Some Enchanted Waltz, A Time Trave Romance

by Lily Silver

  Crystal jewels of ice and sleet clung to the transparent panes. She could still feel those strong arms about her. She could still hear the tenderness in his voice when he attempted to calm her fears. Lord Dillon made her feel safe. She fell asleep nestled in his arms and his powerful presence lingered long after he had gone.

  He wanted to marry her. Strangely, Tara wasn’t adverse to the idea. He promised her a home and the protection of his name. He’d given her his word that he would not expect her to be intimate with him until she wished it. Tara smiled at the antiquated notion. It was kind of sweet, really. Most guys couldn’t wait to get a girl in the sack. And as for marriage, most guys ran from that institution like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

  Why not marry him? He was attractive, kind, sexy, rich and this place he owned was awesome. A bit like a museum, with staff to attend her every need. A girl could do worse. If it didn’t work out, well, she’d just leave, simple as that. It was the way of the world. Marriage wasn’t forever, not anymore. Half of all marriages ended in divorce.

  Tara sat up, startled by her thoughts. The things she knew! Facts and statistics just came to her with ease. Facts and knowledge, about everything, except her own history.

  Well, then. Stick to the facts. Stick to what you do know; there is a fifty-fifty chance of this working out. What the hell, the odds were better than winning the lottery, and that dude was too damn hot to refuse.

  Lord Dillon wanted to marry her?

  Tara couldn’t comprehend why his gallant offer affected her so profoundly.

  To be wanted; needed by someone. To have a sense of family, a sense of belonging to someone. Tara craved a family. She needed to belong somewhere, to someone!

  Okay, maybe she was crazy for going through with it.

  Maybe, just maybe, this was fate, as he said.

  Maybe she really had been sent to him for a reason.

  Too bad somebody hadn’t bothered to pin a note to her jacket when they sent her here. At least then she’d have some clue as to what, precisely, she’d been sent here to do.

  Chapter Seven

  It was raining.

  Tara kept humming the refrain from that song about rain on your wedding day. She couldn’t stop humming it. She knew the name of the song; Ironic. She could picture the pretty brunette who sang it; Alanis Morrisette.

  They were facts in her brain, knowledge she didn’t even have to think about. It just came unbidden. Why, oh why couldn’t she remember the important facts of her own life?

  So many things came and went in her mind, leaving Tara confused as to their significance. She couldn’t put the fragmented images that did come into any logical sequence. She gazed out the lead glass window at the churning steel skies.

  “It’s like rain on your wedding day, the free ride when you’ve already paid.” She sang the refrain aloud.

  It was her wedding day, and it was raining as if the very heavens were protesting.

  Cold feet? Yes, and cold hands and the proverbial knots twisting her gut.

  Whoa, girl, just breathe. It’s a good thing. The dude is rich, handsome, charming, like he stepped out of a fairytale. My own version of McDreamy, in 18th century garb.

  Ten day passed since Tara had been brought to Glengarra Castle. She’d taken the bandages off her hands today in preparation for her wedding ceremony. Her palms were still tender and pink, yet Tara had no intention of going to her wedding with her hands wrapped in bandages. Maggie made the suggestion that gloves were the thing for a lady. Tara tried to put on the pair Maggie provided for her from the dead girl’s wardrobe. The cloth was too irritating and confining against Tara’s tender flesh. It couldn’t be helped. She would just have to become Mrs. Adrian Dillon with bare hands.

  Tara chose a light muslin gown of Althea Dillon’s—she really had to stop referring to her as the dead girl in her mind, lest she slip and use it in conversation. The dress was a thin, flouncy thing with short sleeves and a blue satin sash beneath her breasts and formed a very high waistline. It was an odd choice in the drafty castle for January, with short sleeves, a low neckline and very light material. It resembled a wedding gown and that was why Tara chose it.

  Seeing the gooseflesh on her mistress, Maggie left dutifully and returned with one of Miss Althea’s silk shawls. It was a stunning choice with the rich red, orange and gold paisley swirls against the white dress. Tara gazed at herself in the mirror. She didn’t have any makeup to turn to. No mascara, not even lip gloss. Her long hair had been swept up into an elegant twist. Earlier this morning, Lady Dillon had presented her with a rope of pearls as a bridal gift.

  “They’re ready for you, Miss.” Maggie insisted, reminding her of the time.

  With a sharp intact of breath, a futile attempt to push back the roiling waves of uncertainty, Tara followed Maggie down the expansive corridor. She felt small and insignificant in the gothic arched passage. Paintings and rich tapestries were hung on the walls. Ancient weapons surrounded the tapestries. It was breathtaking. She loved this place, and now it was to be her home. Who wouldn’t want to reside in a castle, with a handsome lord who looked like he’d just stepped out of the cover of a romance novel?

  It will work out. She told herself yet again. If it doesn’t, you can leave, he can’t keep you here against your will.

  The main stairway was magnificent. She admired the winding banister of polished mahogany. The stone stairs were covered with red carpet. As the great hall came into view, more armor and weaponry sparkled in the light of two immense fireplaces at each end of the long room. A suit of armor stood as a silent sentry at the bottom of the stairs, and a large shield hung above the arched doorway. She had not had much chance to leave her room and go exploring, as she’d been in so much pain for days on end since her arrival here. During that time, Lord Dillon visited her room daily, as had his mother.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs, awed by the primitive, majestic beauty of the expansive great hall. The high-back, blackened wood chairs had the barest of padding, the fur rugs before the fireplaces were made of real fur. The chandeliers were made of iron and hung from chains. The glass eyed hunting trophies watching Tara with eerie silence as she passed under them gave her the dizzying sensation of being transported to the Middle Ages.

  “Awesome.” Tara stopped and lifted the face shield of the suit of armor. It was hollow, empty inside. She’d hoped for a blue eyed knight to peek out at her.

  “Aye, Miss. They’re waiting. The minister’s here.” Maggie prodded.

  Tara pulled the shawl up closer about her neck. Those impressive hearths certainly didn’t give off sufficient heat. Maggie lead her down a narrow, portrait lined corridor, stopping at a pair of oak arched doors. The maid gave a sharp rat-a-tat-tat, and then opened the door for Tara to enter.

  Tara took a step forward and paused to reorient herself. This room was more modern than the great hall and the corridors. It had vibrant red brocade wallpaper. Gold curtains framed the large mullioned windows and yellow upholstery covered the elegant Queen Anne period furniture. Gilt framed, rich hued oil paintings filled every inch of space on the walls. It was a vivid contrast to the stark, medieval great hall she’d passed through moments earlier. This was typical 18th century decor, more Baroque in tone than the current Directory style of the late century, she noted with the proficiency of a trained historian, but then, the Directory style was probably more popular in Paris where it originated, and in larger cities like London.

  Tara shook her head, as if to clear it. How is it I know this stuff?

  A cluster of men were gathered near the white marble fireplace. Adrian, Dr. Magnus and she assumed the third to be the clergyman, judging by his black suit. Lady Dillon and another woman were seated on the gold and white striped sofa.

  “Tara, this is Mrs. Willoughby.” Adrian’s mother rose with a smile to make the introductions. “Reverend Willoughby and as you know, our Dr. Magnus.”

  Tara gazed about at the gathering wondered once more
if she were doing the right thing. Maybe she should take Adrian up on his offer and stay at the Inn for time, sort this all out. Leaving the relative safety of this place, however, to be thrust rudely once more into a group of strangers in a public inn was not a comforting thought.

  The dashing man across the room gazed at her with adoration. Tara returned his heated gaze. Delicious warmth kindled within her as she concentrated on her bridegroom’s handsome face.

  “You are stunning, my dear.” Adrian’s velvet voice whispered with emotion.

  “Shall we begin?” The minister intoned in a staccato tone.

  Adrian extended his hand. Tara came to him and took his outstretched hand. Yes, Carpe Diem, seize the day, someone had wisely said. She didn’t remember who.

  The Reverend Willoughby took his place in front of them, his prayer book in hand.

  As the minister pronounced them man and wife, he gave Adrian permission to kiss her. Tara gazed up at him, waiting for the inevitable to happen, waiting for the magic.

  Lord Dillon gazed down at her for a long moment, seeming unwilling to proceed.

  A rush of indignation rose up. Seriously, dude? You’re going to just stand there! Wild questions about his motives and sexual orientation arose in those halting seconds as her new husband hesitated, seeming reluctant to claim his kiss.

  Why did he need to marry her so swiftly?

  Why did she agree to this folly?

  Was she making the mistake of a lifetime?

  The statue moved, a reluctant Adonis slowly stirring to life. Tara held her breath, feeling at once exhilaration and fear. Fear because she knew the gathering was watching this little drama; fear at seeming too gauche, a phony among these noble people.

  Tara didn’t close her eyes as his lips descended. She wanted to be swept up into his arms in a deeply satisfying, erotic kiss that would make her toes curl; a legendary kiss that would put to death all those tortuous questions his hesitancy raised.

  The feather-light peck against her cheek was a sad disappointment, a trifling homage amid her towering expectations. It was nice. And chaste, far too chaste.

  The gathering clapped in automatic approval, cooing and murmuring their pleasure. The minister took both their hands and sandwiched them together before holding them aloft. Tara winced at such a brutal seizure, the pain of having her hand seized, and then squeezed so abruptly was nearly unbearable.

  The proud minister didn’t appear to notice her distress as he addressed their audience. “Ladies, Dr. Magnus, I give you Lord and Lady Dillon.”

  Lord Dillon released her hand quickly, dropping his hold to her wrist, noting the agony marring Tara’s countenance. He lifted her wrist to his lips, turned it, and kissed the back of her hand as if in apology for the minister’s rough treatment that under normal circumstances would not have caused such pain. Restrained cheers went up from the others at Reverend Willoughby’s comment. Lady Dillon sniffed delicately into a handkerchief, Mrs. Willoughby giggled and Dr. Magnus smiled and nodded approval.

  It was done. Fait Accompli, Tara thought, startled by the Latin phrases that kept jumping from her mind, feeling an odd sense of foreboding and doom instead of the expected exhilaration. She was married—to a man she didn’t really know.

  Married. Why did it feel as if a noose had been about her neck?

  She was Lady Dillon now.

  For better or worse.

  Hours later, Maggie was bending over Tara in her room, pleading for her to awaken. The guests were waiting for the bride again, in the dining room this time.

  Ah, yes, the bridal dinner. Tara yawned and rubbed her eyes.

  After their awkward kiss, if one could call it that, the gathering watched the couple sign the marriage certificate, and then they all shared a toast to the newlyweds. Tara tried to smile and pretend she was ecstatic. The effort was exhausting. Deep down, she knew she did not belong here, with these people. She knew it, and she suspected they knew it, too. Everyone was pretending otherwise, and the underlying strain in the room was as tangible as a guitar string that had been wound too tight and was ready to snap.

  Adrian seemed to take note of her discomfort and made excuses to the others, citing her recent ordeal; the shipwreck and her injuries. He took charge by summoning a maid and instructing her to escort Mrs. Dillon upstairs to rest before the bridal dinner.

  Tara rejoiced at the opportunity of escape. There was no true joy here, only the pretense of it as two complete strangers wedded hastily in the wake of monstrous disaster and amid great personal loss. As she stood beside Adrian, being congratulated at becoming Lady Adrian Dillon, she was struck by the absurdity of it all.

  To his credit, her new husband paved the way for her escape by providing a gallant excuse, which she took without remorse. Indeed. It was relief to leave the surreal gathering and retreat to the solitude of her room. Tara fell asleep quickly.

  The maid’s attempt to wake her was an unwelcome intrusion. Tara slept so deeply she now felt groggy, in need of an espresso to clear the fog from her brain. She rose and went to gaze out the window. It was twilight. The setting sun was reflected on the still waters of the bay. The day was over. At least the incessant rain had stopped.

  She would have preferred to eat alone in her room as she had every night during her stay. She couldn’t, they were waiting for her. He was waiting, her hot Irish lord. The thought of kissing him again made Tara’s heart lighten and her stomach do a queer little flip-flop that was so tragically cliché, yet so primal, just the same. A smile burst forth as she imagined kissing him with more passion than he’d exhibited in the parlor earlier. Once they were alone, she’d show him a thing or two about kissing.

  “Oh, your gown is wrinkled, my lady.” Maggie startled Tara as she spoke behind her. She had forgotten the girl was still in the room with her.

  Tara looked down at the white muslin gown she had worn for the ceremony. It was a mess. Why hadn’t she thought of that before lying down earlier? Well, she wasn’t accustomed to wearing fragile garments—that was why. She looked to the wardrobe, now filled with the dead girl’s cloths, recalling her khaki cargo pants and sturdy denim jacket—practical, serviceable clothing. Forbidden here. Women didn’t wear pants yet.

  There it was; the constant thorn, the constant prick that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard she tried. She didn’t belong here. She sensed it, even without Adrian’s constant reminders. He thought she was from another realm. He thought she was a fairy.

  And yet, he told everyone else she had come from America. Strangely, that sounded more true to her than the idea of having come from some enchanted realm.

  Where exactly was home? The scary part was not knowing. She didn’t appear to belong anywhere or to anyone. She was alone here. Abandoned.

  The ugly word brought an instant gut reaction. She had been abandoned, at some point in her life. When, where and by whom, Tara couldn’t fathom, yet the sick feeling inside of her at the mere word told her such had been a potent reality in her life.

  An icy chill slithered over her skin and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She’d been trying not to think about it too much because when she did, she panicked. It was easier to accept Adrian’s explanation: to embrace it. She’d been sent to him from another realm. A faraway place with wonders they lacked here; cell phones, coffee makers, electricity, indoor plumbing, computers and even television.

  “Which dress, Mum?” Maggie asked, drawing Tara out of her panic as the girl held out two different choices for her.

  Okay. Don’t panic. Just choose a dress and go eat dinner. Deal with the matter at hand. Worry about the rest later. Sapphire blue silk or Crimson velvet? Tara chose the crimson velvet with as it was made of heavier material and had long sleeves. It was cold in this damn castle and central heating seemed to be another invention the inhabitants of this realm were missing.

  When she could delay no longer, Tara made her way down the corridor and descended the stone stairs in search of the
dining room. After several false starts, she was directed by a footman to the proper door. Adrian rose from the head of the table when she entered the elegant dining room. He crossed the room, eagerly offered her his arm and escorted her to the opposite end of the table, the place reserved for the mistress. Tara gave a quick glance in the direction of Lady Dillon to find that one deeply engrossed in a conversation with Mrs. Willoughby, unconcerned regarding Tara’s placement as the new mistress of the home. Okay, one hurdle overcome without difficulty.

  Tara took her seat and gazed at the bridal table. Candelabra were spaced evenly down the long expanse. A centerpiece made of hothouse flowers and greenery lent a festive air to the room. Candlelight reflected in the crystal goblets and cast interesting swirled patterns on the tablecloth beneath the ridged goblet rims. Rich oil paintings of fruits and flowers surrounded them on the oak panel walls, and a cheerful fire sizzled in the marble fireplace, chasing away the winter chill.

  During the meal, Tara watched Lady Dillon’s movements to make certain she was using the proper utensils at the proper time. The courses were served by footmen with white gloves who were dressed in black livery with gold braids on their shoulders.

  Definitely not making a run for the border tonight.

  Tara giggled as the peculiar thought entered her head. Ah, yes, Taco Bell. A Baja Chalupa and a Carmel apple thingy was her standard order, along with …

  “What is so amusing?” Mrs. Dillon queried as she, Adrian and Dr. Magnus and the Willougbys turned to gaze at Tara with serious expressions.

  Tara hadn’t realized she’d laughed aloud. She looked at the somber faces, all studying her with curiosity. Trying to explain fast food, albeit of foreign origin, to these people would be a lost cause. “Nothing.” She mumbled, reminding herself to be more careful in the future and behave with decorum.

  “May I propose a toast.” Dr. Magnus rose with his glass lifted. “To Viscountess Dillon, bride of Lord Dillon and Mistress of Glengarra Castle.”