Some Enchanted Waltz (39 page)

“I can’t go home. I don’t have a home anymore. It’s gone. They’re all gone . . . Mother, Kelfe, Ilsenfuir. They’re dead, lost forever, and I can never go home.”

“Shhh, sweet Tara. Calm yourself. You have a home.” Adrian insisted, disturbed by her panicked rambling. Taking her sweet face between his bare palms, he repeated the words so she might find hope. “Your home is with me now. You belong with me. Come, let’s get you inside before you catch your death.”

Not waiting for her compliance, Adrian stood and lifted her in his arms. He set her on the horse and began leading it down the short incline to where the child sat. He paused, giving the lad a stern look of reproof before extending his hand. The boy ignored his hand and sheepishly bowed his head as if to admit fault. Adrian picked up the drenched child, carried him to the horse’s side and settled him behind Tara.

The mile and a half walk to the cottage didn’t take long. Adrian was furious. He marched across the grassy plain to the boy’s home near the foot of the mountain, determined to drop him in his mother’s arms and ride hard the two miles to the castle. Once he arrived at the O’Shea home, Mrs. O’Shea retrieved her soggy son with a scolding tongue and a tug to the lad’s ear to pull him inside the cottage. She emerged again in the drizzle to offer Adrian a hearty thank you and a deep curtsy as her acknowledged Lord.

Adrian swung up behind Tara and kicked the Bay’s sides, determined to get his drenched and dejected wife home. He hugged her against him from behind with one arm, while guiding the stallion with his knees as he tried to offer her words of comfort.

What could he say? She wanted to leave. She tried to go back, yet it seemed her home was closed to her. She was despondent. She sat staring down at her beautiful, pale, icy hands that were tangled in the horse’s mane, her face wet from the drizzle mingled with silent tears.

“You aren’t alone.” Adrian soothed, hugging her against him. “I’m here, Tara. Your home is with me, now.”  

Chapter Twenty Seven

The ride to Cork was long and tedious. The roads were good, the warm spring air livened the countryside to a deep, emerald green sheen as clouds danced across the bright blue sky. The landscape was breathtaking in the early morning mists.

They stopped at an inn to change horses and refresh themselves at mid-day. A few more hours and the outskirts of Cork could be seen in the distance.

They spent the night at the townhouse and set off again early the next day. They enjoyed a companionable morning, stopped at mid-day for lunch at the seaside village of Yougal and then continued in their journey along the southern coastline.

“Sweetheart, you are brooding.” Adrian whispered, leaning his face close so as not to awaken her father and destroy the fleeting moment of privacy between them. “What can I do to make you smile again?”

Brooding was an understatement. Grieving was more to the point. Since visiting the circle and through it the desolate, abandoned palace, Tara had never felt more lost and forlorn. After a lifetime in the future, believing she was completely alone, she found she had blood kin after all, only to learn some had fallen in battle and others fled and were in hiding because her clan had been outlawed by the other Fey clans

They hadn’t spoken of the incident, not since Adrian brought her home from the sacred stone circle. Neither she nor Adrian spoke of his finding her in the pathetic state; crouched in the rain, weeping and pleading to the sky as if in a trance, or of his impassioned promise that he was her family and she belonged with him. They may not have spoken of the incident, yet their lovemaking had taken on a deeper, more desperate tone as each sought to strengthen the bond of love through their physical joining.

Tara shivered at the sensual promise in Adrian’s voice as she gazed into his silver eyes. She recognized that look, felt the stirrings of desire within. His eyes locked with hers, quiet understanding passing between them as he bent slightly, capturing her lips with his own as her father snored on, oblivious to their mounting passion.

At last, it was Adrian who pulled away from their heated embrace. He crossed his legs and tugged his jacket over his lap to hide the mound of soaring desire from her parent opposite them. He sighed, leaned against the coach side, and gazed out the window with one finger propping up his chin. It would be a long wait until they reached the Inn tonight. Tara’s swollen lips tingled as she opened the volume before her and decided to finish the
Legend of Finn MacCoul and the Fianna
before delving into
Deidre of the Sorrows
, saving the romantic classic for the last bit of the journey.

They stopped twice, once in the afternoon for a short rest, then at an Inn along the road for supper. Tara was exhausted and sore from the long ride. Adrian wanted to make Waterford before stopping for the night. He promised her that once they were safely at the posting house in Waterford, they would be at the halfway point to Dublin.

At Waterford, she hurried through the meal in the private dining room, determined to soak her limbs in a hot bath the innkeeper’s wife promised to prepare for her.

Something bad was about to happen. Something evil was lurking in their near future. Tara closed her eyes, trying to remember what it was. Ireland in the late eighteenth century was a terrible time in history, a dark time for Irish patriots.  

“Think, damn it.” She cursed.

Nothing would come, only the same vague image of printed words on a page. No matter how much she concentrated, the words would not focus in her mind. She slipped from the tub, wrapped a towel about her, and stumbled to the bed, fighting the dizziness and the dull aching in her head.

Okay,
start with what you do know: Fitzgerald. The name is familiar. You’ve met him, gone riding in the park, shared hot chocolate at the coffee house in Cork. What is it about Lord Edward Fitzgerald that screams danger to you?

Nausea welled up. Before Tara knew what was happening she was rushing for the chamber pot. Must be travel sickness. Wouldn’t that make Adrian fit to be tied? He wanted to leave her at Glengarra. The dull ache in her head grew as she heaved out her insides. Her head felt as if it were about to explode. Tara curled into a ball on the floor, cradling her head in her hands. Pain gripped her skull, and then the words at the top of the blurred page focused before her eyes.
Lecky’s Irish History, volume VI.

*    *    *

Adrian smoothed the silken tresses on the pillow beside him.

As he expected, the grueling journey was difficult for Tara. They had to stop the coach twice that morning to allow her the convenience of spewing her breakfast in the bushes rather than in his lap.

At his inquiries she became irritable. Yet by the fatigue in her eyes and the frequent rubbing of her temples he could interpret one thing; her head was hurting her again.  

Her father was not faring well, either. The swaying and bumping coach irritated his back, and like his daughter he endured it stoically, not uttering one word of complaint. Adrian noticed the giant sipped frequently from a small flask throughout the day. His breath smelled of brandy, so Adrian surmised the man was drowning his discomfort in the fiery liquid in order to endure the long journey across the southern coast of Ireland.

Torn between his need to be in Dublin at the appointed time and concern for his new family, Adrian finally made the driver slow their pace to accommodate his ailing wife and her pained father. Once in Dublin, they would be able to rest comfortably while he attended his business with the United Irishmen Executive Committee. Fitzgerald had called an emergency meeting so that they would be able to finalize plans for the seizure of the government on May Day.

Tara knew nothing of his reasons for this hasty journey. He had been ever careful to keep her innocent of his schemes in the unfortunate event he should be captured, so that she would not be implicated in his activities. Many a night this past month, after loving Tara to exhaustion he’d slipped out of bed, donned the mask of Captain Midnight and went out to lead raids and steal weapons.

His bride had been blissfully unaware he risked his life to free Ireland from British subjugation--until last week when he’d returned to find his wife seething with anger and threatening to leave him. As they bumped into one another in the hallway, she’d blackened his eye when he’d attempted to grab her from behind and prevent her from screaming and awakening the household. And then her father gave pursuit of what they believed to be an intruder in the night--only to discover Adrian returning from a delivery of smuggled arms to the Killarney brigade at Molls Gap.

He gazed down at his wife beside him in the narrow Inn bed. Her skin was soft against him. She smelled of lavender. The soft rise and fall of her chest was mesmerizing. Her pale bosom was illuminated in the dim glow of a lone candle on the nightstand. The front lacing of her gown had loosened, giving him a tantalizing view of one rose hued peak as she slumbered softly, unaware of his desire rising against her.

With a grunt he slipped from the bed, reluctant to disturb her rest with his need when she was clearly not faring well with their arduous journey. He hooked an arm about the bedpost, gazing at her for a moment before turning to the moonlit window. The crisscross of window panes made a precise pattern on the carpet as he stepped carefully about the chamber.

An ache grew and expanded in his chest as his conscience warred with his resolve.

Many depended on him; Mick Gilamuir and his men, the leaders in Dublin; Edward, the Sheares and countless others. Theobald Wolfe-Tone depended upon him. Wolfe-Tone remained in Paris, where he was impatiently wooing Napoleon, hoping to convince the fickle Emperor into launching a second invasion against England through Irish shores and thus aid Ireland in her struggle to be free of England’s tyranny.

And now, there was Tara to consider, his beguiling waif of the mists, the elf who fore-knew the future, knew that their idealist cause was somehow destined to failure. Perhaps that was the reason she’d come to him, to warn him, to warn all of them before more innocent blood was shed in vain.

Torn within himself, Adrian turned from the window. His eyes searched the dimly lit room to rest upon the lovely form slumbering in his bed.

Could he live with himself if he abandoned all for her and fled the country?

Could he stomach his image in the looking glass day after day, knowing his comrades fought and died while he frolicked in the mists?

It wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t abandon Edward and the others, not on the eve of their most important offensive.

Tara awoke the next morning with a mild headache, and the words she had seen so clearly the night before obscured. Try as she might, she couldn’t conjure them again. Trying made her nausea worse and she didn’t want that horrible pain in her skull to return, so she let go of the image in the hopes that it would return to her easier without being forced.

Adrian promised they would arrive at Powerscourt, fifteen miles south of Dublin, in two days. Those long, tedious days of coach travel had everyone grumpy and on edge, despite the majestic views surrounding them.

They passed through the rich green pasture land with stones lining the main thoroughfare. The Wicklow Mountains shadowed them on the west, and the coastline to the east. The weather had turned deliciously warm, with a gentle breeze coming in off the sea and the earthy scent of fresh grass and damp peat bogs tantalizing the senses.

Tara hadn’t been able to read the book she brought for diversion, because each time she opened it and gave it her attention, Adrian would start talking to her, or Dan’s snoring would destroy her concentration. She feared she would never find out what happened to the fair Deidre of legend. A druid had foretold a prophecy regarding the girl before she was born; Deidre would be a woman of great, unrivaled beauty with her golden hair and emerald green eyes, and thus, she would know great sorrow and be marked by death. The poor girl was abducted by King Conchobar of Ulster when she was a child. The King so admired her beauty he was determined to keep her hidden until she was of a marriageable age, when he would have her for himself.  He placed Deidre in a great Castle, isolated and guarded by his most trusted servants.

Each day Deidre was allowed to walk about the grounds for a time with the guards watching her. Each day, she wandered a little bit further into the woods. One day, she came upon a warrior, Naoise, who was as dark and handsome as Deidre was fair and beautiful. He met her in the forest each day and they planned their escape from Ulster. When at last Naoise had made arrangements for them, he sent word to Deidre. With his brothers, Ailne and Ardan, the sons of Uisnech, to help them, the lovers ran away to the land of Alba, what was known as Scotland today.

The King of Alba had heard of Deidre’s legendary beauty, and upon discovering that she was in his land, he, too determined to have her for himself. The lovers were again forced to flee. Back in Ulster the nobles felt sorry for the lovers and begged King Conchobar to swallow his pride and let them return. He agreed. King Conchobar sent word to them that all was forgiven and they could come home again.  The lovers were about to board a ship and return to their homeland--and yet, King Conchobar waited for their return with an evil plan in his heart . . .