Some Enchanted Dream: A Time Travel Adventure (Seasons of Enchantment Book 2) (16 page)

She glanced at Adrian. His eyes shone with wonder, his lips were parted in a perfect O. She pulled at her glove until her fingers were pried loose, and reached up with a bare hand to cup his cheek and draw his attention away from the steel light piercing the sky.

"It is . . .
magnificent
." His words stumbled, like an infant taking first steps. "No, that is too tame a word . . . it is . . . astounding . . . beyond belief  . . . "

"Yes," Tara agreed, sharing his wonder and understanding his inability to properly catalogue it into a neat, tidy description.

"Thank you, for bringing me here, for allowing me to see this moment in time," Adrian whispered, and cupped her cheeks between his palms.

His lips sought possession of her mouth in a private celebration of light and love.

The bus ride to the edge of the city was serene after the overpowering experience of the Expo. The steady beat of horses hooves on paved roads was hypnotic. Tara leaned against Adrian's comforting form, her head on his shoulder as they watched the night scenery moving past. Gaslights everywhere illuminated the main thoroughfares almost as brightly as a full moon. Laughter could be heard here and there as the omnibus moved past cafes with outside terraces, and parks that were brightly lit on this magical spring night. The scent of lilacs, cherry blossoms and other spring flowers filled the warm night air, lulling her into a peaceful doze.

Tara was startled when Adrian jostled her to tell her that they had reached their stop.

"Crap," she murmured as he pulled her up from her seat with a firm hand. They made their way down the steps to the pavement. She was exhausted, and now they had to climb the steep stairs leading up Montmartre Hill to get to their apartment on the Rue Lepic .

They trudged toward the massive steps arm in arm. Tara felt as if she'd fall asleep on a park bench if given the opportunity. "Wait, just a moment." She sat down on the steps, uncaring that her lovely coral gown might get dirty. "I'm so tired."

Adrian sank down beside her and held his cane between his open knees. "It's not far, dearest. Just up the stairs, and down the street. We can make it."

She rested her head on his shoulder and he placed an arm about her.

Two men were stomping down the stairs. They swerved to the left of Adrian with a polite
bon noir
tossed over their shoulders.

Tara couldn't face the idea of those wretched stone steps tonight. She had no idea where the exhaustion was coming from, but having spent the entire day walking the fair grounds, she now felt like a little girl falling asleep in the back of the bus. "I'm so tired," she yawned, and snuggled closer to him, savoring his warmth. She wrapped an arm about his knee, and closed her eyes. "I wish we were in our bed right now, in our apartment."

Adrian's sharp exclamation of surprise, coupled with the sudden rush of air beneath them nearly brought a scream to Tara's lips. It felt like she was falling through the sky as she clutched Adrian in a quick response to this rapid sense of movement.

They both shrieked as they fell from a great height to land on to the flat roof of their apartment building. The tented glass panels of a studio apartment lit the roof from below.

"Great God in Heaven!" Adrian's voice had risen at least an octave as he glanced around them at the small table and chairs and a mess of potted plants that made up someone's private patio. "How did you do that?"

Tara shrugged deeper into his jacket and peered about them. "I have no idea. I was thinking how much I wanted to be here and--"

"Here we are," he finished for her. "
On the roof
."

"On the roof," she repeated, shaken by this rude discovery.

"Who is up there?" a deep, angry voice came from below. Small rectangular panels inset in the larger panels of the glass were opened to allow in the cool night air.

Tara and Adrian exchanged a look. Did they dare answer, and incur the wrath of the attic tenant?  Adrian pulled her back from the skylights tenting the top story apartment. He seemed to be looking about for an access door to the building.

"Hey, you there!" A steel trap door in the roof opened and a burly man with a painter's cap emerged up through it to his waist. He had a painter's smock on. "Why are you on my roof?"

"We were just enjoying the view," Adrian replied, unruffled by the fellow's demanding tone. "Do you own the building, then?"

"No." The red faced, grimy looking man emerged from the opening and stood with his arms about his chest. His tan trousers were lit by light emanating from the skylight, revealing splotches of colorful yellow and blue paint.

"Well, then, you do not own the roof," her husband pointed out boldly.

Tara remained silent. She was stunned by this recent feat she'd performed, quite without meaning to. She left it to Adrian to explain their presence and to smooth the way for their descent down the steel door and what she assumed would be a ladder.

"I know you," The man approached, reaching out his hand as if in welcome. "You live with that giant on the floor below me. I've seen you come and go with him. I am George."

Adrian stepped carefully in front of Tara, a move she recognized as a protective stance. He extended his hand to the fellow. "I am Mr. Dillon, and this is my wife." Adrian carefully left off his title, she noted, something he was not prone to do in normal circumstances. "The man you speak of is her father, Mr. Wilson. Are you an Englishman?"

"I am from America, and you sir, are most certainly from Ireland."

Adrian stepped back a pace. He placed his arm about Tara's shoulders. "Yes. My wife is from America, however."

"Then we are compatriots, yes, Mrs. Dillon?" The man drew closer, smiling at her with genuine pleasure as he held out his hand in welcome. "A true pleasure, ma'am. Would you join me for a glass of wine?" 

From his slight drawl, she knew he was from the southern part of the United States. His voice dripped charm when he spoke to her, and he seemed to have forgotten that they were trespassing on the roof above his apartment.

"Perhaps another time," Adrian put in, pulling Tara by the hand toward the trapdoor behind the fellow. "My lady is tired, we've just come from the exposition grounds."

"Say . . ." George followed them. "Wait a minute."

"Go down, now!" Adrian directed Tara to descend the ladder before him. "Yes, George, what is it, my good man?" His tone was friendly, but she could sense the tension in his voice as well as in his body. He was standing between her and their 'host' to shield her while she escaped down the ladder to the hallway below.

The metal rungs rang in heavy tones under her clumsy heels as she sought for purchase under her flowing skirts. She hurried down the ladder so Adrian could follow. She nearly stumbled at the bottom, but caught her balance by palming the wall.

"I'll tell him that," Adrian's voice echoed above as he dropped his cane down to her and then the soles of his boots appeared on the top rung. "I can't make any promises on his behalf, but I will let him know of your interest. Yes . . . . of course . . . no . . . not at all. It was a pleasure meeting you as well."  His knees emerged from above, and then his hands and arms were visible. "
Yes
, George, thank you. Good evening to you too."

Adrian dropped down suddenly, skipping several rungs in his haste. His boots made a smacking noise on the hardwood floor. He looked up and waived again to the painter, and smiled. "Yes, we will  . . .  I look forward to it, my good man. Tara, go--
go
!" He took his cane from her and waved her toward the stairs. "Goodnight, George."

They hurried down the flight of stairs to their own apartment door. Adrian pulled her inside and closed the door. The small oil lamp had been lit to welcome them home, presumably by one of her brothers across the hall. Adrian's arms circled her waist as he pressed her against the door. He was laughing so Tara couldn't resist joining him.

"I doubt George gets many visitors." Adrian said with all seriousness, and they began another round of laughter. They laughed and kissed and laughed again. His wide grin and her giggles made it hard to keep kissing for more than mere seconds, but they laughed and kissed repeatedly for several moments.

"He said something about Dan. What was that all about?"

"George admires Dan's great stature. He would like to immortalize him on canvas. He wants me to ask Dan to pose for him, as Goliath."

"Oh no," Tara gasped, imagining a painting of Dan gracing an art gallery nearby. Or worse, an art history book of the future as The Naked Giant. "Not nude, please, not nude!"

Adrian gave her an evil smile. "He didn't specify clothing as a requirement."

As the fit of giggles over their eccentric neighbor's request died away, Tara melted easily into Adrian's supportive frame. Exhaustion pulled at her again, reminding her of that bizarre incident that had brought them to the rooftop outside George's apartment in the first place. Had she actually transported both of them from the steps at the bottom of Montmartre Hill to the roof of their apartment? It seemed like an incredible dream.

"Go lie down, straight away, my dove." Adrian directed, kissing the top of her head and then pushed her towards the bedroom door. "I'll bank the fire and brew you a cup of tea."

Tara didn't argue, she shuffled through to the dark bedroom and flopped down on the bed. If Adrian knew how to make a cup of tea, it was news to her.

Still, it was sweet of him to offer.

By the time Adrian brought tea to his tired wife, he found her asleep on the bed. She was still fully clothed, wearing his jacket and her shoes. He set the cup on the table, and sat down beside her to light the small oil lamp. He hated the pungent, chemical smell of the stuff burning, but lamp oil was abundant and cheap here as gas lighting had not yet reached the village overlooking the grand city of Paris.

He much preferred the soft, warm glow of beeswax candles from his own childhood, but it seemed candles and Irish viscounts were quickly becoming obsolete.

Chapter Thirteen

It was past midnight when Dan escorted Gisele into the apartment building from the street. He followed her up the stairs, cursing silently as they had just completed the steep climb up Montmartre Hill via the stairs. He was out of breath, and feeling his age.

When they reached the third floor, Gisele stopped at her door and turned to him. "You must come in for a drink, M'sieur. It is the least I can do to repay you for your kindness."

He nodded, and followed her into her small apartment. It was dark inside. Not waiting for her to fumble for a lamp, he reached into his pocket for his packet of stick matches and struck the sulfur head to the flint. It seemed a primitive act, given where they'd just come from. The Eiffel Tower and exposition grounds had been lit by new electric lighting.

Gisele's face and shoulders came into view before him as the sputtering light struggled between his fingers. She was reaching for a globe lamp and removing the glass so he could light the flame. "
Merci
, you are so kind and thoughtful,
M'sieur
Wilson. I wish I could
borrow you
, as you say in America, and never give you back."

She meant adopt, not borrow, but he didn't care much for words at the moment.

Her face was illuminated by the glow of the oil lamp. She set the lamp on the ornate table.  He admired her beauty in the sparse seconds before and turned away to remove her hat.

Her apartment was small, but it had much nicer furnishings, likely because she was employed and could afford to feather her own nest. His conversation with Dillon came to mind, and the man's distaste for her chosen line of work. To hell with that. Dillon could afford to be a stuck up ass, he'd been born to wealth and privilege, never had to work a day in his pampered life.

"What do you prefer, whiskey, brandy or scotch?" She gazed directly at him, no coy looks or flirty smiles.

"Brandy." Dan was a little taken aback by her businesslike manner. She'd been warm and silky all day, tempting him, heating his blood, feeding his masculine fantasies. What the hell was going on now?

With a quick nod, she gestured for him to sit on the red velvet sofa, and she disappeared into the next room.  He gazed about the place, noting a framed print here and a little bit of feminine fluff there, fans, lace, flowers--the typical pretties women tacked up all over the place to make it a cluttered but cozy home. An embroidered pillow was under his elbow, complete with lace edging. He moved it aside, worrying he might soil it by his very masculinity.

Gisele was taking her time getting that brandy. He glanced at the window out of habit, as he'd looked to the tower in the southwest from their window above countless times a day for the past weeks. Unlike their Spartan lodgings, her window was covered with heavy drapery. Although sheer lace hung between the red velvet arch of tasseled drapery, he could see through them and noted that the tower lights had been turned off for the night.

This had been the best damned day he'd had in a good ten years. Visiting old Paris, the famous Tower when it was so brand spanking new that the paint was still bright. Spending an evening with a woman who made him feel every inch a man. She was a sparkling bit of fluff, not just pretty, but . . . so feminine it made a fella feel sort of . . . bewitched.

She emerged from the other room at last.

All the complex thoughts he'd had just moments ago left his head at the sight of her.

Gisele was wearing a fancy lace gown of see through ivory, and a pale pink silk wrap.

She had on shoes--high heel shoes, and her hair had been let down. "Here is your brandy,
mon cher
." With a delicate hand she held out the fine snifter for him.

Dan had only one thought, and it wasn't coming from his head. He felt like that wolf in the old Tex Avery cartoons, staring at Red with his eyes popping out of his head and his tongue hanging out. He managed to take the snifter and tuck his tongue back into his mouth. "Thanks."