by Lily Silver
Oh, Christ in heaven, she knew how to bring him to his knees. Her hand left him and she pushed at his chest again, this time urging him to lie flat on his back. Adrian gave in, if only to save the goddamned sheets! Tara loosened his trousers, and freed him of the fabric prison without the need for a light in the room. It was full dark. The low light from the street below gave only a pale, amber glow on the ceiling from the naked window.
Her fingers teased and stroked his iron shaft. She let her fingers circle the head of his cock and then they slipped artfully down the underside along his length. He moaned as the waves of pleasure intensified with that bold stroke. The cool feel of her fingers on his tortured flesh only deepened his sense of need as his skin tightened to the point of bursting. No woman before her had ever been so bold and so artful in the act of love. She clenched him hard, pulling his flesh with quick, knowing strokes.
Adrian gasped, long and loud as her lips replaced her hand. Her mouth was so soft, so warm about his cock. Oh, that tongue! That wicked tongue was his undoing. He shuddered, finding release quickly, and then sagged into the mattress, completely drained.
And Tara, sweet, conniving, beautiful Tara, just lay with her head on his shoulder and snuggled close.
He didn’t speak, he just held her and focused on regaining his breath as they lay together in the darkness. She still wore her dress. He was nearly naked, his trousers open, his shirt removed.
The thoughts slowly came tumbling into his passion slogged brain. Tara eased his need, but he provided no answering pleasure for her. That would never do. Only a selfish man would leave it here. “Now it’s your turn.” He rolled onto his side and let his hand trail up the inside of her skirt.
“You don’t have to,” her seductive voice protested. “I just told you, I’m not clean.”
“Pleasure can be managed easily regardless of your flow.” Adrian’s hand stroked her inner thigh and found her soft curls. He moved the odd garter-like contraption that held the cloth away, and touched her moist petals. He bent over her and kissed her mouth deeply as he worried and her woman’s flesh into a frenzy. Her soft gasps caressed his cheek as he circled her sensitive jewel with his finger and then pushed against it, bringing her to completion.
Tara lay panting in his embrace. He could feel the erratic beating of her heart against his chest. So, no copulation tonight, but that didn’t negate sexual pleasure, for both of them.
“You’re wicked,” Tara whispered breathlessly.
He kissed her sweetly this time. And remembering her protests about their lovemaking, he rolled from the bed, and fumbled about the small table for the box of matches. The yellow glow of two candles expanded the room. He turned and bent over her again to kiss those dear lips. “I’ll be right back.”
The outer room was dark. He took a candle with him and lit the oil lamp on the table near the settee. It would be proper to leave a light for Dan, as the man was clumsy enough without having to stumble about in the dark to find his room. The water heated for dishes was still slightly warm. It wasn’t cold, at least. He dipped his hands into the water to rinse them and then found a small towel to bring to Tara. He dipped it in the water, and squeezed it out. She was so worried about menial chores, about dirtying the bed. Damn it. She shouldn’t have to worry about those things, not as Lady Dillon. As his wife Tara had never spent a day worrying about dirty dishes or stained bed sheets when they lived in Ireland.
Adrian returned to their bedroom with a candle, the dampened cloth, and a towel. He found Tara had risen from the bed and was changing into her nightgown. He set the candle on the table next to the one he left for her, and handed her the necessary items to soothe her worries.
“Oh!” She looked perplexed, and then pleased as she took the cloth. “Thank you.”
He gave her a nod, and slipped out of his trousers and small clothes. At night, he wore his old breeches, as they were still in excellent condition despite having been made in the last century. His lips quirked upward. They should be, he’d only left the last century a fortnight ago.
Tara had settled herself into the bed. “I know it’s early, but I’d like to read under the blankets. Can you light that wall sconce, please?” She pointed to the brass candle holder on the wall above her head.
Adrian lifted the glass chimney and lit the candle above her head. He set the candle in his hand on her side of the bed and bent to give her a soft buss on the cheek. “What are you reading?”
“A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Dan bought it at the English Bookseller near the tower. It’s the first Sherlock Holmes novel ever published, and it’s a first print edition.”
She smiled up at him. He had no idea what the significance of this book was. “I’m going to read the paper Dan brought. If you don’t mind my being in the other room for a bit?”
A shake of her head was the only reply as she opened the book and removed the ribbon marking her place. How odd, he thought, as he left her to enjoy her book; how domestically comfortable they had become.
Reading the paper was his intention. Instead, Adrian stood at the window overlooking the city of light. It was an apt name, as most of the streets were lit with gaslights in the wealthier districts, and the tower in the distance was lit with a new form of light, electricity.
He saw his reflection in the glass, against the lights of the city beyond it. Tara’s words earlier troubled him. She was not content in their relationship any longer. She came from a wondrous place with inventions that surely surpassed the brilliance of the tower in the distance.
Did she regret marrying him?
He glanced about their small, sparsely furnished apartment. This was not what he envisioned for them when he made the decision to sail to Paris. Tara should not have to clean the dishes herself or worry about washing the sheets. He had to find a way to bring them to a finer circumstance. From what he could gather, his two thousand pounds might last them a year, perhaps more if they were careful with their expenses. That was merely if they stayed here.
She deserves so much more.
And yet, she had taken him to task over his desire to give her what she deserved.
Shaking his head at the feminine sense of reason, he turned from the window and moved about the room in restlessness. He snatched the newspaper from the table and sat down on the low settee on worn, threadbare fabric that had seen better days.
He could invest money in some of these new inventions—and yet—the return on his money would take too much time. And might never produce a return. His mind churned as he turned the pages, noting advertisements for items that defied imagination. A typewriter? A telephone? He had no inkling as to what those machines might be, and why they were necessary to the modern late nineteenth century home. Illustrations depicting people in black and white were not drawn sketches as in his time. They looked so real, as if the person could be standing in front of him, rather, the person’s image in a mirror had been captured and printed in the newspaper. What type of device would bring such visions to life? A man had been murdered by his mistress this week. His portrait was in the paper, as clear as if the man were in the room with him, albeit in shades of gray.
Adrian turned the page, tired of staring at the images. “So, all the hotels and rental units are let, because of this fucking celebration?” Yes, the paper was filled with advertisements for the exposition at the foot of the steel tower. “Visit the Hall of Machines, and be amazed at the progress of science. Ride the new Otis elevator to the second floor of the Eiffel Tower and dine in luxury. Don’t miss Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, all the way from the American west.”
He set the paper aside. It was too much to contemplate.
Tara mentioned being dazed and disorientated when she came to his time. He said nothing to her as his pride was at stake, but he felt much the same. He’d entered a world that was very different from the one he belonged in.
And it had nothing to do with money.
Yes, he lived in luxury as Lo
rd Dillon, eighteenth century Irish viscount. His family had money, and privilege.
He wasn’t a complete ass as Tara might imply. He knew how hard life was for his tenants and he strove to improve their lot. They lived in cottages that he repaired for them at his expense. They worked his land to garner a living. He was a noble, it was his responsibility to provide an income for the people living on his lands. Because of him, people had work, and they had jobs. From the staff at the castle who were paid to care for his family to the rural cottagers who tended his sheep, sheared them, and helped supply the market with wool. Wool for soldiers uniforms and wool for coats and dresses for the Irish and for England. People bought his wool, and he paid his workers salaries from the income he garnered from their labor.
Tara didn’t understand the responsibilities of the landed gentry. The economic system in Ireland and England was an old one, true, but one that sustained itself for centuries and fueled the economies of nations.
And here they were, stuck in a low rent neighborhood, living among thieves, prostitutes, drunks, and aspiring artists living like beggars. It wasn’t what he wanted for her, for his darling wife. He wanted to give her a fancy home in a respectable neighborhood, with servants to wash the sheets and take care of the dirty dishes. Was that a crime?
“If you don’t like the neighborhood of Montmartre, do something to help make it a better place.”
Tara’s words challenged him. Yes, complaining about footpads and prostitutes hanging about on every corner was one thing. Doing something to address the issues in the neighborhood was quite another.
Perhaps it was time to invest in a pair of modern pistols and a fine sword.
Chapter Nine
She was in an open courtyard, a beautiful white paved courtyard with glowing green foliage dripping over the pale stone walls. It was a sort of twilight time between night and day, yet pink and yellow flowers bloomed around her. The flowers were glowing, as if lit by some magical force from within. This was a fairy garden. She knew it instinctively.
Tara looked down at the cool stones beneath her bare feet. She walked to an oval pool set in the center of the enchanted garden. Glowing pink lilies were floating on the serene surface of the pool. She knelt and looked into the water.
Fish darted beneath the surface, quick white, yellow and orange flashes that seemed to glide effortlessly through the illuminated depths. The gazing pool was lit by an opalescent green light emanating from deep below the surface. It was a magical tool, she realized, a scrying pool to peer into to see visions of the future.
As she shifted her position, the moon above was reflected in the pool from over her shoulder. It was the full moon, the time of power and vivid intuitions.
A soft swishing of skirts made Tara sit back on her heels, and look behind her.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to my garden. Welcome Tara.”
A beautiful woman stood behind her. She had glowing skin, as most of the Fey seemed to. Her long blonde hair was loose, hanging about her shoulders like waves of shimmering pale gold silk. She had on a flowing gown that was so sheer Tara could make out the graceful limbs beneath it.
“Who are you?” Tara rose from her crouched position at the pool and faced the lady who knew her by name.
“I am called Artemisia. I’ve spent decades trapped in this garden, begging the fey to come set me free. The dark ones came. They did not set me free. Instead they stole something precious and left me here, trapped for all eternity. My legacy is being corrupted. My gift to mankind is being turned into poison. Help me, Tara, please?” An alabaster hand was extended toward Tara.
Sensing the desperation in the woman before her, and the sorrow, Tara stepped forward to clasp the pale hand. She wanted to comfort the fairy being who called out to her for assistance. “How can I help you?”
“By stopping the evil that lurks in the dark places of the earth. By stopping them.”
“Who are they?” A chill passed over Tara’s heart. Part of her didn’t want to know the answer. Part of her knew the answer and didn’t wish to face it.
“Tara … ” Riley’s voice came from behind her. “This place is not as serene as it seems … go now, away with you, back to the land of men.”
A hand touched her cheek, stroking it with a light touch. She opened her eyes to find Adrian standing beside the bed, gazing down at her with a wistful smile. He was dressed in his new suit, ready to begin the day. “Darlin’, our breakfast has arrived.”
He was divinely handsome in his fine new suit and embroidered vest. He looked like a respectable businessman instead of a Shakespearean actor portraying a rake from the previous century. Maybe it was necessary for him to look the part of a gentleman if it were his mission to go to the bank and pretend to be his own great-grandson.
She rose, washed her face in the cold water on the basin in the corner, and rinsed the sourness from her mouth. Adrian handed her his old blue velvet frock coat in lieu of a robe and led her by the hand into the outer room.
“Good mornin’, fair sister.” Mick’s mystical eyes swept over her with welcome. “Have a seat. We’ve brought you sustenance, as promised.”
The scent of hot coffee teased her as she drew near. A small pot was steaming as Riley took it from the stove. He set the metal coffee pot that did not belong to them on the table. Cooked oatmeal and glass bottle of milk were set out, and a plate of pastries with little chunks of butter on the side. Mick lifted a cover from another serving dish, revealing scrambled eggs.
Tara wasted little time on pleasantries as she ladled her plate with eggs. She quickly snatched a French pastry before the men devoured them.
Adrian sat beside her and helped himself.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked the brothers as they watched her. “And where is Dan? Surely he’ll be as hungry as an ox.”
“Sleeping,” Adrian answered for her, and poked the spoon he’d been using to stir milk into his coffee toward the second bedroom. “He came in at dawn.”
“We ate on the streets,” Mick replied, giving Riley a significant look.
“And where did you come by this wonderful feast?” Tara wanted the names of the various cafes so she would remember to take the serving dishes back. They seemed to be accumulating a wild array of mismatched pots and serving platters. Did these men not realize that the items should be returned to the cafe’s were they had been taken?
Riley poured himself a small measure of milk into a cup. “Here and there.”
Tara went cold. She noted that the brothers also acquired new clothing to match the current time period. “You didn’t steal them?”
Riley expelled his breath in a rush, clearly insulted by her question. He brought the milk to his lips, took a sip and fairly purred like a cat.
“People just gave them to us,” Mick put in with a shrug. His arms crossed over his fine vest of blue silk with gold embroidery as he rested his butt on the garish green cupboard behind him. The vest made his eyes, which were already startling, seem to glow even more in his pale, lovely face. His attractiveness was overwhelming. Tara knew he could charm some poor woman into surrendering her family’s breakfast to him. His gift was glamoury, after all.
“Why?” Tara didn’t follow his meaning. “Do you mean to tell me someone just gave you a pot of oatmeal, a dish of eggs, pastries and a pot freshly brewed coffee?”
“Aye, they did,” Mick’s voice sang out in that lyrical timbre. “And to answer the why, they gave it to us because we asked them for aid. It is the fairy way. Have you never, in your life, been given something by a human simply because you voiced the need for it?”
She shook her head, and then blinked, trying to chase the blurriness from her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood to think about her past life, or rather her life in the future. It had been terribly lonely. From what he implied, it should have been the opposite, she should have lived in a fancy home and had scads of people giving her things because she was Fey born. She should’ve had the Life
of Riley.
At that thought, the coffee she just sipped came spewing out of her mouth to douse her eggs with brown liquid. She couldn’t contain her laugh as she looked at Riley, her brother. Where did that saying come from? Where indeed?
“I am pleased that we are all together this morning. I wanted to speak to each of you about our situation.” Adrian had finished his breakfast, and was ready to become Lord Dillon again.
Riley tossed Tara a cloth so she could sop up the coffee from her eggs, and Mick became serious, ready to listen to his captain’s orders. Mick had been a member of Adrian’s militia, and was his second in command in Ireland during their skirmishes with British soldiers. Albeit, her brother had taken the form of an old man then to play the part.
“I’ve torn a page from your book, sweetheart.” Adrian’s hand covered hers for a moment. The warmth of his skin was inviting. “I hope you do not mind.”
She thought he was speaking poetically until she saw the blank sheet of ivory paper he withdrew from his pocket and unfolded to display writing. Oh, sure, just rip a blank page from Arthur Conan Doyle’s first print edition of his first novel! No worries, it’s value in the future as an antique was now compromised. Tara shot him a dark look.
“I’ll purchase paper today. I was up last night and needed something with which to compose a list.” A pencil was produced, a crude stick of graphite that had been sharpened by a knife. “We need to acquire a few things for our stay here. First, clothing for Tara. However, I must caution you, we have limited funds. What other items do we need?”
Tara glanced about the small kitchen corner of the room. She took a refreshing sip of coffee and savored the richness as it rolled over her tongue. Coffee was essential to life. She’d been dismayed to learn it wasn’t a regular drink in eighteenth century Ireland. Everyone drank tea. There had been a coffee shop in Cork, but she couldn’t just go there unescorted, as Adrian had made clear it was scandalous for a lady to go jaunting about alone.
Last night’s roasting pot next to Mick’s hip caught her eye. “That should have been put on ice.” She pointed to it.
