist possessively, she noticed. Her breath came hard, her blood pumping with a sweet desire cruelly denied before it was fully savored.

“Lady Dillon, this is a surprise.”  The dark haired gentleman raised a quizzing glass to his midnight blue eyes to inspect her carefully. “I envy your good fortune, Adrian, she is ravishing.” With that, he bent at the waist before Tara and offered his hand. Tara extended hers to shake in friendship. Fitzgerald lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “
Enchante, ma Cherie.”

Tara gasped, completely and utterly charmed by his gallant gesture. She didn’t recall anyone ever behaving thus with her before this. As she studied him, Tara found nothing in his appearance or bearing to qualify her apprehension at the mention of his name. It was only much later that her former panic returned as she sat beside her husband and listened to the men converse lightly about inconsequential matters.

“How long are you in Cork?” Adrian was asking as he stroked her shoulder with his thumb and forefinger as his arm draped casually across the back of the divan.

“Another week. Business with the Sheares brothers.” Lord Edward remarked, giving her husband a significant look. 

The conversation lagged on, until Tara wearied of their jocular banter. She excused herself gracefully and rose to leave, at which point both men rose with her, a custom she had yet to become comfortable with.

She climbed the stairs, feeling ill at ease with the mysterious Lord Fitzgerald in her drawing room with her husband.

An hour later heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. Adrian hesitated at her door. Tara held her breath, wondering if he would come in and attempt to begin where he left off in the parlor. She watched the knob, hoping, praying it would turn. After several moments of indecision, she heard him enter his chamber across the hall.

Adrian stared at the empty ceiling above him unable to find the peace he sought in slumber. Those exotic green eyes taunted him in the darkness. That sweet mouth, yielding to his searching caress as their tongues danced together, her soft form clinging to him . . . he wanted her more than he could bear.

He promised himself he would woe her gently, court her as she deserved, yet that very promise left him shackled, restrained when his Celtic blood would rise up and claim her as his wife.

Sweet Tara, so enchanting, so innocent, so unaware of how much she stirred him. The fire in her eye offered challenge; like a spirited, defiant horse that dared him to tame her. Yes, tame her he would. He smiled into the darkness. Moving his arm up under his head, he savored the sweet moments of surrender so recently gained.

Before long, he was aroused, unable to sleep. He shifted in the bed, punched the pillow and yanked the covers about him again. His loins throbbed, aching to claim the young woman across the hall. Aching for Tara.

Tara, sweet, impish, beguiling Tara.

At last, he drifted into a fitful sleep with her name on his lips, her delicate fairy face beckoning him to come to her beneath the star draped forest. Tara danced through his dreams in a gown of pale, sheer green gossamer, transparent gossamer that barely sheathed her pale breasts. She beckoned him to come to her . . .  come to her and soothe his warrior’s spirit in the moss covered bed beside the waterfall. “
Come and rest . . . lie beside me
.” She whispered as she wound her long gossamer skirts about his skin.  Adrian longed to embrace her, to love her in the sweet scented woods of the fairy kingdom.  As he advanced, she glided further away. She remained ever just beyond his reach.