Page 40 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

She belongs to this time. An era in which mortals do not have to wait on God for miracles. Men—and apparently, women—have already seized them. Humans now exist in a dazzling whirl of light, color, speed, and motion—all of it self-made.

In a world pulsed by all this power, where does the power of love belong?

Or can it belong at all?

My soul does not like what my head returns as an answer.

As if fate needs to pound that defeat into me, Alessandra appears at the top of the stairs. She joins me on the platform beneath the tower’s domed cap. At once, the wind whips the hair back from her face. Her frown, centered by those stunning cat eyes, matches how she looked last night after freeing me from the wardrobe. It is a look of both irritation and fascination, though she acquiesces to neither.

So gorgeously stubborn. So decidedly pragmatic. I know both of these traits about her already but not why they are there. She is a woman of stunning inner strength, and I sense it is because of great personal trials. But what kind?

I yearn to know that—and so much more. Things are so different in this time, yet I have already seen sad similarities to the past. There are so many new marvels and modern machines, yet the people still seem filled with fear, frustration, worry, and misgiving.

All the elements that define Alessandra’s steps toward me.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” I abhor my moody mutter but selfishly hope it brings out more of her breathy but determined tone. Even now, as I struggle to accept my days with her are likely limited, she soothes my rioting senses but fires my lusting blood.

And always, always, fills my world with her illumination. Especially as she plants both elbows atop the high stone ledge and then pops up on tiptoe to peer over. “Okay, wow to the tenth,” she declares. “Look at this view!”

“I prefer mine better.”

She sneaks a glance over to see I am captivated only with the curves of her profile. As I expect, a cynical laugh twists her lips. As I do not expect, a rosy blush sneaks over her cheeks. “You should be smacked for using one of the most tired lines in the book, mister.”

I grin. Her vernacular is not difficult to sift through. “But you are not tired.”

The blush intensifies. “No.”

“And you have not smacked me.”

“No.” A gentle laugh this time. She tilts her head, causing sable tendrils to whip back across her face. Her gaze is lush velvet green in the lingering morning mist. “Maybe I’m feeling merciful, since your own mind isn’t cutting you any breaks.”

Her meaning is tougher to digest this time. “My mind is not your concern, ma chérie.”

“What if I want it to be?” When I issue naught but a measured breath in response, she loops her hand beneath my elbow. “You going to spill with the deets, buster, or do I really have to crack open your skull and pry it all out?”

I step back and raise my eyebrows. “Has this century made every woman bloodthirsty?”

“You got other centuries in your pocket to compare it to?” She bumps her hip to mine, underlining the jest. “Was that how you knew about that trap door in the closet? And this incredible view?”

As she speaks, minstrels start to play on the lawn below. The vendors for the artisan faire greet one another. A new breeze fills the air, replacing the morning’s damp with the scents of fresh grass and newly baked pastries. For one moment, a perfect suspension in time, I close my eyes…and am in a different France. A peaceful era. Two hundred years ago.

Nearly my yesterday.

“I have been up here before.” The confession tells her everything and nothing. I am content with that. “To think.”

Strangely, I am not stunned when she throws her head back and laughs. “To think, huh?”

“You find it surprising that I think?”

“I find it surprising that you think up here.”

“Why?” My curiosity is sincere.

“Oh, come on.” She sweeps a hand around. “This isn’t a place meant for thinking.”

Now I get the chance to laugh. “Then what is it a place for?” I turn but at once acknowledge the miracle—and mistake—of the action. With my body fitted more intimately to hers, the erotic implications of her gaze are not so simple to chuckle away as mischief.