She laughed. “Aye, an elephant. And a zebra and a kangaroo. I’d like to see the paintings from the artists you’ve seen, and the ones I found in your books. Michelangelo and DaVinci, Van Gogh, Monet, Beethoven.”
“Beethoven was a composer. I don’t believe he could paint.”
“That’s right, sure, that’s right. The Moonlight Sonata, and all those symphonies with numbers. It’s the wine muddling it up a bit. I’d like to see a violin, and a piano. And an electric guitar. Do you play any of those?”
“Actually, it’s a little known fact that there were six original Beatles. Never mind.”
“I know. John, Paul, George and Ringo.”
“You’ve got a memory like that elephant you’d like to see.”
“As long as you remember it, it belongs to you. I’ll likely never see an elephant, but I’ll have orange trees one day. The seeds in the hothouse pots are sprouting.” She held her thumb and forefinger up, close together. “That bit of green coming out of the dirt. Glenna tells me the blossoms will be very fragrant.”
“Yes, they will be.”
“And I took other things.”
It amused him to hear the confessional tone in her voice. “So, you’ve sticky fingers, have you?”
“I thought, if I’m not meant to take them to Geall, they won’t go. I took a cutting of your roses. All right, well, three cuttings. I was greedy. And a photograph Glenna took of Larkin and me. And a book. I confess it, I took a book right out of your library. It’s a thief I am.”
“Which book?”
“It was poems by Yeats. I wanted it particularly because he was Irish it said, and it seemed important I bring something that was written down by an Irishman.”
Because you were Irish, she thought. Because the book was yours.
“And the poems were so beautiful and strong,” she continued. “I told myself I was going to give it back to you once I’d copied more down, but that’s a lie. I’m keeping it.”
He laughed, shook his head. “Consider it a gift.”
“Thank you, but I’ll happily pay you for it.” She rose, stepped over to where he sat. “And you may name the price.” She sat on his lap, linked her arms around his neck. “He wrote something, your Yeats, that made me think of you, and especially what we have between us tonight. He wrote: ‘I spread my dreams at your feet. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.’”
She combed her fingers through his hair. “You can give me your dreams, Cian. I’ll tread softly.”
Impossibly moved, he rested his cheek against hers. “You’re unlike any other.”
“With you, I’m more than I ever was. Will you come out, stand for a while on the balcony with me? I’d like to look at the moon and the stars.”
He rose with her, but when he turned, she drew him back. “No, the bedroom balcony.”
He thought of her mother, of what she’d seen. “Are you sure?”
“I am. I stood out there today, alone. I want to stand there with you, in the night. I want you to kiss me there so I’ll remember it all of my life.”
“You’ll want a cloak. It’s cold.”
“Geallian woman are made of sterner stuff.”
And when she led the way, when her hand gripped his tight as she opened the balcony doors, he thought, yes, yes, she was.
Chapter 14
He kissed her on the balcony, and she would remember it, all of it. She wouldn’t forget the quiet music of the night, the chill in the air, the easy skill of his mouth.
Tonight she wouldn’t think of sunrise and the obligations that came with it. The night was his time, and while she was with him, it would be hers.