precision then this impossible garbled attempts to make words.
“Easy, lass.” His large, elegant hand rested on her arm in a gesture of comfort. “Be assured, we have our share of magic elixirs to banish pain here, too.”
The sleeve of his brown jacket brushing across her forearm caught her attention. Amazed, she reached out with fingertips peeping out of the linen bandages to stroke the unusual material. His jacket was made of actual velvet.
Taken aback by the discovery, her eyes swept over his attire as the oddity of it struck her. The dude wore tan knee breeches made of soft brushed suede and tall brown riding boots. Good Grief! Men quit wearing breeches a couple of centuries ago. His shirt was white linen and the cascade of lace at his throat that resembled an artful waterfall.
His smile deepened at her appreciative perusal. “I know it appears as if I rescued you, yet we both know it is you who has rescued me. I am deeply honored by your sacrifice in coming here to save my hide by wedding me. You and your kind will have my deepest loyalty and gratitude forever. You’ve made me the happiest of men.”
Tara regarded him with raised brows and her mouth agape. There it was again; that whole marriage bit. This rich, sexy man wanted to marry her ? And what the hell did he keep going on about how she was somehow rescuing him? Damn, as proposals went, this one was right up there with the line ‘you complete me’ for sealing the deal.
She placed a palm to her chest. Her heart was doing a wild stomp and kick dance step as the reality of her situation crashed over her. She was lost in rural Ireland, with an eccentric but incredibly handsome, rich dude sitting on her bed discussing their forthcoming marriage as if it were predestined, a done deal.
Dizziness came and the room began to fade into grayish mists. She gasped, fighting the queer disorientation that threatened her senses.
“Easy, lass. You are still weak from the magic that brought you to me.”
Magic. Tara sank back on the pillows as sweat misted her brow. “H-ho-ow?”
“How did you come to be here?” He chuckled and then gazed down at her with those mystical silvery eyes. “Our story is that you were aboard the ship that sank on the rocks below the cliffs last week, the Mercy, from America. You are my fiancée and you were sailing here to marry me with your father’s escort. The ship went down at the entrance to the bay during the storm, you were washed ashore and brought to Glengarra Castle.” The melodious tone of his strange accent had the effect of a tranquilizer on her bewildered senses. “That is what everyone has been told.”
His dark brows drew together. He touched her face, tenderly cupped her cheek, giving her a devoted smile before his face pinched into regret. “My men and I are making every effort to find your fabled father. As it is, there have been no survivors from the shipwreck, save you. Only you; and we both know that is because you weren’t truly on that ship, were you, Tara. You came to me from land of the Tir-o-nog .”
“N-n-no—” Tara stuttered, unable to tell him he was wrong. “No . . .”
Shipwreck? A missing father? The land of the Tir-o-nog? This man was frightening her. She wanted to confront his odd reality and declare it false. She couldn’t, as she had no other history to counter it with, no memory of who she was or where she came from. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. She tried to communicate her wild thoughts. Her words came out as gibberish, tangled, frantic, and unintelligible.
“Don’t try to talk. All is well. Just rest and let me take care of you.” The man soothed. He cupped her face and brushed tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He seemed genuinely distressed by her quiet weeping.
His words resonated deep inside her; Let me take care of you.
If magic did exist, surely those words were the precise incantation wrought to soothe her very soul.
Let me
“Easy, lass.” His large, elegant hand rested on her arm in a gesture of comfort. “Be assured, we have our share of magic elixirs to banish pain here, too.”
The sleeve of his brown jacket brushing across her forearm caught her attention. Amazed, she reached out with fingertips peeping out of the linen bandages to stroke the unusual material. His jacket was made of actual velvet.
Taken aback by the discovery, her eyes swept over his attire as the oddity of it struck her. The dude wore tan knee breeches made of soft brushed suede and tall brown riding boots. Good Grief! Men quit wearing breeches a couple of centuries ago. His shirt was white linen and the cascade of lace at his throat that resembled an artful waterfall.
His smile deepened at her appreciative perusal. “I know it appears as if I rescued you, yet we both know it is you who has rescued me. I am deeply honored by your sacrifice in coming here to save my hide by wedding me. You and your kind will have my deepest loyalty and gratitude forever. You’ve made me the happiest of men.”
Tara regarded him with raised brows and her mouth agape. There it was again; that whole marriage bit. This rich, sexy man wanted to marry her ? And what the hell did he keep going on about how she was somehow rescuing him? Damn, as proposals went, this one was right up there with the line ‘you complete me’ for sealing the deal.
She placed a palm to her chest. Her heart was doing a wild stomp and kick dance step as the reality of her situation crashed over her. She was lost in rural Ireland, with an eccentric but incredibly handsome, rich dude sitting on her bed discussing their forthcoming marriage as if it were predestined, a done deal.
Dizziness came and the room began to fade into grayish mists. She gasped, fighting the queer disorientation that threatened her senses.
“Easy, lass. You are still weak from the magic that brought you to me.”
Magic. Tara sank back on the pillows as sweat misted her brow. “H-ho-ow?”
“How did you come to be here?” He chuckled and then gazed down at her with those mystical silvery eyes. “Our story is that you were aboard the ship that sank on the rocks below the cliffs last week, the Mercy, from America. You are my fiancée and you were sailing here to marry me with your father’s escort. The ship went down at the entrance to the bay during the storm, you were washed ashore and brought to Glengarra Castle.” The melodious tone of his strange accent had the effect of a tranquilizer on her bewildered senses. “That is what everyone has been told.”
His dark brows drew together. He touched her face, tenderly cupped her cheek, giving her a devoted smile before his face pinched into regret. “My men and I are making every effort to find your fabled father. As it is, there have been no survivors from the shipwreck, save you. Only you; and we both know that is because you weren’t truly on that ship, were you, Tara. You came to me from land of the Tir-o-nog .”
“N-n-no—” Tara stuttered, unable to tell him he was wrong. “No . . .”
Shipwreck? A missing father? The land of the Tir-o-nog? This man was frightening her. She wanted to confront his odd reality and declare it false. She couldn’t, as she had no other history to counter it with, no memory of who she was or where she came from. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. She tried to communicate her wild thoughts. Her words came out as gibberish, tangled, frantic, and unintelligible.
“Don’t try to talk. All is well. Just rest and let me take care of you.” The man soothed. He cupped her face and brushed tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. He seemed genuinely distressed by her quiet weeping.
His words resonated deep inside her; Let me take care of you.
If magic did exist, surely those words were the precise incantation wrought to soothe her very soul.
Let me
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