Some Enchanted Waltz (4 page)
The path was a narrowed rocky ledge abutting the mountain facing the sea, unobservable to the human eyes for those on land. As he used the path only under cover of night none would discover the trail by sea either. Halfway up the narrow mountain pass his mount stopped at the opening in the rock wall. It was a smugglers cave, one that now served fugitives of another sort, men vying for the nation’s freedom.
Captain Midnight eased one leg over the saddle and jumped down with the girl in his arms. The ground crunched beneath his added weight. He ducked beneath the canopy of vegetation forming a curtain over the entrance and entered the cavern. The groom waiting for his return stirred from his slumber and went to attend the captain’s horse.
The deep tunnel was illuminated by a few dim tinned lanterns at sparse intervals as a faint guide for his feet as he traversed its barren, chilly depths. There were several chambers leading this way and that, a veritable rabbit’s warren used by the castle’s occupants. It was first used to hide the castle’s residents from the Viking raids and in later centuries it harbored smugglers and outlaws.
The stone cavern echoed his lonely footsteps as he carried the unconscious girl along the underground corridor toward the castle’s subterranean entrance. He paused, and gazed down at the girl in his arms, examining her beneath the light of a torch. Unable to help himself, he lowered his lips to hers, stealing a brief kiss. The instant their lips met, a peculiar sensation sliced through him. He slipped through the narrow opening in the heavy iron gate at the lowest level of the dungeons. Once inside the dungeon proper, another light welcomed him, this one made of brass with glass panels to illuminate the carved stairs. Midnight jaunted up worn, winding steps.
Dank, musty odors greeted him as he ascended the stairs. Rats scurried about in the semi-darkness and cobwebs formed pale draperies at intervals along the eerie passage. At the top of the stairs he paused at an arched oak door. Midnight kicked at the door twice, waited 30 seconds, then tapped with his boot three more times.
The heavy oak door was unlocked and swung open to admit him.
He blinked as he stepped into a brilliantly lit hallway on the ground floor of Glengarra Castle.
Rupert studied the pale woman in his arms. “We have a guest, milord?”
“Aye.” Midnight replied. “A waif lost in the storm.”
Captain Midnight carried the woman up the servant’s stairs to the second floor and down the hallway to a room on the west wing. Rupert, his man, followed him. He carried the unconscious girl into the empty chamber and set her gently on the canopy bed as Rupert busied himself by starting a fire in the heretofore empty chamber then went as directed by his lord to find the nurse and bring her to attend the wounded girl.
The large leaden panes flashed with bright light as the dark sky lit up beyond their mullioned diamond barricade. The lightning faded and the guest room was plunged back into grim darkness. Midnight sighed at the sudden trickle of icy rain sluicing over panes. He was relieved to be indoors as the winds wailed warning outside the stone walls. The lightning this night was eerie, unnatural, a portent of strange events on the horizon.
He studied the pale figure on the bed as the chamber flashed with repeated bursts of light. The ashen face on the lace pillow was a raw reminder that Death delighted in stealing the innocent and leaving the guilty behind to mourn them. A thick, jagged stone clogged his throat at the memory of his sister lying cold and alone in the family cemetery. He vowed that unless it was his own corpse being loaded into the
Coiste-Bodhar
, the death coach would not claim another soul at Glengarra Castle this winter.
Rupert returned with a candelabra lit from another room. He set it on the nightstand near the bed and went to nurture the struggling fire in the hearth.
Midnight bent over the girl to assess her condition as he waited for the nurse to attend him. The young woman coughed. She gazed up at him with vivid green eyes that were mired in confusion and alarm.
“Tis well, Miss. I am Quentin Hardwicke,” The scarf hid his features so there was no need to reveal his true identity. “I rescued you from the soldiers in the barn.”
The girl gasped as her eyes took in the dark clothing that made up his disguise.
“I rescued you, I did not abduct you.” He insisted, realizing he looked more like a highwayman than a gallant knight. “You are at Glengarra Castle. Tell me your name so I may inform my cousin of your presence in his home.”
“T-T-Tar—rraah.”
“
Tara
?” He repeated, unable to conceal his awe. “A true daughter of Erin, to be sure. And your family? Where might we look to inform them of your safety?”
A blank expression was her only answer.
“What is your family name? We will contact them so they may take you home.”
She stared at him. After a strained moment between them, she tried to speak. “Mmm—my-n-na--N-nee--“
“MacNeill?” He offered, recognizing a possible surname in her mumbling. The girl shrugged with uncertainty then whimpered from the pain the movement cost her.
“Where do they live, Tara?” He insisted. “Tell me. We will find them.”
Her answer was a vacuous look. Her beautiful emerald eyes widened.
“You are safe now, lass.” He said gently, hoping to ease her fear. She slumped back onto the pillows. The emerald eyes blinked back panic as she gazed about her.
Midnight stepped forward and took her hand, trying to reassure her. She shrieked, and slipped into unconsciousness again. He knew the reason for her outcry, her hands were raw and red; her palms had been burned, as if the palms were held over a fire.
His sister’s nurse entered the room, still dressed in her nightclothes and her cap. He explained the girl’s injuries, including her inability to recall her family name. Cora had been in service to the Dillon family since he was a babe. He trusted this woman like a sainted grandmother.
Cora bent over the girl. She opened his woolen cloak and began to remove her drenched clothing. The muddy white chemise was removed, revealing an odd corset-type of garment binding her breasts. It was a vivid pink color and had no lacings or strings to unfasten it as far as he could tell. It was a very curious garment, as it pushed her breasts up higher, thrusting them at the viewer in a provocative manner that was most arousing. He rose up on his heels and moaned at the sight of those lush, creamy swells.
The nurse gave him a disdainful look meant to shame him for ogling the injured woman. He ignored it and continued to watch her undress her charge. Cora turned the petite creature over onto her side so she could figure out how to remove the odd bindings. “Ach, such a delicate lass. What will ye do if we are unable to return her to her people? Oh, saints preserve us—what are these odd markings?”
He came to Cora’s side. He tilted his head and gazed curiously at the intricate black swirling design on her skin that covered her shoulder blades. He leaned close and traced the curving lines with a light forefinger, frowned, then stepped back to gain a better understanding of the odd etching. After a moment, it came to him. It was a tattoo. He had heard of such things in people from the Far East. “These are wings.” He insisted, gesturing to the asymmetrical pattern. “Step back, look at the whole design.”
Cora did as he said. “Well, I’ll be! But are they angel or fey?” Cora asked, her eyes taking on a worried cast. “Not feathers. Too fine and airy to be angel wings, my lord.”
“Then fey it is.” He said playfully, amused by his assessment. A chill went though him as he suddenly remembered the pledge he made long ago.
“
Will you open Glengarra’s gates to shelter those of our race that lose their way in the land of mortals?”
His enchanted playmates had asked him in the secret glen.
“I will.”
He replied with conviction. He’d been a child, yet he had pledged his fealty with the soul of a warrior to the elemental spirits who ruled Ireland.
“One day, you may be called upon to protect one of our own from the snares of mortal men.”
His fey companions replied.
As he gazed down at the dainty beauty on the bed an unshakable conviction enveloped him. She was of the fey race. She had a heart shaped face, finely arched auburn brows, red hair and large emerald eyes hidden beneath a fringe of dark lashes.
It was true. This delicate waif had lost her way in the storm; an innocent sprite caught up in the snares of evil men, just as they told him years ago.
The
Tuath an Danaan
had answered his plea. They sent him a fairy bride.
The village of Glengarriff was nestled comfortably below the Cahir Mountains. The town was on the Bay of Bantry at the beginning the Beara Peninsula and fell under the jurisdiction of Dillon lands. Small fishing boats dotted the coastline. The men of the area were dragging the waters with their nets, searching for bodies.
Lord Dillon pulled his cloak about him to block out the stinging winds as he stood on the shore of Bantry Bay. He rode out at dawn when the news was brought to him of an incoming vessel broken apart on the rocks during last night’s storm.
Mick Gilamuir was there, as was Rory and Shamus, all his men, dressed as farmers, sheep herders, fisherman and squires, working alongside unwary villagers they protected.
“A far as we can tell, no one survived.” Harlan Burke, the Sheriff of the tiny hamlet of Glengarriff stood beside Lord Dillon on the beach, assuming an authoritative air as he apprised Dillon of the case, despite the fact that Dillon and his men had been the first to arrive at the scene. It mattered little to the grasping Sheriff, who sought any circumstance to bolster his self importance. “Fisherman found parts of the ship scattered between Garnish point and the islands, the remote part of your estates at the opening of the Bay of Bantry. A few bodies and some debris, same as here.”
Dillon watched the men drag a feminine corpse up the beach and lay it down beside the others. The undertaker had made two trips to town and back with his wagon, and still the bodies were coming out of the sea.
Further down the southern coast of the peninsula, past his ancestral home lay miles of desolate, yet beautiful terrain, The Slieve Miskish Mountains. The abandoned barn where he’d rescued Tara MacNeill last night was on the northwestern point of the peninsula, overlooking the islands of Cod’s Head and Dursey.
Adrian Dillon’s heart was heavy as the possibility of his own guilt in this unfortunate disaster lay before him.
Could the vessel’s crew have mistaken the explosion of gunpowder last night as a signal light of safe harbor? Hadn’t Shamus O'Connell insisted he heard cries for help coming from the sea?
They’d all thought Shamus was daft, hearing things in the wind.
“Cold out here.” The short, squat Sheriff blustered. “What say you we take ourselves inside to discuss the matter over a pint of ale? The Gull’s Nest is open.”
“I would never have believed that you took to drinking so early in the day.” Dillon replied, rubbing his hands together to warm them in the cold January wind.
“Come, Dillon, we’ve a few things to discuss regarding our arrangement.” The Sheriff insisted, giving him a significant look. The grasping toad wouldn’t give up.
Lord Dillon let out a weary sigh, wreathing the air with his breath. “I’ll meet you there after I see to my men.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode determinedly down the beach toward Mick Gilamuir, his second in command in the Fianna brigade by night, and captain of his small smuggling skiff, The Sea Sprite.
His boots crunched on the gravel as he marched out to speak with Captain Gilamuir before meeting the greedy Sheriff at the Inn. Gilamuir should know his intentions, in case he was asked to verify the next lie Dillon was about to construct to protect himself from Burke’s malingering threats.
There were reasons aplenty to resist such an unholy alliance with Burke’s daughter. Sheriff Burke was a loyalist. With Elmira Burke ensconced at Glengarra Castle, the Sheriff would have first hand reports of Adrian’s comings and goings at all hours of the night. Aside from political differences, the alliance was repulsive to him. The ‘girl’ was five years Adrian’s senior and unattractive, as she favored her short, corpulent father in looks. Her ability to produce an heir would be the singular selling point in any union Burke hoped to project among the gentry as she possessed no dowry to speak of and was of common lineage. And at five and thirty, she was clearly past an age for fertility.
“My Lord Dillon.” Mick turned to greet him as his footsteps announced him on the stone promontory. “I see Burke wasted no time seeking you out.”
“Aye,” Dillon spat, “Wants to bargain with me over his daughter again.”
“Pity, my lord, you didn’t take me up on my offer to fix the situation for you.”
Adrian followed Mick’s contemptuous gaze down the beach, where the fat Sheriff waddled toward the town of Glengarriff. “Murder that one, and the crown would only appoint another bootlicker to watch us. I’ve a plan, my good man; I need your help in carrying it out.”
“As you will, my lord.” Mick smiled with blood lust rising in his gray eyes.
“The girl.” Adrian jerked his head toward his home on the distant cliffs.