Some Enchanted Waltz (41 page)

Tara suddenly understood the terrible scene that was about to be played out. She looked about her with panic, searching the shrieking crowd for a way clear to Adrian so she could warn him. She was blocked in on either side, hemmed in by the crowd.

“Adrian!” She shouted, “Adrian, run!”

It was no use. He kept shouting to his militia, trying to make them remain in rank and ignore the dark shadow circling their midst like a carrion bird circling a dying animal. And then, it happened, just as she feared. The Darkling Fey flew toward Adrian as he stood with his back to the waves. The Fey dove quickly like a hawk focusing in on its prey. Adrian was gone, just like that, swept up in the Darkling Fey’s deadly embrace, lifted high above the waves, about to be thrust into an ominous dark storm clouds. 

“NOooo!”
Tara screamed, and the scene faded into darkness, a cold darkness of the town house in Merrion Square as the fire in the hearth had guttered out. She sat up, her lungs starved for air, her chest heaving. Her body was bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. Tara bolted from the bed, tripped over the rug and crawled back toward the bed on all fours to reach up and feel about the thick covers for her beloved.

Adrian was not there. He left her again, after making love to her and holding her close until she fell into a contented sleep in his arms.  

“Tara, what is it?” Dan’s deep voice met her as she entered the hall. Servants appeared from everywhere. Apparently her scream penetrated to the attics.

Sobbing, Tara clung to Dan’s hulking frame, unable to relate the horrible vision that visited her moments ago. Dan lifted her about the waist in a bear hug, carried her back into her chamber and closed the door on the curious servants.

“I had a nightmare---about Adrian--Dan, we have to find him.”

“Easy. Sit down, tell me all about it.”

Tara sat on the bed, hugging the pillow to her and rocking slightly. The rocking movement comforted her as a child. Tonight, nothing would comfort her save the sight of her husband. Tara explained the horrible dream to Dan.

“You had a nightmare. Adrian isn’t home, I’d be mad, too, but—“

“He’s in danger.” Tara clutched the lapels of his robe, determined to make him see. “Didn’t you hear what I said about Adrian being swooped up off the ground and carried away by a--”

“--By a dark bird-man creature.” Dan interjected. “Yeah, got that. Creepy, worth a couple of therapy sessions, at least to sort it all out. Let’s not go there, okay?”

Tara nodded mutely. Her self-control spent, overwhelming sobs shook her frame. Dan was wrong. She hadn’t awakened from a nightmare. She awakened into one.

“Hey, let’s not get all wet over this, kid.” He patted her shoulder and rubbed his hand along her spine in a consoling gesture.

She glanced at him through tear blurred eyes. He looked uncomfortable, as most men did when a woman cried in front of them.

“Just calm down. Take a deep breath and tell me about it again.” He whispered.

“It was like watching a movie. I saw Adrian in his highwayman’s get-up, rousing a crowd to fight for Erin’s freedom, sort of like in the movie
Braveheart.
And then, this dark fey--
er--Angel
sort of figure swoops in seizes Adrian like a vulture and flies way up into the sky carrying him away from me forever.”

 “Pfffew.” Dan released his breath and looked down at the patterned carpet in front of him. “The meaning is obvious. The dude with wings is an Angel, the Angel of Death. You’re afraid Adrian is going to die over this rebellion crap. Dreams are just our mixed up thoughts, Tara. They aren’t special, they aren’t magic or prophecies, they’re just our subconscious mind sorting through--”  

A knock at the door stopped Dan’s impromptu lecture. The butler peeked in, with the housekeeper looking over his shoulder. “Lady Dillon, are you well, mum?”

“Yes.” Tara’s voice trembled. “Where is Lord Dillon?”

Chatham, the butler entered in his nightshirt, followed by Mrs. Chatham, who held the position of housekeeper. The old couple looked at her with concern. “His lordship went out, mum. About two hours ago. Lord Fitzgerald came by as we were retiring, and my lord left with him. Said he’d be back before sunrise.”

“No.” Tara rose, her hands fisting. “Not Lord Fitzgerald.”

“Did he say where they were off to?” Dan asked the stout man.

“No, Sir. Said we needn’t wait up for him, is all.”

“Oh-ho-ho-oooo.” Tara screamed, clutching her heart as everything came rushing back with frightening clarity.

“My lady . . .” the butler intoned, stepping forward, his hand extended.

“Did the Banshee appear to you this night?” Mrs. Chatham asked, pale with fright.

“Yes. What day is it---the date?” Tara whirled about with panic, looking to Dan, the housekeeper and then the butler for an answer.

“Madame, ‘tis March the twelfth.”

“No.” Tara’s shriek was as bloodcurdling as any Banshee’s could be.

“Tara.” Dan rose, enfolding her in his great arms. “Shhh, there now, let’s calm down and think it through. That’s a girl.”

“Perhaps some tea?” Mrs. Chatham offered. Dan nodded, and she left them.

“Go downstairs and wait for his lordship.” Dan ordered the butler. When they were alone, he lifted Tara’s chin with his thick finger. “Okay, tell me what’s supposed to happen on March the Twelfth.”

Tara glanced at the clock on the mantle. “Later this morning there is to be a meeting. All of the leaders of the United Irishmen will be there. Lord Fitzgerald, Arthur O’Connor, and Adrian. They will be betrayed by one of their own. Arrested, every one of them. Lord Edward will elude his captors for a while. He’ll eventually be caught and then . . . he’ll die.”

“And Adrian?” Dan’s voice probed gently. “What about Lord Dillon?”

Shaking her head, Tara whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t recall any mention of his name listed among the rebels that were hanged or shot. That doesn’t mean he won’t be. A man who is part of it will alert the authorities and send a note to the meeting place saying he couldn’t make it at the last minute.” Smoothing her bangs, Tara exhaled with frustration, “I can’t remember his name, and yet, because of him all of the leaders present will be arrested. There will be warrants signed to bring in the rest later.”

Dan shook her shoulders, as if trying to wake her from a deep sleep. “Don’t you see, girl, this is wonderful, you remembered: we can still do something about it.”

If only it were that simple. She knew Adrian wouldn’t be persuaded to stay home. Tara returned to the bed, slumping down on it with one leg drawn up to her chest. She sniffled, wiped her eyes on her sleeve and tried to still her pounding heart. Dan sat down next to her, adjusting his silk robe about him to suit his comfort.

“We have to figure out where the meeting is. Do you remember that?”

Tara shook her head.

“I need a smoke.” Dan muttered, just as Tara knew he would. In a crisis, he was helpless without his cigarettes, more recently his pipe.

Tara pursed her lips together and wound her long braid around one hand. She tried to think of where they might be meeting. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember an address in her research. It had to be at someone’s home, she reasoned, as they wouldn’t meet in the open where anyone could hear them. And then, it came to her.

“It had to be in that message that courier gave Adrian at Seafield House. Let me see . . . fan the flames---no--that isn't it.” Tara pushed her bangs up over her brow. “He said ‘O Bond us together sweet Dublin.’ And he said ‘March the twelfth’. Damn it! Here we are in Dublin on March the twelfth and we have no idea where they’re meeting.”

Dan sat with arms folded about his chest, watching her try to reason it out.

She exhaled and turned about and punched the mattress. “Damn, damn, double damn! It has to be in that cryptic phrase. I had plenty of champagne at that little shindig. Let’s see.” She stood and walked about in a circle in front of the bed. “The dude came into the room and quoted some bad poem about fanning the flames. Adrian responded in kind. Once they had the right words between them the dude said, ‘Oh, bond us together sweet Dublin, March the Twelfth.’ and then he left.” She turned to look at Dan.  “Oh bond us together.” Tara ticked of the information on her fingers. “
Bond
, as in join us together,
Dublin
,
March 12th
.” She had three fingers so far. “Okay, there’s the date and the place in that sentence, but
where
in Dublin?”

“Suppose it’s the name of a street? Is there a Bond Street in Dublin?”

“No.” Tara shook her head, dismissing his clue. “Yes!” She shouted, startling Dan with her sudden exuberance. “O as in Oliver, that’s it. Dan, it’s the place. It is at Oliver Bond’s House in Dublin, on the twelfth of March. Yes, now I remember. It was at his residence and he was arrested with the rest of the rebels. Thank you.”

Dan quirked a brow at her. “For what? You did all that on your own, sweetheart.”

Mrs. Chatham returned with the tea and some scones that were meant for breakfast later today. Dan asked the housekeeper to go to his room and retrieve his pipe.

Tara made to pour the tea, and yet, Dan lifted the dainty pot between his fingers. The crisp scent had a soothing effect on her nerves as he handed her the porcelain cup.

“Why do I get the feeling we’re stuck in Baghdad on the night before the U.S. starts bombing the piss out of them?” Dan rubbed his beard and looked to her to answer.

“Not far off.” Tara commented, pausing to take a generous sip of the fragrant liquid. “The government will declare martial law; they’ll search houses for arms and hunt down suspected rebels. A lot of people will die before it’s finished.” Tara related the facts she remembered from studying William Lecky’s
History of Ireland in the Eighteenth Century.
 “The French will arrive too late, Theobald Wolfe-Tone will be captured, he’ll commit suicide in prison, and Ireland will go on being ruled by England.”

“I should have asked for something stronger.” Dan gazed into the translucent brown liquid in the teacup. A noise at the door startled them both.

Mrs. Chatham entered with Dan’s pipe and tobacco pouch, looking flustered and nervous. Had she been listening to their conversation?

The Housekeeper offered Dan his pipe with large, curious eyes, and a plastic smile.

Chapter Thirty

As Adrian slipped into bed at three-thirty in the morning, Tara lay still, keeping her breathing even to feign sleep. Her heart was pounding as his cold body was pressed against hers as she lay on her side. He snuggled against her, wrapping his arm securely about her waist with a weary sigh. As soon as his soft snores filled the chamber, Tara took her turn at slipping carefully out of bed without being detected. She placed her pillows beneath his arm to lull his senses as she tucked the covers about her beloved.

As she suspected, Dan was awake and agitated in the dusky pre-dawn light.

“I’ve been thinking,” He began as she slipped into his chamber. “Even if we keep him here, we’ve got to warn the others. We can’t let them walk into a trap.”

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“Somehow, you have to keep him from leaving today. Throw a fit, cry, strip naked and dance for him at the breakfast table, but you must keep him here, Tara. I’ll go ahead and warn the others. They’ll have time to disband before the authorities arrive.”

“You could go to Lord Edward.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

Defeat crushed that sweet morsel of hope. “No, he never mentioned it. His brother lives in Leinster House, not more than a few blocks down. I doubt Edward would stay with him. The Duke of Leinster is one of the heads of parliament.”

Dan stroked his beard thoughtfully as he looked down at the empty streets from the window. “What about the meeting place, you said it was Bond Street?”

“No, not Bond Street. Its at Bond House, Oliver Bond’s residence. I don’t know the address.” Tara’s voice rose with desperation. “If only I had my
Lecky’s Irish History
.”

“You do. You spent months pouring over those old volumes, you know it by heart.”

“I don’t.” Tara responded with vexation. “I was researching the underlying socio-political causes for the rebellion, not the rebellion itself.”

A discreet scratching sound came from the door. As they stood silently waiting for the servant to enter, Tara scrubbed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands.

It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Chatham, again. Her rabbit face was gray with fright. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lady.” She curtsied to Tara and gave Dan a cursory nod before continuing. “I heard the pair of you earlier, saying his lordship was in danger. And I heard you talking about your dream, mum.”

Dan and Tara exchanged suspicious eyes.

“Yes?” Tara strove to appear unaffected by the woman’s confession.  

“Well, we were fired from our last situation in England, mum. Falsely accused and no one would listen to a servant. Mr. Chatham and I came here, hoping for a fresh start. Trouble is, most of the Irish peerage won’t hire a body without proper references any more than the English. Lord Dillon gave us a fair chance, and I’d like to repay his kindness. If you must keep his lordship home today, I have a way to accomplish it.”