Some Enchanted Waltz (6 page)

Where the hell were his buddies now, damn it? He had suffered a severe jolt of lightning but somehow he was still breathing. Why didn’t these people call the hospital, for God’s sake? It hurt to think about it. It just plain hurt to move or think, even to breathe. Yeah, he’d had quite a jolt. His limbs still tingled from that powerful surge of electricity. He was lucky to be alive, even if he was delusional. Must be the drugs they were feeding him through his IV tubing. Yeah, that was it, he was dreaming. Had to be.

Annie was back at his side, holding out a clay bowl of steaming soup. It smelled delicious. Dan struggled to sit up once more.

As she handed him her offering, he noticed her queer get-up. She had on a plain gray wool dress, a black shawl wrapped about her shoulders, and a large white cap on her head. Her shoes were high ankle boots. What the hell. Was this
Little House on the
Prairie
?
God, any minute, Pa Ingles might be coming through that door.

He glanced about the primitive cabin. There was no stove, just the stone hearth with a black iron pot hanging from it. The walls were white, some kind of crude plaster. There were chickens in the rafters, he noticed, when one dropped a load on the floor beside his bed. He covered his soup with his hand, suddenly losing his appetite.

“Ma’am?” He searched her face as she pulled the stool next to the bed and took the bowl from his hand. It was an honest face, the weathered face of a pilgrim from the puritan days, no make-up, no jewelry, just a kind smile. “There was a girl with me. I have to find her.”

“We found no one else.” Annie lifted the spoon to his lips, her voice became sad. “There’s bodies aplenty washed up. If some lass were with ye, she’s likely with the angels now, Sir.”

“We were not on a ship. We were at the radio station.”

“All I know is that there was a shipwreck some miles north of here, and all hands went down, save you. If ye like I’ll send for the priest. Ye’ve suffered quite a blow, now, haven’t ye?”

Dan nodded. He was not Catholic, but he was just scared enough to convert.

Chapter Five

Tara looked about the strange room with awe.

It was like a set from a Jane Austen Movie.

The walls were oak paneling, the kind you’d see in an old English manor house.

Tapestries hung on the wall, and not the cheap catalogue copies you could get for under a hundred bucks. The ones before her had a rich heaviness that bespoke the dust and the weight of several centuries. She admired the scene depicting a rich medieval landscape. A couple sat on a blanket in a forest enjoying a romantic lunch. The woman had long waves of blonde hair trailing over her shoulders and faded pale silvery eyes Tara guessed were once blue. The woman’s expression was wistful as she gazed at her companion, a young man dressed in the rich attire of a thirteenth century noble. A distant castle could be seen in an opening in the trees beyond them and a unicorn was nestled in the brush in the foreground.

As she studied the tapestry, Tara was enveloped in an oasis of much needed calm.

She’d awakened into a void. She couldn’t remember anything about her life. She didn’t know where she lived, or with whom. She did not live here, that much she did know for certain. She tried all morning to think of someone she could call to come and take her home. Nothing came. No names, no faces.  

Calling someone
. Now, there was a good reason to crumble into hysterics!

She could not think of anyone to contact, no family, lover or friends.

Tara rose from the bed with difficulty. Her body was stiff, sore. Had she been in an car accident? She tried not to trip over the overlong white cotton gown as she shambled across the room like a zombie to the antique wardrobe. She opened the door then drawer inside it.  Her cell phone was there along with her car keys and her iPod.  A green hair bungee with Celtic designs lay nestled beside the items.

No wallet
. Ah, but that would make things too simple, wouldn’t it? 

No wallet meant no driver’s license, no clue as to her home address. No credit cards  and no money. Her khaki cargo pants and lace camisole top were folded neatly in the drawer, having been washed by the staff of this odd hotel.

She picked up her phone with her bandaged hands and pressed the ON button. Nothing. No bars, no signal, not even a welcome screen. Her battery must be dead.  If she couldn’t even get it to turn on it meant she’d been here more than a few hours. Damn, if she had a cheaper phone instead of this model with the expensive data package that sucked the batteries like a vampire emptying a crack addict, she’d still have battery power. Without a charger, she was screwed and it wasn’t likely they’d have one here that would work with her phone. 

Given her weakness and confusion, Tara had to have been here for a few days instead of hours.  Her iPod still worked, for all the good that did. She could listen to Meatloaf, Madonna and Motley Crue while trying to find her way home. If her phone worked, she’d have GPS capabilities so she could figure out where she was, and at the very least she could send a text message.

And who would she send it to?
Would she recognize the names listed in her contact list?
 
That was the scary part. Tara was lost, like in one of those stupid reality TV shows where the contestants got dropped off in a strange land and had to find their way back home first to win a million bucks. Unlike the people on the show, she was stranded, with no instructions, contacts, money and no freaking idea of who to call to pick her up and take her to the airport. At least on the reality shows they were given detailed instructions.

She searched the drawers of the ornate desk. There was no phone in her room and no phone book. None of the hotel literature one would expect to find in a place like this. She couldn’t even call a taxi. Even if she had a phone her speech was too garbled to be understood. The hotel maid didn’t understand her so she wouldn’t get far trying to call anyone.

Texting
! Now that was a different matter.
Or Email.
Yes, that would work, if she could get to a computer. Tara wiggled the tips of her fingers, peeping out from the heavy linen bandages swaddled over her hands. Her fingers were still pretty numb and stiff, but she could probably pull off the hunt and peck method. They had to at least have a computer in the lobby. All hotels had them in lobbies now.

“Welcome to the Hotel California,”
the Eagles song echoed in her mind.
“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Not Hotel California, but Hotel Ireland. She learned that when she tried to question the maid who delivered her breakfast tray. She could only manage the word ‘where’ amid her garbled speech. The maid informed her she was a guest at Glengarra Castle overlooking the Bay of Bantry in County Cork, Ireland. At least they spoke English here--sort of. It was hard to understand Maggie’s accent and her queer way of phrasing things.

Terror didn’t begin to explain the gnawing in her gut as her eyes darted about the stately room filled with antique furnishings. Geez, there wasn’t even a freaking television. Usually they were hidden in the wardrobe closet in the fancier hotels. Her wardrobe closet was empty save her few belongings.

Fear was making her queasy. Tara didn’t want to vomit again, because she'd have to use that quaint porcelain pot under the bed to throw up in because no one seemed to understand her request to be taken to the restroom. There wasn’t a bathroom attached to her room, which, while odd was logical in an ancient building such as this. The hotel owners wouldn’t want to risk losing their Historic Registry standing by knocking down walls and drilling holes through stone floors to install modern plumbing in every guest room. Still, a phone would be nice so she could ring room service.

Definitely not a five star experience here, despite the rich furnishings.

Fatigued from her trek across the room in search of a phone, Tara returned to the bed. She clutched the velvet coverlet in her bandaged hands, ignoring the tears stinging her eyes. So, she was stuck in a hotel somewhere in Ireland with no memory of how she came to be here. And no credit card.  Damn. They’d be kicking her out of here real soon. 

As Tara sat clutching the covers and worrying about the hotel concierge demanding payment for this lavish Irish holiday, there was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat at the door.

Oh, God, here it comes
, she though, steeling herself for the confrontation.

 A tall, dark haired man of about thirty entered the room. His clothing was odd, like he’d just stepped off the stage set of a costume drama. Ignoring his peculiar clothing, she focused on his face. A peculiar feeling of déjà’ vu swept over her as she gazed into his steel gray eyes. Was he the hotel manager or the tour guide? Did he know her?

The young maid, Maggie, followed behind him as if he were royalty. 

 “Tara, you’re awake at last. Cora tells me that you are upset. What is it you need, my dear?” His tone was reassuring, kind. He didn’t seem upset about the hotel bill.

“T-T-Tele--phh-phoooon?”

His elegant dark brows drew together.  “I don’t recognize that word.” He said in a rich Irish brogue that tantalized her overworked senses.   

With supreme effort, she lifted her bandaged hand to imitate holding a cell phone to her head, the baby finger pointed at her mouth, thumb at her ear; something so simple, so universal, yet completely beyond these people. She pretended to push buttons on her bandaged palm with her forefinger, then held the imaginary phone up to her ear again, forcing out the word, “H--h-h-helloooo” while the trio peered at her in silence.

The old maid snorted like a worn out nag. “Keeps doing that, sir. I’m guessing the lass is all about in her head.”

“That will be enough.” The man chastened. “Take Maggie and be gone with you.”

“Yes, Milord.” The two females chimed, each bobbed a curtsy to him and then dutifully vacating the room.  

Tara gaped at him with confusion. 
You must be kidding me?  Seriously--Milord?
 
What was this, an episode of Masterpiece Theater?

“Forgive Cora.” The enchanting stranger said. “Her tongue is as sharp as an adder’s. She means no disrespect to you or your kind.” He remained at the foot of the bed, observing her with a fascination she found thrilling and a little bit eerie.

My kind? What did that mean, precisely
? Tourist? Grad Student? American?

Tara studied him. He looked like a movie star or a cover model for a romance novel; tall, muscular, with an aura of authority and determination. He had jet black hair that swirled about his head in lush waves like an elegant swathe, sort of like Dr. McDreamy on that popular medical TV series. It was longer in the back, secured with a black bow, a queue, she realized, as the term came to her easily. Men wore longer hair tied back with black ribbons in the 18th century, she knew that, too, as if by rote.

Damn, where did all this knowledge come from, when she couldn’t even remember her own name or where she came from? Did she know this dude?

She gazed into his alluring, steel gray eyes. Nothing. Not a clue.

“I am Viscount Dillon. You may call me Adrian.” He sat down on the bed beside her as he said in a quiet, reverent tone, “I know you were sent to me by
Tuath an Danaan
. Our destinies are entwined. I am pleased to honor the old promise by sheltering you in my home and protecting you from the schemes of mortal men. And I am honored, Dear Tara, that you have agreed to come here to be my fairy bride.”

*   *   *

The darkness lessened as a cool, wet feeling intruded upon it. Tara’s eyes focused on the dark figure hovering over her beyond the gray mists. There it was again, that cold pressure on her cheeks and forehead. She turned her head, pushing it back, turning away from the cold reality of pain, seeking the relief that came only in the oblivion of sleep.

“Tara?” The chilled sensation persisted on her face. “Sweet Tara?”

She opened her eyes to face the bold intruder to her bed. It was him, that man who plagued her with endless questions, the handsome man with smoldering gray eyes.

“You are safe here, I swear it. I would give my life to protect you.”   

Whoa. That was deep and poetic.
Tara stared at this would be rescuer. She had a thousand questions, yet, she couldn’t speak well enough to ask them, and part of her dreaded the answers that would come.

“I told everyone you are from America.” He went on, seeming to think that she understood his odd ramblings. “That way, no one will question your peculiar fey ways.”  

I definitely fell down the Rabbit Hole.
Yes, Johnny Depp!
 
Bring him on.

At that thought, she giggled, amused at the thought of meeting Depp’s quirky Mad Hatter character--or just plain meeting Mr. Depp, period!  

Mr. Dillon assumed she was giggling at his words and grinned conspiratorially.

As they sat silently staring at one another, she slowly became aware of an unfamiliar, unpleasant odor. She sniffed, and then realized too late her rudeness, as it was the pungent smell of the barn clinging to his clothing.