Preoccupied, he didn't notice the sudden strain in her voice. "I've seen several at work. Ghost-hunters, what a misnomer that is, more like interlopers. Fools playing silly games in a world they can’t understand."
“Ow, Ian you’re hurting me.”
Ian stopped. He saw how red her fingers had turned and relaxed his hold, his anger receding. "Sorry darling.”
"As I said, no one had shown genuine interest in buying the place until I came along two years ago."
"Weren’t you afraid of encountering these alleged ghosts?"
He held her face in his hands and stared with a strange intensity, she didn’t understand.
"No. Intrigued by the possibility, yes, but not afraid. To be honest, the house was in such bad shape after all the years of neglect, ghosts were the least of my problems. Plumbing and wood rot were my primary concerns, not to mention the wiring, which hadn't been updated since 1980."
His eyes seemed to look deep into her soul as if he sought another answer, something more.
Miranda explained, "I've never felt threatened by the superstitions involving my house. If the manor is haunted, why would the ghosts hurt me? I'm only trying to make the place pretty again. If ghosts exist, I imagine they're people like you and I, whose spirits, for one reason or another aren't at rest. What do you think?"
"I think that's a very reasonable explanation."
They continued on, stopping again next to a flowering bush. He ran his index finger down the fullest pink petals of the blooms in a gentle caress and bent to inhale their scent.
A hazy recollection unfolded as she watched him. Recognition of the scene played in her mind, like a distant echo, something about the sight she should know. A piece to a puzzle she couldn't put together.
The sensation hammered at her memory. She couldn’t recall where or when she’d been a part of a similar, if not exact, scene like this. The feeling she was forgetting something important nagged at her. What was so important? She needed to--to what? Remember? Solve? Like a song whose words you recall but not the title. The answer hung there, just out of her reach, then slipped away. She couldn’t fix on how Ian played into these feelings.
"Should we start back?" he asked, oblivious to her perplexity.
They made their way towards the house, arms wrapped around each other's waist. Miranda stayed quiet, her mind awhirl as she tried to sort out what the odd sensations meant.
"Come with me while I return my friend's horse to the farm then we'll go to lunch. I don't know about you but I'm ravenous. Besides, I have to discuss a matter with you."
Ian’s curious statement broke her train of thought.
Chapter Forty
As usual, parking on the High Street was at a premium. In a rare occurrence, a space opened as Ian drove up. Like most urban drivers, he pounced. He slid his sports car into the spot in one maneuver. Miranda was impressed. It would’ve taken her multiple attempts.
Ian kept a firm hand on the small of her back as they stepped up to the sidewalk. The sudden loss of warmth when it was removed made her turn. He’d walked away and stood in front of the shop near where they parked. She followed his gaze fixed on the J. Barnes, Butcher, sign over the door. His attention shifted to the glass window and the activity inside. A glacial coldness came into his eyes as he watched. It bordered on hatred she’d only seen in movies. Spy movies and the like, where the villain drags the hero out, ties him to a chair and wheels a table of torture instruments over. Instead of fear, the defiant hero faces his torturer with pure hatred in his eyes.
"Is something wrong?"
His demeanor changed from ramrod stiff to casual, as he dismissed the question with a simple, "No, nothing." He slipped his arm around her and hugged her close all the way to the pub.
Something disturbed him, no matter how offhand he might try to act. She couldn't imagine why the butcher shop would elicit such a negative reaction. For a few moments, she’d swear he was somewhere else. Wherever it was the butcher shop took him, she didn’t want to go.
They took a few seconds to let their eyes adjust to the dark interior of the Birdcage Pub. The Elizabethan tavern was well known in the shire for its unusual façade. The narrow building had pink cob walls with a half-timbered upper level. The structure had settled unevenly over the centuries with a slight but unmistakable cant to the top floor gable.
Miranda wolfed down everything put in front of her and cast covetous eyes on Ian's uneaten chips. He slid his dish over to her side of the table.
"What did you want to discuss with me?" she asked and greedily dove into his plate.
"I talked to the American representative for the station last night and requested you as the researcher for my show. You'll work for me exclusively starting Monday." From his broad smile, he was quite pleased with the arrangement.
She stared at him, an uneaten chip in her fingers and her stomach somersaulted. She wanted to be special to Ian, like a girlfriend, not a personal researcher. Miranda did a mental recount of all her notable sins, which she was getting paid back for now, in spades.
Ian said something. She picked up on the key words, but the rest sounded like white noise. Disappointment and uncomfortable questions made it difficult to concentrate. Was all his talk and kisses a disingenuous flirtation to butter her up, get her to agree to work for him? She thought he was interested in her as a woman. How could she have been so wrong?
"You haven't answered. I'd hoped you'd like the idea." Ian's smile disappeared. He reached across the table and moved the plate of chips out of the way. "I have the feeling I've offended you."
"It's--it's a fine idea." She hesitated, debating whether or not to ask him outright about his intentions. She weighed the pros and cons and decided to bite the bullet. Better to know.
"I was under the impression you wanted to see me socially, or have I misinterpreted everything from the start?"
"What an odd question." The tips of his eyebrows drew together into a quizzical frown. "I assumed I made my desire to see you quite clear. Why would you doubt it? The fact you're my researcher too shouldn't make any difference."
"I’m afraid it makes all the difference. I can't date you if you're my boss. I've seen enough office romances to know they never work out. They're death on a relationship, especially when one party is the boss and the other is a subordinate." Miranda slumped against the padded booth back.
"We’ll be the exception."
"No, we won't be the exception. I can't and won't go out with you while you're my boss."
There was no romance to office affairs. They always seemed tawdry to her. The next statement practically choked her to say, but she saw no other choice.
"When the show is finished, I'd love for us to see each other, if you're still interested."
"Are you crazy? That's six months away! I can't believe you’re imposing this Draconian ideology on us.”
"I'm sorry Ian, but I've had friends who had office romances and it never went well for them. I'm sticking to my guns, it's--"
"Don't talk about guns. I called the big guns at the channel to have you switched. After you stormed out last night, I rang the station manager who waffled, so I went over his head. Living in the U.S. for the past year, I learned a thing or two about the Yanks. They don't shilly-shally, not when it involves revenue. They've already sold the commercial spots for my show. At this point, they'd give me the Dalai Lama if I asked.” He sighed. “Serves me right for thinking I'm so clever. I outwitted myself."
"What do you mean?"
"My plan was faultless. If you refused my apology and explanation, I'd win you over while we worked together. A simple enough plan."
The sticky situation made her heartsick. It was a big risk. All she could do was hope he'd still be interested in six months. Then there was the issue of his sex life. Obviously, she couldn't expect him to remain celibate which opened the door for another woman to worm her way into his affections. On the other hand, he hadn't intimated theirs would be an ex
clusive relationship anyway. If she didn’t take the job, Zandra might. And if Zandra got it, she’d say hateful things about Miranda every chance she could. Miranda racked her brain for a compromise.
"Ian, what if you ask for someone else and I'll assist them if there's a problem?"
He shook his head. "I can't ask to change now. I was adamant in my demand. No, you'll be my researcher." Ian reached over and covered her hand with his, "We'll work this out one way or the other." His forced smile didn't hide his agitation over the situation. "There's something else I'd like to ask you, something that has no bearing on work."
“What?” she asked, leery of getting more bad news.
"Do you ever go to the butcher a couple of doors down?"
How casual he made the question sound, but his grasp on her hand tightened imperceptibly.
"No. I went there once when I first moved here. But Barnes gave me the creeps. I get everything at Sainsbury's. Why do you ask?"
He relaxed, pleased with her dismissal of Barnes. "Just curious. What do you mean he gives you the creeps?"
"I can’t explain it. He didn’t do anything necessarily bad. He came out from behind the counter when he didn’t need to and stood too close. He kept brushing against me. It gave me the willies. I’d have turned and left, but I was the only customer in there and it would’ve been awkward. I bought one item and got out of there fast. I know I sound paranoid.”
“No, some people affect us in strange ways,” Ian offered. If the time were right, he’d have told her, it’s the part of her that’s still Elinor reacting to Barnes.
Ian studied the subtle changes in body language. They offered him a delightful view. She’d loosened the high collar and unbuttoned the first few buttons on her riding blouse. When she moved a certain way, the change in position pulled the bodice snug. The lace of the low cut bra was well defined through the thin cotton.
Barnes couldn't be faulted for wanting to touch Miranda, his actually doing so incensed Ian. The modern world has its conveniences, but the old world had its own advantages. Impaling the head of your enemy on a pike to warn other scoundrels was an advantage he missed.
"He's icky," she said with a wrinkled nose and bent forward to stress the point gifting Ian with a better view of her cleavage. Grudgingly, he focused his attention back to her eyes.
"Icky, huh? I like that description." He laughed and brought her hand to his lips. Her fingers smelled of potato and malt vinegar. She smiled, watching him with a mix of humor and mischief in her eyes, the way Elinor often did.
The pub was about to close for the afternoon and they had to leave. “Do you mind if I run a quick errand. I need something from the chemist,” Miranda said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“No problem. I’ll catch up with you at the car.” He glanced down the street to Barnes’s old wooden sign. “I’ve got something I want to do too.” He gave her a light kiss on the cheek and they both walked away in opposite directions. Ian waited till he saw Miranda go into the drug store before he stepped into the butcher shop.
The overhead bell jingled. The sound surprised him, it was so old fashioned.
A young man, thin with a shaved head, came from the back. “Can I help you?”
Ian hesitated with second thoughts, wondering if the bastard would even recognize him.
He decided, he wanted to stir Barnes’s long buried fears. He wanted the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face. "Is Mr. Barnes around?”
“My father doesn’t deal with customers anymore. Is there something I can assist you with?”
“I knew your father years ago. I thought I’d stop and say hello.”
Ian wouldn’t have guessed the young butcher was related to Barnes, let alone a son. He had his father’s height, but that was all. The father at least had a strong build. The son’s butcher coat hung loose and droopy, the way a heavy coat does on a wire hanger. His lean face bordered on gaunt and made his cheek bones more prominent and his chin more pointed.
“If you’ll give me your name, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“I’d rather surprise him.”
The younger man shrugged and left. A few minutes passed. The son was taking longer than he expected. Ian went to the front window and stretched as far as he could and looked up the street. He worried Miranda would finish and see him in the shop. He couldn’t do what he planned if she came inside. Relieved she wasn’t in sight, he turned his attention to the rear of the shop, where the son had disappeared.
The swing door had a glass window that ran from midway to a couple of inches from the top. Ian positioned himself to get a better view of the work area. Then he saw him, Barnes senior. All Ian’s anger, all his desire for revenge, faded.
The former butcher moved with what Ian could only guess from his limited line of sight, slow, shuffling steps. Barnes used a stainless steel cane in his left hand while the son held the right elbow and assisted. The elder man’s stroke ravaged face sagged on the right, his lower lip hung at an odd slant, and the eyelid lay half closed.
Ian felt no sympathy for the low grade predator. He wouldn’t forgive the abuse Barnes perpetrated against Elinor. But, Ian didn’t feel the hate anymore either. He eased out from the two big cases he’d been standing between and left before father and son got to the backroom door.
Miranda waved as she walked towards him. He hurried down the sidewalk to meet her, slipping his arm around her waist.
“Is your business finished?” she asked.
“Yes, the loose end is taken care of,” Ian said, conscious of the shop’s display windows as they got into the car.
He merged into the High Street traffic and put Barnes from his mind. He concentrated on Miranda. He drove her home the long way. The less traveled country road with its bends and curves lulled him into a pleasant daydream.
In the perfect world of his fantasy, the memories would rush back to her, and she'd be in his arms. He'd make short work of the tiny shirt buttons. She'd tip her head back and grant him free access to the sensitive skin of her throat and collarbone. He'd taste, and touch, and savor until his senses reeled and she cried out for more. The daydream's rich details took on a life of their own as Ian wended the car through the lush green landscape of Norfolk.
Miranda tapped him on the shoulder as his erotic journey had progressed to her panties. "You missed the turn for my house."
"Sorry, just daydreaming." Ian fidgeted. His groin strained uncomfortably in the tight breeches.
"About what?"
"Pardon?"
"What were you daydreaming about?"
He doubted Miranda was ready to hear his sex fantasy. Thinking quickly, he said, “Umm, well I thought we might go over the program's subject matter,” he said, looking for a spot to make a U-turn. “Put our heads together and kick around some ideas, come up with different ways to entertain while we educate the audience." Ian gave himself a mental pat on the back for his fast recovery.
“I’m really flattered you want me to contribute. I’d love that. I’d love to be more than the research lady.” Miranda planted a kiss on his cheek.
Ian held her hand as he drove along, encouraged by the kiss. His pleasure marred only by the looming problem of convincing her they could date and work together.
Chapter Forty-One
Miranda lay in bed that night and tried to hold her thoughts to only the best parts of the day...Ian’s kiss, their walk in the woods, the lovely drive back to her house. Try as she might she couldn’t keep the unexplainable visions and roller coaster emotions that accompanied them at bay. She forced her brain to stop working overtime. She fixed Ian’s face in her mind, closed her eyes and dreamed.
She stood at the gate of Castle Ashenwyck, a ruin no more. The flames from torchlights flickered behind the leaded windows of the keep. A tall man appeared in the moonlit bailey and walked towards her. He stepped through the portcullis and extended his hand.
“Ian.” She whispered.
“I’ve been
waiting for you.” He took both her hands in his and pulled her to him. He slid the hood of her cloak down, then cupped her face in his hands. He kissed her like a ravenous man, making a banquet of her lips, tasting every deep place of her mouth with his tongue. The massive oak doors of the Keep opened. Ian wrapped his arm around her waist and swept her along with him, the doors shutting as they stepped through.
Logs blazed in a fireplace big enough for her to stand inside. Ian led her over to a thick sheepskin rug that lay before it. She held still as he undid the frog clasp of her cape, letting the garment fall and pool at her feet.
A dress made of a gossamer material lighter than silk and softer than velvet clung to her body. The rosy circles of her areolas and dark nest of pubic hair were revealed. She felt no embarrassment, no self-consciousness.
Ian ran his hands down her arms and up her ribcage to her breasts, his palms warming her nipples. He wove his fingers into her hair and kissed a path down her throat and over her collarbone. Everywhere his lips touched and left a damp spot, he blew a warm breath.
“More,” she whispered
Lifting his head, his fingers moved to the top of her gown. He bunched the material in his hands and ripped. That garment too, puddled at her feet and she was naked. Ian bent and suckled a nipple, softly at first, then harder and harder. He shifted, paying homage to the other until it too pebbled.
Then, he dropped to his knees. She spread her legs in anticipation. He planted his strong hands on the backs of her thighs and held her in place. He kissed the inside of her thighs and she thread her hands in his hair. She pulled him against her until his mouth was at her entry. He ran his tongue along her crevice then dipped it into her, sucking for a moment before pulling out. She moaned in protest and he tasted her again. He entered and withdrew mimicking the sexual ritual. He did it again and again. When she thought she’d explode with pleasure, he did things she only heard about. She cried his name as she came.
Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) Page 19
