Some Enchanted Dream: A Time Travel Adventure (Seasons of Enchantment Book 2) (3 page)

Adrian just held her and rubbed her back in a comforting manner.

Gradually, the anger she felt at his words dissolved, as did the harsh tears.

She lay silent in his arms, quiet and full of regret. “I’m sorry.” It was a bare whisper, an insufficient plea for attacking the man who loved her, the man who gave her a child nearly three months past.

“I know.” His lips pressed against her brow in a silent kiss. “I know, sweetheart.”

His words were freeing, and yet, their power brought only more sorrow and shame. She lashed out at the one person who understood her pain, the one person who shared it. Like a wounded animal she had briefly turned on her comforter. Tara reached up to touch his face. She stroked the ebony locks away in search of the flesh of his cheek. Moisture beneath her fingers etched another scar on her breaking heart. Adrian was crying, too.

“I wanted this child as much as you. Never doubt for a moment that I would not love our little one as fiercely as I love you. Was it a son or daughter?”

The burning pain behind her eyes rose to blur the room. “It was too early to tell.”

He said nothing. Tara swallowed the hurt and tried to remain calm as the tempest grew in her breast again.

Adrian took her hand from his wet cheek and lifted it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, slowly, deliberately, singling out each one separately from smallest to largest, and then he gently opened her fist to kiss her palm.  “I love you. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make you smile again.”

Chapter Two

The rooms were quiet. Too quiet.

Tara slipped from the warmth of the feather mattress and emerged from the old brass bed. Several days passed. She'd lost count of their number in her grief. She stood at the door and tilted her head, straining to hear any movements in the room beyond.

Nothing,
dead silence
.

Pain welled up, complete with stinging tears at the ugly thought, the ugly phrase.

She gasped and struggled to control her emotions. She knew she was hopelessly out of balance with the hormones from pregnancy still surging through her. Worse for it, she feared the men had all abandoned her to her grief. Some men were idiots when it came to emotional issues, and men of the past were worse. At least in the twenty-first century men were allowed to show emotions. Adrian wasn’t from the future. He was from the rigid past.

She opened the door to the main room and peered out.

Riley’s dark russet head lifted from a book. So, she was not entirely abandoned.  The fairy doctor was here to make sure she didn’t slip into hysterics. Her brother's face was solemn. Riley resembled her, although his hair tended toward brown with a deep reddish cast while Tara's hair was a true copper. His eyes were sparkling emeralds, and his accent decidedly Gaelic. He was not tall, but neither was he small. He was of average height and slender build.

“Tara,” his musical voice resonated within her. “Would you be hungry, lass?”

Food
. The mention of it made her realize she’d not eaten much in the past days.  Tara didn’t speak, she merely nodded.

Riley shot up out of the chair. “I’ll go down to the shops and bring you back something. What would you fancy; a meat pie, fruit or cheese? They say the Parisian cheese is delightful. I could get some fresh bread at the bakery . . .”

He was babbling on about food. He was the only man still here after her latest crying bout, and he looked frickin’ uncomfortable to be near her, and him a doctor!

“I don’t care.” Tara strolled slowly into the room and paced to the window. She turned her back on her brother. The double pane window was opened, allowing in the fresh, dewy spring air. She sniffed deeply, inhaling the scents of the village. Bread, yes, there was the intoxicating smell of bread baking in a brick oven nearby. There was a light floral breeze mingling with the faint scent of garbage effervescing from the street below. Her tummy rumbled at the pervasive odor of meat cooking somewhere in the vicinity.

“I’ll bring you a sampling from the neighborhood,” Riley’s voice came from directly behind her. He’d moved close without Tara even hearing his footsteps.

She leaned out of the window, anxious for the gentle breeze to clear her troubled mind. Their lodgings were just north of Paris. They were high on the hill. She could see the entire sweep of the city from this lofty perch. Magnificent spires and domed roofs emerged from the cluster of buildings. The River Seine wound through the city like a silver ribbon. The imposing spire and towers of Notre Dame rose up from one end of the city and at the other the majestic Eiffel Tower reached into the crisp blue skies.

"Tara," her brother prodded when she did not answer his question.

“Buy whatever is convenient. Just don’t abandon me for too long.” Her voice sounded so fragile. She hadn’t meant for it to come out so.

“No one has abandoned you darlin’.  The others are out scouring the city to find a more suitable lodging. Your husband doesn’t like this neighborhood, it’s the impoverished district.”

Yes, Adrian was used to his castle and his luxurious townhouse, both filled with servants to attend his every need. He wouldn’t find lodgings in this sparse fourth floor garret worthy of a nobleman.
Little did he realize his wife had resided in a trailer park in a future time.

Riley patted her arm. She heard the door close behind him.

Paris
. It was the city of light and love. People fell in love here. It was the birthplace of modern art, of the impressionist movement and later the avant garde culture of the 1920's.

This was not how she imagined the city. The narrow cobbled streets below her window were dirty. The Eiffel Tower was in the far distance, but it was a garish red. The tower told her she was in the latter years of the nineteenth century. Precisely what year was still a mystery, but a newspaper would clear that up shortly. She should have told Riley to purchase one.

A discreet knock startled her. Tara turned from the window and looked at her attire with dismay. She was wearing her husband's billowy eighteenth century linen shirt as a night-dress, as her trunks were left behind in the last century. His shirt came to just above her knees and was loose and comfortable. She didn’t possess a proper dressing robe to cover herself with.

Someone turned the knob.

Tara turned about in search of a weapon. There was none, as the room was devoid of  trinkets. Only a worn, faded carpet and equally worn and scarred furniture filled the space.

A brunette peeped her head inside the door. “
Pardon, Madame? Je suis Mademoiselle Tisante
.”  The woman continued in a string of rapid French that left Tara clueless as to the meaning.

Silence hung between them as the woman waited for Tara to respond to the question, or what had sounded like a question by the intonation at the end of her long speech. 

“I speak English, do you speak English, Miss?”

“
Oui
,” the brunette whispered, giggling with feminine delight. “We have so many English and Americans visiting Paris these days, a woman simply must learn the language to be able to converse with all the gentlemen, you see.”

She could be a dark haired Marilyn Monroe, right down to the dark mole on her face and her breathless, wispy voice. She had lovely blue eyes and deep, rich waves of dark chocolate hair. It was fashioned into exotic curls piled atop her head. Alluring strands dripped about her temples and cascaded down her neck in perfect little spirals. Her plum satin gown was trimmed with black cording and had black lace peeking out at the hem. Rouge brightened her cheeks.

“
Pardon
. Your husband said your trunks were misplaced during your journey. He also told me of your unfortunate event. I am so sorry, Madame Dillon, so very sorry for your loss.” The voice, so light and wispy, coupled with her French accent made Tara’s title come out as
Me--Dam
 
de—LEON
.

Tara arched an eyebrow at the visitor. It seemed Adrian was on very good terms with the woman. What else did he tell her?

“It is pronounced DILL-in,” Tara corrected peevishly. ”Yes, I have one dress, the one I came with and it was ruined by the rain when we arrived.” 
And by the blood.
She gazed down at her bare legs and feet beneath Adrian's shirt and realized for the first time she must look a fright to this vivacious and perfectly dressed French woman.

“
Oui
, I bring you clothes as I promised. He asks if he could buy a dress or two for you, as we are about the same size. I have many dresses, tell him there is no need for payment. I am happy to help out. You must call me Gisele, all my friends do.”

Tara bit back a nasty remark and tried to ease her face muscles into a more welcoming smile. Never turn away a friendly native, not when you’re a stranger to the time period. Her encounter with British soldiers in the last century when she first arrived made that clear. “I am known as Tara to my family and friends.” No need to put on airs here, in the poor district of Montmartre. No one cared if she was Lady Dillon, wife to Viscount Dillon of County Cork.

“How lovely. An Irish name,
oui
?” Gisele smiled and turned from the door. She snatched up a large carpet back and dragged it behind her into the room. “You are alone now, the men are out for a time. We will have you fixed up before they return,
ma cherie
.”

Before Tara could respond, Gisele had set her bag on the small kitchen table and was rifling through it. “Ah,
c'est ici
. A clean petticoat for you. Do you prefer a sleeping gown today or would you like to dress for going out? Are you allowed out yet,
cherie
?”

“Yes,” Tara replied, a little insulted at the idea of being ‘allowed’ to do anything by the opposite gender. She had to remind herself that she was in the past, in a society that treated women like small, helpless children needing a man’s guidance. “I’m not going out today.  I think a sleeping gown would be best for now.”

Gisele gave her a tender look. “
Oui
. It is so soon after . . .” she let her voice fade away before saying the rest;
too soon after your miscarriage
. She set the crisp white petticoat aside and rummaged a bit more in her enormous carpet bag until she found the cotton bed gown. “Would you like me to help you wash your hair?"

It sounded wonderful. Tara nodded.  She took the bed gown from Gisele and placed it in the bedroom.  When she came back, she saw that Gisele had taken the liberty of removing the old tin tea kettle from the stove and was searching for a large pot to fill with water.

Riley came through the door at that moment. He glanced at Gisele with surprise and then at Tara. He set the packet of food on the small table.

"This is Gisele, she lives in the building. Gisele, meet my brother, Dr. Riley."

Gisele fairly purred as she advanced toward him. "Oui, a pleasure. Such a handsome man must have no trouble attracting patients,
Oui, m'sieur
? Perhaps you give me your card?"

Riley looked from Gisele to Tara, clearly not interested in the flirtation. "How are you?"

"I'm famished. That meat pie smells delicious." Tara advanced to the table and sat down. Riley unwrapped the feast for her.  Gisele stood next to him, simply staring at him with nothing short of adoration as she waited for him to notice her. Riley was doing his best to ignore Gisele, as if she were a servant at the castle and he the reigning lord.

The woman was fixated on Riley, so much so that Tara was struck by the potent reality of being Fey born. Men tended to look at her in the same way. She thought it was just about being female, but it seemed Fey men had the same appeal to human women. Riley, like Mick, had a certain ethereal glow. Only the Fey born could see that magical shimmer in another of their kind. Humans just found the Fey mesmerizing.

"Gisele has offered to help me wash my hair," Tara said between bites to ease the tension in the air. The meat pie was heavenly. She hadn't eaten much since their arrival. Broth had been brought to her the first night, but that was not appealing. It had been a bit greasy and pungent. After that, she hardly cared what or even if she ate. "Can you help her with the water?" Tara looked at her brother pointedly, "and perhaps find some manners in the process?"

"Yes." His deep sigh said it all. He was not used to being among women. Back in Ireland, he treated the wounds of Adrian's militia men. "The water crock is in the corner,"  Riley directed coldly as he turned away from the table and took the large tea kettle from Gisele's hands.

As their hands touched, Gisele let out a little gasp and acted as if she might swoon.

Riley stepped away from her quickly, as if burned by her touch. He set aside the teapot and took an cast iron stew pot from the stove using a towel over the handle. He filled the pot from the large crock in the corner and put it on the stove to warm. That done, her brother crouched to open the grate on the side of the stove, blew on the coals to liven them and then reached for the coal shuttle to add a few more pieces to the glowing embers.

Gisele just stood there like a statue, watching him with her hand over her heart, completely bewildered.

"Here now," Riley said in his thick Irish brogue as he stood again. "Sit ye down, Miss."

He didn't touch her, but he pulled the chair out for her. As Gisele sat opposite Tara at the table, still looking entranced, Riley did a quick motion with his hands in Gisele's direction, splaying his fingers on both hands, he appeared to be pushing air in her direction as he blew at her. Gisele jumped, as if startled by a great gust of wind. She blinked, and then started conversing with Tara as if Riley were not present in the room. "Do you have a bustle?" Gisele asked, uncaring that she was discussing a woman's undergarment in front of a man.

"No." Tara gave her brother a queer look.

As a man who rarely smiled, he grinned at her and turned away to attend the stove.