Some Enchanted Waltz (5 page)

Mick glanced toward the stone edifice and back to him with astonishment.

“She scarcely knows her name. Dr. Magnus said she’s suffered a severe trauma to the brain and has lost her memory. She has no identity, save the one we give her.”

Mick studied his employer with an ever deepening frown.

“As you pointed out, I’m running out of viable solutions, short of murder.”

“
Aye.
”  Mick’s eyes reflected admiration. “It’s a grand scheme, my lord. The Saints be praised, your intended survived, didn’t she now? And didn’t I bring her to you at the break of day.”

Dillon nodded, giving the shrewd man a cautious smile. “Yes, Mick, we’ll just say that you did bring the honorable Miss Tara MacNeill to me in the wee hours of the morning, and you’ll have a fine bonus for such a service.”

“Ah, you’re all heart, man.” Mick smirked. Dillon nodded and moved toward the Gull’s Nest Tavern to enlighten his adversary of the arrival of his long awaited bride.

Should he blatantly refuse the Sheriff’s daughter, he was certain the man would find some means, false ones if necessary, to expose him as a member of the United Irishmen. Burke would see him hanged and perhaps try to persuade the authorities to grant him the Dillon lands as a reward for his loyalty.

Months ago, Adrian circulated the story of his engagement to a young lady he met abroad, promising she would be arriving at Glengarriff harbor with her father shortly before the wedding ceremony. It bought him time, but lately Burke had come to doubt the reality of the bride, leaving Adrian no recourse but to conjure one in order to avoid Burke’s snare.

If, however, the fictitious fiancée suddenly appeared, Burke’s carping could be accounted as sour grapes when Dillon married another, as the pugnacious man had boasted often to all and sundry that his daughter would marry Viscount Dillon, as if by proclaiming it openly he could bring the deed to pass.

Yet, this was surely the work of magic; a perfect tale of infinite sorrow as his betrothed washed up on the shores of her lover, herself the sole survivor of a wreck on the cliffs. The
Sidhe Race
were responsible for the shipwreck, he knew that of a certainty. That race of beings was a little lower than angels and a little above mankind. Tara had been conjured from the mists, but none, save he would ever know it.  

Dillon entered the Inn with hope warming his heart. The task before him was to convince the carnivorous bastard of the sincerity of his love for the fair Tara MacNeill. 

The squat, plump law officer coddled a tall mug of ale, looking as if he were the owner of Glengarra Estates rather than Lord Dillon.

Sheriff Burke began without mincing words. “My girl’s no spring chicken, to be sure. Still, she’s a hearty lass, won’t tear in the plucking’, that one. I’d rest easier if she were taken care of when I'm gone. And you, sir, can rest easier, knowing your loyalties to the crown will not be questioned further.”

“I have no idea of what you are implying, Burke.” Adrian took the seat across from him. He crossed his long legs, assuming a casual pose as he worked his snare. He removed a glove, slowly peeling away the soft leather, and then turned his attentions to his other hand, giving it the same careful attention. “I am weary, I have yet to find sleep since yestermorn and I have pressing business at home.”

“I want your word that you’ll marry my girl.” The Sheriff quaffed his ale, and then added, “Or I go to the magistrate with what I know.”

“And what would be the charge, Burke?  Failure to yield to blackmail, unwillingness to marry another when I am already betrothed?”

“Not that sad tale again.” Burke returned hotly. “You’ve worn that yarn out. Summer has waned, autumn has come and gone, and I’ve yet to see your bride alighting from a ship as you claim. Winter is come and still, you beg the same tired excuse. I waited discreetly when your sister died three months back, out of respect for your family. Tis enough. The mourning period should not interfere with a marriage, not for a sister.”

Adrian lifted one ebony brow, outwardly showing polite disinterest as he unsheathed his own weapon. “Forgive me; I haven’t the time for your games just now, Burke. I must return home to see if my dear Tara has shown some improvement.”

Burke’s jaw dropped. He sat forward, carefully weighing every word Dillon had just uttered. “What’s this, now? Ye’ve recovered some poor waif from the wreckage?”  

Adrian moved in for the final thrust with a sardonic smile. “Yes, Harlan. My fiancée was on that vessel.”

“Fiancée?” Sheriff Burke sputtered as the ale he had just taken clogged his throat.

“You do recall my mentioning an attachment I had to a certain young lady?”

Burke sobered, obviously stunned by the reality of the bride.

“Oh, she is real, my friend. Mick Gilamuir brought her to me early this morning, along with the news of the wreck.” Adrian choked out the words with emotion. “I am as yet nourishing hope that her father survived. I shouldn’t dare to bring such horrific news of his demise to my love as she lies recovering from her own injuries.”

Burke took another swig of his ale, his expression grim. “And what am I to tell my girl, she was expecting you to declare yourself, Lord Dillon.” The grotesque little man snarled as he bolted from his seat, his carefully laid plans disintegrating before his eyes.

“Why should she expect a declaration from me?  I’ve not courted her, nor have I sought out her company. We’ve met by chance alone, amid ample spectators at various social gatherings.” Dillon rose from his chair. “Perhaps her father simply suffers from an overactive imagination.”

“You’d best come out, Sir.” Mick stood in the doorway as Adrian was taking his leave. “I think we may have found Mr. MacNeill.”

“Tara’s father?”Adrian allowed his voice to rise with emotion. “Is he alive?”

“No. You’d best come identify him, Sir.”

Burke sprinted to the door, his button black eyes wary, as if sensing the charade being played out for his benefit. “What does he look like?” He persisted, pushing his protruding paunch into Dillon’s frame as he looked up at his with accusation.

“Tall.” Adrian insisted, “Taller than most men . . . taller than I.” He spread his arms out to emphasize his own athletic frame. He looked over the short sheriff’s head to Mick, who frowned and shook his head negatively.

“Let’s go see.” Burke insisted. Mick shrugged as Burke charged on ahead, anxious to see proof of the fiancée, be it her own corpse or that of her father.

Mick closed the gap between himself and his lord as the sheriff vacated the small sitting room. “The man we just found was average size. Well, dressed, looked to be a businessman. I thought that would work well enough. We’re running out of candidates, with a priest, a cabin boy, a black slave, five women, and various crew members being accounted for. Why are you making this father of hers out to be some kind of giant?”

“Short, tall, fat, thin, what difference does it make? He doesn’t exist.” Adrian replied. “All that matters is that Burke believes my bride is real.”  

“My lord, since you said the man was tall, tell Burke this one is not him. We’ll say the man is missing. That happens with shipwrecks. Bodies wash up days or weeks later.” Mick advised him as they hurried ahead of the Sheriff. “We don’t need a body to prove ourselves. You have the woman in your possession, that’s proof enough.”

Chapter Four

Annie hummed as she worked the needle through the heavy woolen cloth. Her husband was out at the nets for the day and the children were at the hedge school. Soda bread was baking on the hearth, its pungent scent mingling with the sweet smoke of the peat fire. She had finished her chores, save tending the stranger Ian found on the far shores of Lord Bantry’s land, thirty miles south of the wreck they’d heard about across the bay near the town of Glengarriff.

The man groaned, tossed one way then back the other, muttering something she couldn’t make out. She put down her sewing and went to his side. He was a big one, this stranger her Ian had brought home. A giant of a man with fair blond hair that was etched with gray. He had frightful marks upon his pale body. It was almost as if he had received the mark of Cain, the reddish purple feathered lines on his arms and chest were like trails of angry lightning breaking up the sky.

“Tara . . . “

He had uttered that one word many times in the past hours. Not once had he opened his eyes. As he was found so far from the wreck they could scarce believe he was one of the seamen, yet he was a stranger to these parts. A giant such as he would not travel long in the land unnoticed. It was possible his body drifted south with the currents, or he may not have any connection with the wreck further north. They wouldn’t know until he himself could tell them his sad tale.

Doc Riley had looked in on him for the price of her best laying hen. He cautioned them to keep the man’s presence a secret until they could learn his identity. He might be a messenger from Lord Fitzgerald in Dublin with news of the planned uprising this spring.

The wind howled outside, rattling the door and window with eerie fingers. Annie pulled the woolen shawl tighter about her.

“Tara--no--don’t touch the transmitter --”   The man sat bolt upright, his blue eyes laced with terror as he struggled with the covers in his delirium.

“There, ye be safe, stranger. Lie back and let Annie give you some warm broth.”

“Tara, where is she?” The raspy voice pleaded.

“That I Cannae’ say. My man fished you out of the sea. Thought you was dead, he did, so still did ye lie. Then, when he laid you in the boat, ye turned about and sat up. Took five years off his life, I’ll be bound. Thought it was the Day of the Lord with the dead rising up from their graves.” 

The stranger merely gazed at her with dazed pale blue eyes. Ah, so blue, they made the sky pale in their brilliance. The soft lines about his face told her that he had seen much in his journey through life.

“I’m Annie O’Ryan, man. You’ve been in our cottage for three days, in the sleep of death. We’ve no news of a lass found in the wreckage, if that be your Tara. Are you a survivor of the
Mercy
?”

A blank look was his response.

“The ship that crashed on the Garnish Point, man. We found you by the grace of the Almighty, you and none others.”

“It was the storm, the lightning struck . . .” The stranger faltered, having run out of breath.

“Aye, they say lightning struck the mast and the high waves from the gale forced the vessel upon the rocks. All hands went down. Bantry Bay is famous for her treacherous seas. Back in ‘96, the whole French fleet was forced to turn back when a gale swept most of their ships out to sea, and nary a soldier set foot on land.”

The stranger sat up slowly, leaning on one arm for support. “
French
fleet?” He muttered with confusion, rubbing his beard. He looked about the room, blinked, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and looked about him again.

“Aye, the French. Lord White, was just
Squire
White in those days, but he rallied his men and sent a warning to the English in Cork. Might know, his family came here from England fifty years ago. Why, perish the thought of an Irishman turning in his lot with our conquerors.”

The man waved his hand at her, frowning as he dismissed her words. “I served in Iraq in the First Gulf War. Since then, Iraq and Afghanistan have been the main theaters of action.
The French
? What the hell are you babbling about, woman.”

“Ach, ‘tis a sad tale. Wolfe-Tone, he convinced the French to aid us, and the invasion was set for December of ‘96. As I said, a gale force—“

“Invasion---why would France want to invade Wisconsin, and its July, for God’s sake, why the fire? We’ve had the worst heat wave in history--open a window.”

“July, says you. Tis January, have ye slept away the years in the land of the Tir-o-nog?” Annie looked at him with worry. Was the man daft, then?

“I live in Wisconsin, what the hell kind of joke is this? Am I on an episode of
Lost
or
Survivor
? Who’s paying you to dupe me and how much?”

“This is Ireland, Sir. I know naught of this Wisconsin you keep screechin’ about. Ye be lost, tis true, and ye’ve survived a shipwreck, but it is January of 1798.”

“Arggghhh.” The man slumped back on the cot. “God, I’ve gone over the edge.”

“Easy, lad. You’ve suffered more than a cold bath, but a bit of fairy mischief. Have ye a name, sir, or did the fairies steal that away from you as well?”

“Daniel Wilson.” The giant gave Annie a level look. “Thank you, for taking me in.”

“Aye, and I’ll just be getting you a bit of broth.” Annie moved to the hearth.

Dan scanned the small cottage with worry. His limbs were stiff and sore, his head ached. He hadn’t the strength to argue with the woman regarding the year, but this was definitely not his grandparent’s cabin in Fish Creek as he’d been dreaming with the smell of fish, an open fire, and fresh bread baking.

Ireland---1798? Was he lying in a hospital bed having a drug induced delusion? The crack he did in the army might have caught up with him after all. He went from Surgical Nurse to civilian faster than he could wink when they found him stealing morphine to feed his addiction. And twenty years later, he was finally a paramedic on the Marinette County Rescue Squad.