Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (38 page)

“I like both.” Miranda smelled the flowers. “Lovely roses, thank you,” she said and kissed him. "There's a drinks cart in the drawing room. Please make yourself at home."

Without asking he brought her a drink too. "I didn't see much of your house last time, mind if I walk around?"

"Not at all."

Ian noticed the two Leighton paintings the first time he came. There’d been no opportunity to discuss the artwork that day. Later of course, Miranda told him she found the pictures in the attic. Interestingly, she'd hung them in the exact same place as Elinor.

He remembered how adorable Elinor looked that night swaying as she sang to those disco songs. Nostalgia swept over him. He closed his eyes.
Elinor.
How long had it been since he tried to picture Elinor’s face. Ian opened his eyes, studying the similar but different looking Miranda as she arranged the flowers. Could it really have been a couple of weeks?

A ripple of remorse ran through him, yet watching Miranda filled him with mixed emotions. She was his today, his tomorrow. If only she'd remember even a smattering of their yesterday, how much richer their new lives would be.

He turned his attention to the room again. Nothing else in the drawing room was reminiscent of Elinor. Miranda surrounded the area in textured fabrics. A contemporary taupe suede sofa with throw pillows in an Asian leaf pattern of deep green and gold silk complemented the khaki green moiré draperies. Miranda was eclectic but warm in her tastes and definitely a change from Elinor's adherence to William Morris's traditional designs. He stroked the soft nap of the coffee-colored velvet chair.

Curious, Ian ventured up to the bedroom. If a room can be a contradiction, Miranda’s fit the term, romantic and exotic, enticing and bold. So like her, he thought, standing in the doorway. A satin blanket with a half-dozen appliquéd pillows of
in-your-
face rich jewel tones covered the bed. A delicate embroidered throw with seed pearls lay across the foot. Draperies in bright, dark blue hung in fat folds behind tasseled tie-backs. Miranda’s display of Oriental porcelains, intricate and unique contrasted to the ultra feminine atomizers Elinor collected.

An inexpensive carved wooden screen of East Indian design, common to any London flea market served as a headboard. The allure of this room was the sensual beauty of material. The last time he was in this room, Elinor’s antique Jacobean bed of heavy dark oak dominated the space. Ian sat on the edge of Miranda's bed and made a silent comparison. Elinor was like that collectible old bed, everything about her lay on the surface. She was what she appeared to be and would be loved for herself.
Except for ghosts. We were her secret.

Ian gave the room another visual once over. Miranda is like a glassy-surfaced lagoon, but break through the smooth veneer and underneath's riptides, and surprises. With her you've got to risk all and dive in. How could she be so different? He went back downstairs not sure whether to be dismayed or unconcerned.

He sought solace from his confusion in the library. How much could it have changed, he thought? Once his favorite room, the simple furnishings, comfortable club chairs, large desk and potted plants all similar to what Elinor had picked, eased his anxiety.

The books Miranda used as reference material for the battle armor lay open on her desk. Ian thumbed through them reading the comments on her post-it notes.

She walked in and took his hand. “It’s our day off. No talking about the production, understand?” Miranda closed the book he’d been reading. “Come to dinner, the stroganoff is ready.”

“The last time I had good stroganoff was in a hole-in-the-wall Russian restaurant in a shabby Hollywood neighborhood,” Ian said and let her lead him.

“You haven’t tasted my stroganoff yet. That Russian restaurant may still be your last good stroganoff.”

During the candlelit dinner, Ian seized the opportunity to discover any useful clue to Miranda’s buried memories. Answers to his subtle questions didn’t give him much information.

“Do you ever wonder about Ashenwyck?” He poured the last of the bordeaux as she cleared the dishes.

“All the time. I try to picture it filled with castle folk, bustling with activity. In my imagination, I even furnish it. You have to understand, I do that everywhere I go. I imagine how it used to be.”

“Really? Tell me how you see the great room.” Ian clasped her hands and tried to get her to sit while she talked. Miranda laughed and pulled away to gather the rest of the dishes.

“You told me a little the day you found me there but in my head, I’ve filled in more details. Give me a minute, and I’ll join you.”

Ian nodded and returned to the library.

After walking around the house earlier, he realized he had to rethink his plan. Badger Manor hadn’t triggered Miranda’s memory, neither had working with him. The Leighton paintings were the key. Elinor loved them. Miranda loved them. In her dreams, Elinor loved the Ashenwyck he whispered of. He’d remind Miranda of that dream castle.

He sat on the edge of the desk and mentally organized what needed to be done for the plan. He stared at the two tall bookcases in front of him, filled to the brim. One held mostly fiction paperbacks. In the other case, books on medieval history clearly outnumbered other reference material.

Curious about the abundance of information in that one area he pulled books from the shelves. Several were about knights and the Age of Chivalry, along with numerous biographies of the Black Prince and Edward the Third. Others were different accounts of the Hundred Years War; each contained bookmarks. Ian assumed it was research for the show.

In some, she'd inserted handwritten notes with dates. Ian didn't pay attention to them as he went on to the next book. Then, one note, written in red ink caught his eye, dated prior to the show...way prior. His was the first television series in four years that detailed the war against France and the English campaign. What was Miranda doing with all this documentation? He backtracked to where the memos started and checked them individually. All were before she came to the station. In each she marked the same place, and the same people, like she'd been searching for someone. Searching for him?

Ian closed the last book, sank into a nearby chair and propped his feet up on the desk. Perfect. I’m the knight you seek. Once I give you Ashenwyck and you learn our history, you’ll know it too. What started as a slow, humorous chuckle, rumbled up until he found himself laughing.

That's how Miranda found him, sitting behind a stack of books, wearing a silly grin. "What's so funny?"

"You’re funny. Life is funny." Ian stood and held his hand out. "Come here."

She looked suspicious but came around the desk. Ian stepped behind her so she had a clear view of the shelves. "What do you see?"

Miranda blew out a long, impatient sigh.

"Okay Ian, I'm going for the obvious here, books. I see books."

He wrapped his arms around her and draped her hair over to one side and kissed her nape. "What kind of books?"

She tilted forward giving him better access to the spot he knew was highly sensitive.

Ian traced a path of kisses from the base of her ear down the side of her neck.

"Ian."

His name was lost to a moan as he found an especially vulnerable place. He’d remember this weak spot for when he needed it down the road, whenever she was mad at him.

"Hmmm...Yes, darling."

"I don't want to talk about books. I...I want-"

He lifted his head so his lips brushed her ear. "What? What do you want?"

"No, don't stop." The plea spilled out. "I want more kisses, here and here." Miranda touched a finger to the hollow above her collar bone and then back to the susceptible area on her neck.

Ian followed her finger with his lips. "What kind of books?" he asked, gliding his hands up Miranda's ribcage to stroke the sensitive inner flesh of her arm. His thumbs continued the erotic motion over the sides of her breasts as he trapped her nipples between his fingers. "Tell me about them."

"Uh, history, they're my history material." She closed her eyes and dropped her head back against his chest. "Ian, why are we talking about books? Why are we talking at all?" Her voice had gone from a soft whimper to a low seductive invitation.

A part of him wondered the same thing, mostly the lower part. "Miranda, you're not paying attention. What kind of history books?" He ignored the pressing need of his own body to pursue an answer. The answer he wished to hear.

"Umm, I don't know. Medieval."

Ian stilled his hands.

"Why did you stop?"

"Ah, I take it you like this." He caught a nipple and made small circles over the nub. "And this."

Kisses on her neck turned to little nips. She murmured something unintelligible that he took as a good sign. "I have an unlimited supply of these which I'm most willing to share, but you have to answer my questions."

"That's blackmail."

"Yes, it is."

"The devil take you, Ian Cherlein. They're history and other various reference books. I'm a researcher, remember?"

"The devil didn't want me. And I'm aware of your profession. I want to know why you have so many medieval ones. Why is the fourteenth century bookmarked in all of them?"

"I don't know. I guess I've always had a fascination for that time. Kiss my neck again." Miranda tapped a finger impatiently on the exact place she preferred.

This wasn't going as planned. Ian wanted to soften her up so she'd be more relaxed, more open-minded to his suggestions. Instead his strategy made her like silly putty, not to mention an erection he could cut diamonds with. Frustrated, he decided on a different approach.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

Miranda shifted and tried to face him, but he held her tight. "You know I don’t go for that woo-woo business. But, I do get these déjà vu moments. So, I’d say where reincarnation is concerned, yes. Do you?"

"Yes."

"Interesting, I thought mostly women believed in reincarnation."

"You're probably right. Most men are keener on instant gratification than future gratification, I'm an exception. But we've digressed, try and stay with me." He gave her bum a light tap. "What do you think I might have been in a past life?" He asked with strained casualness. It was difficult to hide his anxiety as he waited for her to say knight.

"Definitely, a Roman general. I see you riding roughshod over some poor Celtic village." Miranda nodded as though the panorama played out in her head. "There you'd be in your shiny breastplate and fancy cavalry helm, on a giant warhorse oppressing the locals."

Behind her back Ian rolled his eyes. "I was almost flattered for a moment there. Oppressing the locals indeed." He leaned in and whispered, "Can you see me as a knight?"

Miranda made a huffing sound and gave him a sidelong look. "Of course, I already have." She lowered her gaze and took a deep breath. Ian felt her ribcage expand with the effort. "Ian, I--I've seen you. Today, I-"

"Forget the sword fight," Ian interrupted. He didn't want her to rehash what she saw that afternoon. That wasn’t the picture he wanted to recreate for her.

"Tell me this, are you at least in the scenario with me as the Roman general?" He turned her so she faced him, his fingers spread along her spine.

"Yes.” Miranda slipped her arms around his neck. “I'd be one of the downtrodden Celts you took as a slave," she said, covering his jaw in kisses.

"I'm starting to see the merit of being the oppressor. You’d be my sex slave."

"What if I want to be a kitchen slave?"

"I'm the general. I get to pick what kind of slave you are."