Some Enchanted Waltz (23 page)

The tanned hand snatched it up before she could secure it within her grasp.

“Allow me.” The slate grey eyes were laughing, despite the stoic look on his bronzed face. He knew exactly what he was doing, teasing her, taunting her with his game of wolf and rabbit.

“I can manage, thank you.” Tara snatched the towel from his hand and moved quickly to the dressing screen. “The water is getting cool.” She offered through the blind that separated their naked, wet flesh. With jerking movements, she shrugged the emerald silk brocade dressing robe about her, tied the sash, and closed her eyes with relief as she heard the splash of water behind the screen.

Why was she running away from him? She honestly didn’t understand her reluctance to go for it. What did she have to lose? He was her husband, not some dude she picked up in a bar for a one-nighter. Why was she so uncomfortable when it came down to actually being with him, in the physical sense? There was no rational reason for it--unless--there was some nasty event in her past that made her cringe at the thought of intimacy. She closed her eyes, daring herself to confront it if it were there.

Nothing.  Just a whole lot of Nada where her memories should be.

So what was the damned problem? Was she a virgin after all? Tara didn’t think so. She didn’t know. She had no memory of a lover, or of even of losing ‘it’, having her cherry popped.
Okay
, she thought, desperate to clutch some thread of truth through logic and reason,
it’s not normal for a woman my age to still be a--oh crap
! That was another thing she didn’t have a clue about; her age.
Am I twenty-one, or twenty nine?
Maybe Thirty--not! Mid twenties, had to be, I don’t look that old. Come on, any time now, Universe, the cosmic brain fart can end and my identity can come rushing back to me!

 “Would you mind washing my back, sweetheart?”

The request was wreathed in innocence, yet suggestiveness clung to it. Tara ran her fingers through her damp hair and struggled to regain her composure before peering around her thin fortress called a dressing screen to gaze at the man chest deep in soapy water. He was grinning at her, holding his hand aloft with a bar of soap in the palm.

Tara marched out with as much pride and indignation she could muster to take the soap from him. His fingers closed about the slippery bar, refusing to surrender it to her. The last thing Tara wanted was to have to look at him, yet she was forced to meet his gaze as he withheld the bar from her grasp. His eyes studied her curiously for a brief second. Adrian deliberately dropped the soap into the water.

She was about to chide him for his obvious ploy. He cupped her cheek with a wet hand. “Were you crying?” his voice caressed her with tender concern.

“No,” She lied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I had soap in my eyes, that’s all.”

The deathly silence told her he didn't believe her. His fingers, made slippery from the soap, traced her cheekbone and down her neck with calculated leisure. Tara swallowed. The slick fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look at his face.

As she feared, those silvery pools could see into her very soul. Understanding flickered, mingled with regret and compassion. “I meant no threat to you, my lady. I sought only to make you comfortable with my presence.”

“Strutting about before me in the nude? Yeah, right. You would have pounced on me with a vengeance had I shown the slightest encouragement.”

“Vengeance is loosed upon an adversary, and as I have pointed out on several occasions, I am not your enemy. I am your protector while you tarry in this realm. I would not have pounced, as you say. Rather I would lavish devotion upon you, my dear, . I think you would agree that devotion is the better choice of word over vengeance.” His hand dropped from her face to rest on the side of the tub. “Why must you persist in this medieval idea of sex being some kind of punishment, an attempt to subjugate you and cause you shame?”

“I do not think of sex as punishment.” Tara was indignant at his suggestion.

 Adrian sank back in the tub, relaxed, resting his head on the rim as he closed his eyes, dismissing her, so she thought. Tara rose, and was about to resume her position behind the dressing screen and leave him to his suds.

“I could bring you infinite pleasure, in fact, I intend to. As soon as you cease behaving like a castle under siege and launching an assault whenever my kisses become too passionate and you perceive an imminent threat to your chastity.”

Tara huffed, longing to slap the superior grin from his face. She considered several smart retorts in response to his arrogant boast, but thought better of voicing them. She shouldn’t risk making him mad, as she was dependent upon him, being stuck as she was, in this century with no credit cards or ready cash to see her through.

She circled the tub, stopping at the foot to glare down at him with her arms crossed. “What are you doing in my room? You could have gone into your own room to bathe and prepare for dinner. Why do you insist on taunting me?”

His eyes opened slowly. Adrian stared at her with cold, calculating eyes. Tara regretted her harsh words, finding the usual tenderness of his regard for her transmute into cold steel. “Because you have beguiled me, sweet fairy maid. You haunt my waking thought and invade my dreams, bewitching me nightly with your songs of seduction.  And as you are Fey, I must remain the beggar before you as you spin your charms, a mere mortal pleading for crumbs as you watch me starve from wanting you.”

Tara breathed an indecent expletive, incensed by his ridiculous metaphor regarding his physical deprivation being a result of an act of cruelty on her part. “Yeah, it sucks to be you, doesn’t it?” She responded hotly. “Typical male, blame the woman for sprouting wood--it’s all her fault, isn’t it. Whine a little more, Lord Dillon. Or do something about it. We both know you are the stronger between us. You could go all caveman on me, hell, in this backwards century, you could even get away with it.”

“I should like to appear at dinner with both eyes intact as well as my manhood.”

Tara turned away before he could see the smile bursting over her face. With her hand to her lips to stifle her giggle, she made a hasty retreat behind the dressing screen. She heard Adrian emerge from the tub with a foul oath, shuffle about the chamber to retrieve his strewn clothing. “Infuriating She-Devil!” He muttered as a parting epitaph, and then she heard the door slam.  

As time passed, Tara decided she didn’t wish to spar with Adrian again tonight or dine with the pedigreed persons below. Everything was so formal. A burger and fries with a large Coke would do her just fine. Unfortunately, they didn’t have that type of food here. It was endless courses served with the same precise timing and executed with the same skill as the complicated dances of the period.
Oh, for a Mosh Pit--the refreshing
simplicity of chaos.
All this frickin’ formality was wearing on her. Tara wished she could go back home . . . where ever that was. Home: where a woman could wear pants and the dining choices were simple; Macaroni & Cheese or
McDonalds
.

She had no appetite tonight, not for pickled quail’s eggs or the slimy, gritty mussels that seemed to be a staple at every meal. She had only a sinking feeling in her abdomen, in inexplicable sensation that something truly terrible was approaching them. Something big was about to happen here, something so devastating it would shake the foundations of society. What this big dreadful something was, she had no idea. Damn, she was tired of trying to fit into this place. She needed a night off.

With shaking fingers, she penned a brief note to Lady White, claiming to be too fatigued from the journey, suffering a terrible headache and regretted she was unable to join the dinner party this evening. Tara hoped Lord Dillon would not inquire further over her absence but merely accept her excuse and leave her to herself for the evening.

Lady Anne came shortly after her decision to take to her bed. The gentlewoman graciously asked if she required any herbal remedies, citing her housekeeper was a miracle worker when it came to feminine aches and pains. Lying propped on several pillows in the large bed, Tara did her best at pretending a headache, and was left with the bitter satisfaction that her lie had been carried off successfully.

 Convincing Lord Dillon was another matter. As expected, he came to check on her too, appearing concerned to learn she was unwell. Tara squeezed her eyes shut and pretended sleep, and yet, how could one feign sleep when they were being caressed so tenderly? He didn’t merely stand at the side of her bed as she expected he would, notice she was asleep and then leave her for the evening. No, that would be too easy.

Lord Dillon sank down on the bed, brushed her brow lightly with a kiss, and then stroked her face with infinite care. Tara concentrated on her breathing, making it steady in spite of her racing heart.

“Well, my sweet sprite, I never suspected you suffered from such a debilitating illness.” Tara tried to ignore his contemptuous tone. “Alas, I must face the enemy alone, without the support of my dearest wife, who suffers from a severe attack of cowardice.”

“How dare you.” Tara’s eyes flew open.

“Ah, my beloved awakens. Tell me, dearest, where does it hurt? Is it the pride, or the conscience?”

“You--you--”  Tara sat up, prepared to slap him only to find her wrists captured and held together in his large hands.

“I’ve asked them to send us up a tray. How thoughtful of you, my dear, to beg illness so that we might enjoy a private evening in your chamber.” Adrian’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Alas, you are ill, I’m afraid you’ll only be allowed broth.”

“Oh, do shut up.” Tara huffed. “Am I not allowed an evening of privacy. Your mother seems to delight in making me squirm.  And I’m supposed to sit through a formal dinner with her and all her snobbish friends? Pardon me for being sick at the thought of enduring her sharpened barbs.”

“You’ve made a quick recovery.” Adrian said with a devious grin. “I thought you were hiding because I had upset you earlier.”

“So you barge in here and insult me. How gallant.”

“I came to make certain you hadn’t truly taken ill since this afternoon. Now, get dressed for dinner and I will do my best to shield your tender sensibilities from my mother’s acerbic tongue. Or remain here and suffer my presence for the evening.”

Tara closed her eyes. The nerve of this man. He was exasperating. Couldn’t he just leave her to suffer alone instead of marching in here to launch another offensive?  She wanted only to be alone, to have the evening off from her tour of duty in rural Oz. Was that so much to ask?  “You don’t need to stay with me. Lady Anne is bringing me some medicinal tea to soothe my headache. I’ll just go to sleep, and you can socialize with your friends without worrying about my behavior embarrassing you.”

“First of all, there is no one here I wish to socialize with. And second, I could not possibly enjoy a lavish meal with you lying up here castigating yourself for your natural fear of something you have yet to understand.”

“So you intend to sit here and remind me that I’m a complete ass and rub it in. Yes, I am an idiot, I admit it. I don’t have any experience to draw upon in the sex department that I’m able to recall. I’m fricking uncomfortable about being intimate with you. There. Does that help your ego, Lord Dillon?” She stared at him, challenging him with honesty since he so delighted in making sport of her lie about being ill. 

Adrian didn’t laugh or smirk. He merely stared at her, his eyes unfathomable. The pensive silence disturbed Tara more than if he’d retaliated with some clever remark. That she could handle, she’d just say something insulting right back at him, like a tennis ball being volleyed back and forth.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you earlier.” Tara began, trying to break the disturbing silence between them.  “I assumed you would prove the gentleman and take me at my word that I was not up to dinner and leave it at that. I see I was mistaken.” Tara continued, hoping to goad him into another argument.

Say something, damn you,
Tara wanted to scream. There was a scratching at the door, followed by a maid entering with a tray. It was the herbal tea Lady Anne promised. At Adrian’s insistence the servant set it on the table beside the bed and left them. A second maid came bearing the tray Adrian ordered. Tara sniffed, hunger stirring in her as she inhaled the tantalizing aromas. Lord Dillon had yet to comment on her outburst. He arranged the plate on his lap and began to cut the meat with the knife.

Tara watched his precise movements, unsure if he intended to sit beside her on the bed and eat his dinner while ignoring her or what his game was. She turned her head away to study the wallpaper, defeated in her attempt to distance herself from him.

“There we are.” he announced at last. Tara turned her head to find the fork lingering dangerously close to her face. “There’s a good girl.” He crooned, making her pride smart even more by his intention to feed her the contents of his plate.

“I’m not hungry.” She replied. It was too tender a gesture, too humbling. She couldn’t accept his kindness, if that was indeed what it was, not some trick. She pinched her mouth shut as his fork persisted, and turned her head away to get her point across. “I said I was not hungry.”

“Yes, you are. You’re famished, you’re starving, my sweet lass, and you’re too stubborn to admit it and give in to what your body craves.”