by Lily Silver
“My feet are numb,” Dan complained as they marked the empty streets about them.
Her brothers and her husband remained stoic and silent.
“Damn it, we’re in for another dousing,” he continued.
As Tara paused to gaze up at the roiling skies above, agonizing pain shot through her. She clutched her belly and bent double. The pain sharpened. She groaned.
Adrian’s voice was a distant shout as her knees weakened and she started a slow descent toward the wet cobblestones. Her cheek sank into a cushion of damp soft fabric as Adrian’s arms bore her weight. He caught her, preventing her fall as he sank to his knees beside her.
The men huddled about them to shield her from the weeping skies.
Tara cried out again, and blessed darkness embraced her.
Adrian tried to stand. He swore as he wavered and stumbled with his precious burden. His wound ruled him with punishing pain. Tara was hefted into Dan’s arms. Mick helped Adrian stand properly and handed him his blasted walking stick.
“Above the shop, over there. I see light in the window,” Doc Riley hurried to the side door in the alley. The door was locked against entry. He pounded on it vigorously and called out.
“Damn, what I wouldn’t give to be back in my own time,” Dan muttered. “At least there a fellow could call an ambulance and duck into a mini-mart to escape the rain.”
“What is an ambulance?” Adrian grew impatient with the fellow’s constant grousing.
“A vehicle, like an enclosed carriage, that rushes out at a moment’s notice to collect the ill or injured and takes them to the nearest hospital for medical care. Judging by our surroundings, there aren’t such conveniences here. Damn it, I miss the digital age, cell phones, free Wi-Fi on every street corner, and fricking automobiles with heaters.”
Adrian stood by the giant, his hand on his wife’s arm, feeling lost at the man’s mystifying speech. He was still trying to digest the reality that his wife could deliberately move through time. Adrian met Tara on a stormy night in County Cork, Ireland. British soldiers had dragged her into the barn to interrogate her, believing her to be a rebel spy for the Irish. Adrian rescued her from King George’s men. It took a full week before she could speak clearly after her strenuous shift through time, and she’d suffered temporary paralysis from the experience.
Tara seemed fine today after traveling through time once more. She had been talking and moving easily, appearing unaffected. Was this a delayed reaction to her use of powerful magic? This time, Tara had transported not just herself and Dan, but four more men. They started out as a group of six, but seemed to have lost Mr. Lawless in the time jump.
Transporting five extra bodies, all men, must have been too much for the slender waif.
Tara looked so pale. She was soaking wet, even with the addition of Adrian’s cloak about her and Dan’s hat shielding her head from the fine, light drizzle. “Can you hear me, my love?” Her eyes remained closed. Adrian took her slim hand between his own, shaking it gently and patting it. “Tara, wake up.”
“What’s wrong?” A middle-aged man in a white artist’s smock emerged from a door Riley had been pounding on. He stepped out to join them in the alley. “Is that a woman?” He drew closer to inspect Dan’s burden. “What happened to her? Do you need a doctor?”
“It is not your concern.” Mick Gilamuir waved his hand as he spoke, as if performing magic on the curious fellow. “My sister is exhausted from our arduous journey. We walked several miles in the country to get here, in the rain. Can you direct us to lodgings nearby?”
“Just there, at the end of the next street,” the Englishman pointed out the way to Mick. “Flats in Montmartre are let very reasonably. All the better in places in Paris are full due to the exposition. Tell Mr. Leroux at number 84 that Arthur Bellows sent you to him, and he will see you are well taken care of.”
The rain ceased and so had her retching.
Tara was lying in a bed, on an old, lumpy feather mattress.
“Why is she bleeding so much?” Adrian demanded. His hand stroked her sweat dampened hair and his voice cut through the room like a sword. “Answer me—damn it!”
“Keep your voice down,” the soft sound of Doc Riley’s voice surrounded Tara with calm. Her brother’s lyrical tone seemed to echo in her blood. Riley was a fairy doctor—a fairy with the gift of healing. He used his magic to help humans as the Fey were rarely ill. “Dillon, if you insist on this belligerent vein I’ll have you removed from the room.”
“You will not. She is my wife. Kindly remember that.”
“Adrian,” Dan’s deep baritone contrasted sharply with Riley’s softer tone. “Let Doc Riley help her. Why don’t you and I go out into the next room and give her some privacy?”
Tara kept her eyes closed so she could shut out the men hovering over her like crows arguing over a corpse. She heard Dan’s heavy tread on the wood floorboards behind Adrian.
“Come now, it’s difficult enough for the girl without you playing the cave man.”
“I’m not leaving her.” Adrian’s hand tightened on her arm.
“Mick, we need you,” Riley called into the next room.
“I said, I’m not leaving—” Adrian’s voice was cut off in mid-sentence. He rose from his perch on the bed beside her. She heard footsteps moving away from the bed, and the narrow door leading to the outer room close. Adrian’s swift eviction brought relief.
Tara remained still, unmoving. She knew what was happening. She was losing their baby.
“Tara, I know you can hear me,” Riley’s voice moved over her like a breeze. “This is not your fault. If we had stayed in Dublin, we’d all be arrested, little one.”
Tara opened her eyes. Riley was kneeling beside the bed. His emerald eyes had an odd shimmer. His hand was moving over her belly, like a wizard casting a spell. She started, and then relaxed as waves of peace enveloped her like a warm, safe cocoon.
“The ache will ease, in time.” His voice had that unnatural timbre to it again, a sort of bell vibration, like someone running a stick over a singing bowl. “The loss is great to your heart, but you will find peace and solace.”
Drowsiness was overtaking her. She fought against the drugging sound of her brother’s voice. “But, will I be able to … have … another baby?”
“Sleep, Tara.”
Her drowsiness increased, as did the feeling of well being washing over her.
She opened her eyes. Riley’s skin bore a slight translucence that brought light to the room. Gazing behind him, she saw his shadow on the wall—a man’s head and torso but with huge wings covering the expanse of wall.
Angels. Must be what people see when the Fey visit them, humans with wings, glowing skin and sweet-chiming voices …
When Tara awakened, the sun was shining.
The men were gathered in the room beyond her bed. They were whispering in low tones.
She lost the baby. As soon as they were safe beyond the prying eyes of the city, safe behind doors four flights up, Riley had taken charge. Her brother didn’t need to examine her to know what was wrong. He had only to touch her to discern that she was suffering a miscarriage after the time jump.
Tara lay curled on her side with her knees to her chest. She hadn’t thought past getting them safely away from Dublin by using her ability to move through time. She muffled her sobs and covered her face with her hands.
I’m sorry, my sweet one. I didn’t realize our escape would harm you.
The low murmurs continued beyond the door. The voice most prominent was Riley’s.
Her heart burned and twisted. This must be what it feels like to have a heart attack, having your chest grow so tight you nearly die from the harsh crush. Her pain was grief, not a physical affliction, yet her heart felt just as raw and empty as her womb.
A hand touched her shoulder, cupping it from behind. “My sweet Tara,” the voice was thick, deepened nearly to a savage growl from sorrow. The hand lifted slightly, and the w
eight of a man made the mattress dip beside her.
Tara held her breath to stifle her tears as Adrian wrapped his arms about her from behind. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. It didn’t matter what she wanted. The harsh sobs ripped past her resolve.
“My precious girl,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. There will be others.”
“But I wanted this one!” Defiance rushed forth at his words. Tara rolled over to look at him. Her face was saturated with tears. “Don’t you dare speak so callously! Have you no heart? It was your baby, too.”
Adrian’s face registered shock. “I’m only seeking to comfort you.”
A pained grimace twisted her features. Pain consumed her once more as harsh, frantic sobs overwhelmed Tara.
His arms pulled her tight again. This time she was facing him. Tara melted bonelessly into his solid frame, grateful for his strong arms as she wept for their lost child.
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.