Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (43 page)

Her gaze bypassed the tapestries as she glanced around the room and settled on the one of several vases of pale roses.

"The roses are lovely. My favorite colors. Thank you."

"I wanted to impress you, can you tell?" Ian forced a smile as he surveyed the profusion of flowers. "Shall we talk?" He extended a hand and gestured to the sofa.

Miranda lingered in front of the leopard tapestry. ’
Virtute et Armis
,’ with courage and arms. It sounds like a king's motto, fearsome and regal."

She moved closer and inspected both hangings. "We used painted canvas for the backdrop when Hugh interviewed you.”

Ian let her take time to scrutinize the replicas. "I remember. Do you like them?"

"Yes. They're very colorful, especially the leopard one," she said, fingering the edge of it.

"Do they seem familiar at all to you?"

"No, should they?" She watched him with an odd mixture of challenge and curiosity.

He tried not to let his disappointment show. There’d be no going back. He'd opened this particular Pandora's Box and would see it through to the end.

"’Virtute et Armis’ was my family's motto. The leopard was our badge," he told her.

"I imagine Elinor would've known them," she said quietly and sat on the sofa.

"Yes."

She moved a bit farther away as he joined her. A subtle action, but not so subtle it went unheeded. They were like strangers sharing a park bench.

“I'd like to explain more about what I told you this afternoon."

She inclined her head and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. "I know my story is the most far-fetched tale you've ever heard. You've every right to think me crazy and go running out of here. I've no physical proof I can offer you. I only hope somehow you will believe me."

She took his hand and a brief surge of optimism rippled through him.

"I believe you." Her soft fingers slid over his rough palm, but she made no effort to move closer. "Ian, from the first time we met, I've had strange, ethereal visions of you. Visions of you as a knight, or dressed in medieval clothing, never as you are now. Often they were flashes that disappeared as fast as they came, like the coming attractions of an action movie. Sometimes, I'd see a woman. I'd never see her face, not clearly anyway, but the man was always you. What you described were my imaginings in detail. I've never told anyone about them. You couldn't have known so much unless--well, unless in some way you shared the experience." Miranda slipped her hand from his. “I need a moment to collect my thoughts."

Somewhere a night owl screeched, followed by the high-pitched, plaintive squeal of its dinner. Ian never cared much for owls.

The silence between the two of them stretched.

Miranda inhaled and then blew the air out in a slow stream. "I'm trying to muster courage I’m not sure I have.”

He reached to hold her hand again but she folded her fingers together.

“Tell me again about you and Elinor?”

Ian searched for the words to make her understand. "What...what Elinor and I had was the best thing that happened to me. In my old life,” he clarified, “I had everything except love. After I lost all the mortal world had to offer, I gained something far more precious. I fell in love, and by some miracle, my love was returned. In death, when I had nothing to give her, she gifted me with her heart.

"Her love, our love, gave me my life back. It's an enormous present I never believed possible." Ian leaned in and clasped Miranda's hands between his. "I thought you'd want to know, want to remember, even if it was the tiniest of memories. When I saw Elinor again in you, I assumed what we shared would mean the same to you as it did to me."

Miranda looked away. A shiver moved from her shoulders along the length of her spine and arms. After a long pause, she straightened and faced him once more. His heart wrenched at the regret and anguish in her eyes. Hope faded.

"The relationship you've described sounds beautiful. On the other hand, I feel like I've been crushed under a steamroller, smashed into a million pieces." She took a deep breath, her shoulders sagging over a sad sigh as she let it out. "I'm sorry. Only a hideous, selfish person wouldn't be happy for you, for what the two of you had, but I'm not glad. That's awful of me, but it's the truth."

Ian's heart split apart.

Miranda explained. "Sometimes, when I'd have a vision I'd be overwhelmed with fear, fear you’d break my heart. I was never sure whether the feeling was a knee-jerk reaction to your reputation or not. In spite of that, I felt an attraction to you which surpassed anything else. Now, I wonder if it wasn’t some lingering memory of Elinor's experience."

Ian knew it was. Why had only the hurt come through?

"I've always wanted to believe in reincarnation, although it was an abstraction to me, like Heaven and Hell."

At her comment about reincarnation, optimism briefly surged again.

Miranda went on, "Faced with the reality, the truth of its existence, I think I preferred it as an abstraction." She tilted her head, her focus fixed on a spot over his shoulder.

Emotions warred within him. A part of him wanted to know her thoughts, a part dreaded knowing.

Her gaze returned to him.

"I'm not Elinor. I'm Miranda. I have my own likes and dislikes, my own desires and dreams. Elinor is somebody I used to be and no longer am.

"I don't know Elinor, and I don't know Basil. I do know I love you...Ian. I love the way you bluster about when you're peeved.” A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth.

“Miranda-”

“I love your mind and your wicked sense of humor. Mostly, I love the way you make me feel when I'm in your arms. When you hold me, there's only we two in the whole world."

She lifted a hand and combed his hair with her fingers. "I love you. The mortal man." She caressed his temples and the tender stroke of her fingertips tickled his cheek as she drew a path to his jaw. "And you love the memory of the woman I used to be.” Several seconds passed before Miranda spoke again. "It appears we've come full circle, one still loving a mortal, and one still loving a ghost. Rather a bittersweet irony, don't you think?"

Her words cut deeper than any French blade.

Miranda bent, kissed him lightly on the lips, and rose.

Ian tried to stop her and make her stay. "No." His hand closed on air as she moved out of reach.

"My friend lives nearby and can pick me up.” Miranda stayed out of his reach as she hurried for the door. “I'll talk to Kiki on Monday. She’ll be a good assistant for you. Of course, I'll be available if she runs into any problems."

"Miranda." Ian closed the distance and seized her elbow. He didn't fight her when she pulled away. “Don’t go, please.”

She paused at the threshold. "I wish to my very bones it was me you loved." Without looking back, she walked out.

Furious with himself, Ian launched his drink into the fireplace. Shards of glass covered the large stones of the hearth, the amber liquid rolled into the crevices. The violent act did nothing to ease his turmoil. He wandered the room aimlessly and found himself in front of the arched windows staring into a black night that reflected his mood.

A dismal picture of the future formed as he imagined the emptiness of his world without her. There'd be no Miranda to tease and make blush, just as she could make him laugh with a single look, or a few flirtatious words. She understood him, knew what ruffled his feathers and what didn’t. They were simpatico in all ways. Until this week, a day didn't go by that they hadn't sat in long conversation, shared ideas, exchanged small confidences. They trusted each other, at least they used to.

The moon escaped the cloud cover and bathed the spacious garden in soft white. The evening breeze whipped fallen leaves into a swirling funnel. In the pale light, they seemed made of silver. In the bright sun, their rich colors would return. Tomorrow they’d change to green. Miranda’s eyes changed from green to almost gold when excited and deepest of greens when passionate.
Miranda.

Ian tried to envision Elinor, whose eyes were so similar, only to find the image fuzzy, vague. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and pictured another.
Miranda
.

How could he be so blind? The time he wasted in nostalgic daze.

Claude entered from the servant's area and began to clean up the broken glass. Embarrassed, Ian apologized. "Sorry about the mess. I had a small accident."

The butler acknowledged with a slight incline of his head any personal thoughts shielded by his calm demeanor.

"I've taken the liberty, sir, to tell cook dinner will be later than requested."

"Thank you." Ian didn't want to say dinner might not be necessary at all, as though the words made it a certainty.

His work complete, under ordinary circumstances Claude would leave. The stately old butler did the unexpected. He remained. Then, he did the unthinkable for a servant, he ventured an opinion.

"May I offer an observation, sir?”

Ian nodded. “Of course.”

“Sometimes the worst results come from our intentions to do what we think best for someone else. When in truth, it is what’s best for us. It takes the worst happening for us to realize the difference. Talk to her, sir. I think your lady will understand.” Claude added, “I've found most things can be salvaged with a clever wit and a heartfelt appeal. Oh, humility goes a long way, too."

Ian regarded the butler for a long moment while he considered the statement, a simple comment that carried a world of wisdom. Smiling for the first time in hours, Ian thought anthropologists should make a special classification for the English butler. Those dignified gentlemen who know more of what goes on in a household than the owners, capable of being everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

"You're right. If you'll excuse me, I have salvage work to do." He winked conspiratorially at Claude who returned it in kind. "Tell cook not to fret. We may enjoy her meal yet."

"Good luck young man."

Ian took the stairs two at a time and dashed into Miranda's room not bothering to knock. He glanced around the dark bedroom and waited for his eyes to adjust. The only light came from the bathroom, where the door stood open.

“Miranda?”

Silence.

Ian switched on a crystal table lamp and checked the bathroom. Empty. Alarmed, he made another visual sweep of the bedroom. Her purse sat on the dresser along with other personal items, her brush, and make up case.

"Miranda?" he called out again.

She sat in the shadow of the window embrasure, still and quiet. A sliver of moonlight lit the edge of the oriel window, enough to reveal part of her to him. She looked weary and forlorn. Long, dark streaks trailed from under her lower lashes to her chin. The faint light deepened the hollows of her cheeks.
The Lady of Shalott,
the famous painting by Waterhouse came to mind. Miranda wore the same haunted expression. A painful stab of guilt cut through him.

"We need to talk." Ian tugged her up from the stone seat.

She shook her head and tried to retreat back to the niche.

"Please go away, Ian. I don’t want to talk right now. I'm tired. My mind is tired. My soul is tired. Leave me in peace."

"You promised me four hours. You owe me at least this one," Ian reminded her as he led her to the bed. "Sit. I'll be right back."

He went into the bathroom, ran the water and then came out a moment later with a warm washcloth.