your arrangement should go well enough.”
Adrian stood and moved to the window. He turned his back on his guest to glare out at the bay. The illusion of calm waters belied the violence that nature had visited them once more in the night. The small islands were emerald jewels set in a fine mist of silver. Gray-blue ocean swells met the azure cloudless sky. It was a perfectly glorious day on the coast of Bantry Bay.
“I say, my boy. Do you intend to brood there the remainder of the day? If you want a special license, let us make for Cork while the weather is with us.”
* * *
As the bitter medicine Maggie had given her coursed through her limbs, Tara drifted upon an island of calm. She felt dazed, comfortably numb, like the Pink Floyd song. Maybe if she relaxed and didn’t try so hard to think, she’d remember how she got here and where it was she belonged.
The land of the Tir-o-nog? Was that a hip new travel destination, like Dubai?
The dude kept talking about her being sent to him, coming from another realm.
Didn’t he refer to her as Fey, meaning fairy?
Were fairies like elves? The image of a dark haired young woman with big blue eyes and pouty lips rose in her memory. The woman wore a long, flowing gown and a long blue cloak. Lady Arwen of Rivendale. She knew the woman’s name as well as her own. Another being, similar in form, materialized in Tara’s mind; a beautiful, rather delicate young man with long, pale, white gold hair and dark brows. Like Arwen, he had pointy ears and arched brows. Legolias . The name came to her unbidden.
Her head throbbed as jangled images of white haired wizards, hobbits and dwarves swirled through it. Cave Trolls and hideous Orcs. Tara gasped. Her bandaged hands flew up to cradle her throbbing temples as the loud, eerie music pounded in her head.
Don’t think about it. Stop trying to figure it out. Get a grip on the here and now.
Tara pulled herself up from the bed and shuffled to the window on stiff legs.
She was in an ancient stone castle. The landscape was beautiful. Mist hung above the trees, and the gray-green silhouette of mountains bordered the distant blue sky. Her room was situated at one corner of the castle, giving her a panoramic view of the interior courtyard and the thick forest and gently rolling hills beyond the ancient stone walls. A large black and white cat was serenely sunning himself on the stone bench beneath her window, ignoring the geese, ducks and chickens pecking at the cobblestones around him.
A coach pulled through the opened gates.
A horse drawn coach?
Suddenly, it struck Tara clean between the eyes; no telephones or computers, no bathroom, no electricity. Women in long gowns, and men emerging from horse drawn carriages. It wasn’t so much a matter of where she was, but when .
Chapter Six
Adrian stared out the window of his secluded study. In the past days, he’d become quite fond of the idea of taking the delicious young morsel named Tara to wife.
His mind conjured up tousled red haired boys to romp in the gardens below.
Listen to you, planning your nursery like a besotted fool when there are more important things at hand .
His conscience warred with his desire to live a normal, unremarkable, blessedly boring life. He was Lord Dillon, Viscount of the lands south of the Dingle Bay and north of Bantry Bay, land comprised mostly of mountains with small grazing plateaus on which his family had raised sheep for the wool industry for centuries. And more recently, he was Captain Midnight, secretly replacing his deceased cousin, Quentin Hardwicke as leader of the Fianna, the local branch of the United Irishmen. Ten years ago, his bold cousin invented the famous highwayman and had become the champion of the oppressed and downtrodden. And three years ago, Quentin had been mysteriously poisoned.
Quentin's death was a well-guarded secret. No one knew Adrian succeeded him in the guise of Captain Midnight. It
Adrian stood and moved to the window. He turned his back on his guest to glare out at the bay. The illusion of calm waters belied the violence that nature had visited them once more in the night. The small islands were emerald jewels set in a fine mist of silver. Gray-blue ocean swells met the azure cloudless sky. It was a perfectly glorious day on the coast of Bantry Bay.
“I say, my boy. Do you intend to brood there the remainder of the day? If you want a special license, let us make for Cork while the weather is with us.”
* * *
As the bitter medicine Maggie had given her coursed through her limbs, Tara drifted upon an island of calm. She felt dazed, comfortably numb, like the Pink Floyd song. Maybe if she relaxed and didn’t try so hard to think, she’d remember how she got here and where it was she belonged.
The land of the Tir-o-nog? Was that a hip new travel destination, like Dubai?
The dude kept talking about her being sent to him, coming from another realm.
Didn’t he refer to her as Fey, meaning fairy?
Were fairies like elves? The image of a dark haired young woman with big blue eyes and pouty lips rose in her memory. The woman wore a long, flowing gown and a long blue cloak. Lady Arwen of Rivendale. She knew the woman’s name as well as her own. Another being, similar in form, materialized in Tara’s mind; a beautiful, rather delicate young man with long, pale, white gold hair and dark brows. Like Arwen, he had pointy ears and arched brows. Legolias . The name came to her unbidden.
Her head throbbed as jangled images of white haired wizards, hobbits and dwarves swirled through it. Cave Trolls and hideous Orcs. Tara gasped. Her bandaged hands flew up to cradle her throbbing temples as the loud, eerie music pounded in her head.
Don’t think about it. Stop trying to figure it out. Get a grip on the here and now.
Tara pulled herself up from the bed and shuffled to the window on stiff legs.
She was in an ancient stone castle. The landscape was beautiful. Mist hung above the trees, and the gray-green silhouette of mountains bordered the distant blue sky. Her room was situated at one corner of the castle, giving her a panoramic view of the interior courtyard and the thick forest and gently rolling hills beyond the ancient stone walls. A large black and white cat was serenely sunning himself on the stone bench beneath her window, ignoring the geese, ducks and chickens pecking at the cobblestones around him.
A coach pulled through the opened gates.
A horse drawn coach?
Suddenly, it struck Tara clean between the eyes; no telephones or computers, no bathroom, no electricity. Women in long gowns, and men emerging from horse drawn carriages. It wasn’t so much a matter of where she was, but when .
Chapter Six
Adrian stared out the window of his secluded study. In the past days, he’d become quite fond of the idea of taking the delicious young morsel named Tara to wife.
His mind conjured up tousled red haired boys to romp in the gardens below.
Listen to you, planning your nursery like a besotted fool when there are more important things at hand .
His conscience warred with his desire to live a normal, unremarkable, blessedly boring life. He was Lord Dillon, Viscount of the lands south of the Dingle Bay and north of Bantry Bay, land comprised mostly of mountains with small grazing plateaus on which his family had raised sheep for the wool industry for centuries. And more recently, he was Captain Midnight, secretly replacing his deceased cousin, Quentin Hardwicke as leader of the Fianna, the local branch of the United Irishmen. Ten years ago, his bold cousin invented the famous highwayman and had become the champion of the oppressed and downtrodden. And three years ago, Quentin had been mysteriously poisoned.
Quentin's death was a well-guarded secret. No one knew Adrian succeeded him in the guise of Captain Midnight. It
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