Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time)

by Chris Karlsen

  Before her heart could slow, Ian drew her down onto her knees facing him. He was naked too. He kissed her and she tasted herself in his mouth. He lay her down onto the woolly rug and she locked her legs around him. He drove into her. Braced on his elbows, he moved his hips in a circle on top of her, first right then left, dancing inside her. He withdrew until only the tip of him remained in her, then he thrust deep within, far, and hard. She came again.

  Miranda sat up in bed and switched on the lamp. The sex was so graphic she looked at the pillow next to her. Ian wasn’t there. She knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t be there, they’d said goodbye hours earlier. But she looked anyway. Her bed was a mess. The covers hung half on, half off the mattress. The duvet lay bunched on the floor. You’d think I really had a round of bang-up sex, she thought.

  She plumped her pillows against the headboard and leaned back thinking about the dream. The very realistic dream. The very explicit dream. Once, after seeing the play, she dreamt the Phantom of the Opera kissed her while she was in the shower. She was wet and naked. He was dry and dressed in his usual mask, cloak and tux. This was way more than a musical theatre actor canoodling with you. The details of this dream were worthy of sharing. She wondered which of her friends she could tell. Not Kiki. Kiki would blab. Keeping secrets wasn’t her strong suit. Actually, this was strictly best friend material. She’d tell Shakira. Miranda glanced at the clock to see what time it was and how long before she could phone Shakira.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “This is ridiculous!” Miranda complained. “In the brief time I’ve worked for Ian, I must have taken a thousand calls from different women.”

  “A thousand? Do you think you might be exaggerating because they’re all from females?” Kiki asked with an annoying smirk.

  “No. A little, maybe. All right, yes. But I bet it’s at least a hundred.”

  Kiki looked unconvinced. “I’m going back to my office. I’ll see you later when you’re not so cranky.”

  Miranda swore as the phone rang again. “No, he’s still not in. Yes, I’ll take another message Carla. Yes, I know how it’s Carla with a C.” Miranda rolled her eyes and fumed. “Bye,” she said and banged the receiver down. Unsatisfied, she picked the receiver back up and banged it down three more times.

  ****

  Ian returned from the afternoon meeting in a good mood. He stopped by the studio’s security desk to tell the guards a bawdy joke. They offered to email him a couple good ones they’d received before he continued on his way. This was the start of the second week working with Miranda. He believed he was making progress with her. Ian smiled as he passed Miranda's office, which was open as usual. He only caught a portion of her phone conversation, enough to stop him in his tracks. Ian blanched and took two steps backward. He stood in the doorway and patiently waited for her to finish.

  She took her time writing out the message, not bothering to acknowledge his presence. Miranda still didn't look up after the call ended. He cleared his throat. She ignored him and added the slip to the other messages. Then with slow and excruciating precision, she tapped the stack together with each rotation.

  Ian waited, observing with every turn her lips alternately tightened or pursed. She was pissed about something. From the cold shoulder he got, Ian guessed the root of her anger involved him.

  Finally, she looked his way. "My liege, is there something I can do for you?" Her honey-coated drawl oozed sarcasm, and made “my liege” sound like a sleazy invective.

  "Your liege? Interesting. So, tell me, my little serf, did I hear correctly? Did you answer the last call as the ‘Hussy Hotline?’"

  "As a matter of fact I did," she challenged with a what are you going to do about it look written all over her face?

  Only the slight flare of Ian's nostrils hinted at the smile he suppressed battling to keep up an imperious façade. Her little rebellion had his mind wandering. Mental pictures of kissing that impertinent expression off her face diverted him from the subject.

  Ian knew the role of imposing liege lord well. He moved out of the doorway, over to the front of her desk.

  "Your unique salutation could be an embarrassment. I do get business calls. I’m sure you have a reason for it." He leaned closer and gripped the edge of the desk, upping the intimidation level a notch. "Would you like to tell me what's got your feathers so ruffled? I'm sure I can guess, but I'd rather hear it from your own sweet lips."

  Puffs of Ian’s breath fanned the top of her hair. Her eyes widened a fraction, but she didn’t budge. A mutinous Miranda stuck her chin up in a blatant refusal to be cowed.

  "I'm not a fool. I know Zandra is responsible for all your paramour's calls being routed to me. I've worked out a system with the switchboard operators. When it's a familiar female voice they put the call on line two, all the others are sent to line one. I only answer Hussy Hotline on the secondary number.

  "None of your women seem insulted by my greeting. As a matter-of-fact, Carl--la has called back twice in the last half hour alone."

  She'd worked herself into a waspish snit. He waited for the second volley.

  "You saunter in and stand around like some dark archangel, a hand on each side of the doorframe, your unbuttoned jacket winging out." She pointed her index finger like a lethal weapon. “Well, that avenging angel attitude doesn’t work on me. I’m not intimidated, so you can stop looming over my desk.”

  “It was worth a shot,” he said, unable to keep the humor from his voice.

  "I am supposed to be your research assistant, not your personal secretary. I came in a half hour early this morning to get a jump start on those weapons you wanted catalogued. And all I've done is take messages from your lovesick mistresses."

  Miranda slammed the slips down in front of him. Her angry eyes sparkled even in the unflattering office light. Ian tucked the stack into his coat pocket and sat on the corner of her desk.

  "You're right. You shouldn't have to take my personal calls. I’ll get them to end."

  “Start with that Jennifer person. She’s a loon. The whingeing and whining when she can’t get you on the phone is working my nerves.”

  “Would’ve guessed?”

  “I had the impression she’d been dealt with.”

  “Me too. I’ll take extra care to make certain she understands completely.”

  “Please do. The sooner, the better.”

  Ian touched his palm to her cheek. "Green is a very becoming color on you. It goes with your complexion."

  The comment earned Ian a look worthy of Medusa. "What is that supposed to mean," the mumbled words vibrated against his palm.

  "Your dress, it's a lovely shade of green."

  Ian rubbed his thumb across her cheek. His fingers brushed the length of her jaw line as he withdrew his hand. He stood and walked to the door.

  He raised a flat palm over his heart and bowed his head. "I'll sort out the telephone issue." After a brief pause, he added, "Oh, you do know that as your liege lord you have to do anything I ask, and I do mean anything."

  The thrown pen missed as he quickly ducked out the door.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Alex Lancaster walked along the corridor to Ian's office. Ian sounded tense on the phone and suggested he stop by. Their lifelong friendship extended far beyond the definition normally applied to the term. A whole new meaning is added when you’ve fought and died together, let alone haunted the earth. Granted a second chance at life, they'd each fared well. After all that had happened to them, there wasn't much either found stressful. Naturally, Ian’s call stirred his interest.

  Alex smiled to himself as he walked, his thoughts dwelling on their accomplishments. He had his work as a music producer and was considered a powerhouse in the industry with a knack for predicting trends. Ian had found success in his history outings. Lovely, open-minded women were in abundance. Life was good.

  More out of habit than curiosity, he took a fast glimpse into the rooms as he passed. He stopped at the door
of one.

  A woman sat bent, reading. Stacks of open books surrounded her. Straight hair the color of polished red mahogany hid her face. It didn't matter. He had a knack when it came to women too. And, he had a feeling this one was delicious under that curtain of hair. The faint scent of familiar perfume reached him as he lingered in the doorway. The fragrance invoked memories. Curiosity piqued, he entered.

  She stuck a post-it note on the page she’d been studying and looked up. "Do you need assistance?" she asked with a polite smile.

  Alex didn’t answer. Instead he scrutinized the woman. The hair was darker, thicker. She had the remains of a nice tan. Her complexion seemed on the olive side without the additional color. She had a clever little beauty mark by her upper lip. But, it was her eyes that made him pause. Could it be?

  "Is there something I can do for you?" Caution had crept into her tone.

  "Sweetling, you may do anything you like to me, or with me, or if you're so inclined, for me. As to assistance, well I've never needed any in the past. I believe I'll be able to rise to the occasion whatever you choose to do."

  She cocked one brow. "Sweetling, sounds like a medieval endearment. Something rakish knights used to avoid committing a damsel's name to memory."

  Alex threw his head back and dramatically covered his heart with one hand, “La Belle Dame sans Merci, you wound me.” His teasing manner faded as he spoke from memory.

  “And there we slumber'd on the moss,

  And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,

  The latest dream I ever dream'd

  On the cold hillside.

  I saw pale kings, and princes too,

  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all,

  Who cry'd-La Belle Dame sans Merci

  Hath thee in thrall!"

  "That's my favorite Keats poem. I thank you for the 'beautiful lady' part, but surely I'm not without mercy?"

  He started to answer and the words stuck. He cleared his throat. "Fair lady, were I a dying medieval knight I can think of no face I'd rather look upon in my last moments than yours. Your lips suggest a passionate soul. Where there is passion, there is mercy."

  “Do you always say the right thing?”

  “It depends on the woman.”

  She laughed softly. “Seriously, is there something I can help you with?"

  "I'm Alex Lancaster, an old friend of Ian's. Can you direct me to his office?"

  He reached over and took Miranda's hand, kissed the back of her fingers, then smelled the inside of her wrist. "Ah L’interdit, that would make you Ian's Miranda." And his Elinor.

  "Yes, I'm Miranda, Ian's research assistant. He's spoken of you often, Mr. Lancaster. I'll show you to his office."

  She stood and started across the room when Ian walked in. "Alex, I knew I heard your voice. I see you two have met."

  As he and Ian talked, Miranda passed very close on the way to her desk. She stopped. "Excuse me Mr. Lancaster, but you seem very familiar to me. I feel like we’ve met before."

  Alex glanced over and caught the fleeting, pained look on Ian’s face. "Some people say if you feel like you've done something or met someone before, you have," he said, turning to Miranda.

  She nodded. “Well, I guess it will have to remain a mystery for now.”

  "We'll be in my office,” Ian said and left with Alex.

  Ian poured two straight scotches, handing one to Alex as he sat. "I need your advice. It seems all the minions from hell are conspiring to thwart my progress with Miranda." He tossed the stack of pink message slips across the desk towards Alex.

  Alex spread them out in front of him. "So you get messages. What's the problem?"

  "If you'll notice they are all from women, Jennifer, Suzy, Carla. Miranda took them."

  "Beautiful women are calling you, pretty standard stuff, nothing new there. Miranda’s your assistant. Isn't taking messages part of her job?" Alex gave him a quizzical look. "Enlighten me, I don't see the problem."

  "The problem is I don’t want Miranda to think I'm a playboy and only want a tumble. I'm not seeing these women anymore and don't intend to ever again. How can I convince her of that if they keep calling?"

  Alex leaned back and stretched his legs out. "Why don't you just go to the switchboard operators and tell them to take the messages. Instruct them not to forward anymore to Miranda."

  Ian sipped his drink and dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. "I've done that. They were told by Zandra, one of the executive assistants, to send the calls to Miranda. And believe me, they're a lot more afraid of Zandra than they are of me. The woman's a harridan. She's doing it to spite Miranda. The two hate each other."

  "I think I passed her in the hall, the face of a peregrine falcon, right?"

  "That would be her, although comparing the two is cruelty to falcons everywhere."

  "You're known to have considerable charm. Perhaps you should apply some of your legendary wiles to Zandra one evening." Alex wiggled his brows.

  Ian's lips curled in disgust. "I wouldn't touch her with a Frenchman's dick. But, since you've made the suggestion, why don't you beguile her, take her to new heights?" This time Ian wiggled his brows.

  "She's not my problem."

  “Very droll.”

  “I'm willing to take one or two of these ladies off your hands though," Alex offered as he sorted through the stack. "What about Jennifer, what's she like?"

  "A borderline stalker, I thought I was rid of. I'll have to handle that one myself. Again."

  Alex put all the slips from Jennifer aside. "And Suzy?"

  “What’s the best way to describe Suzy?” Ian sighed and tried to be at least kind, if not nebulous. "A dancer, nice body, appeared in every chorus line, in every West End musical for the last decade. High maintenance."

  Grunting, Alex put Suzy's messages in the same pile as Jennifer's. The last two words made his decision, as Ian knew it would.

  "How about Carla?"

  Ian smiled. "I think you’d like Carla. She’s smart, claims to have gypsy blood and she likes games."

  "I'm pretty good at them myself. I play a sharp game of poker, and as you know, a mean game of backgammon. Maybe a little strip backgammon to entertain her."

  "Not those kind of games." Ian exchanged a meaningful glance with Alex.

  "I'll take her." Alex pocketed the slip with Carla's number and pushed the stack of rejected slips across the desk. "Introduce us tomorrow over drinks."

  Zandra flounced into the office without knocking. "Hello Ian. The station manager would like a word." Her head snapped around to where Alex sat.

  "Tell him I'll be there in a minute." Her rude habit of barging into his office irritated the hell out of him. He ground out his reply with the idea that Zandra might realize her obnoxious behavior wasn't acceptable. She didn’t react, oblivious to all but Alex.

  “I know you. You’re Alex Lancaster, the music producer,” Zandra said. “I’m Zandra Rhodes, executive assistant to Hugh Glencoe. We’d love to have you as a guest on his show.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Ian stood, aimed a malevolent glare at Hugh's assistant and slipped on his jacket. Her attention stayed fixed on Alex, as she moved closer to him. From the corner of his eye, Ian thought he saw Alex cringe.

  Alex grabbed his drink and darted past them and into the hall. Ian ushered Zandra out by the elbow and again instructed her to tell the station manager he was on the way. If it had been Miranda, he'd have given her a pat on the bum before sending her off. Zandra, he was reluctant to touch in any but the most perfunctory way. Instead, he reverted back and engaged the old medieval, Earl of Ashenwyck brook no argument attitude. Ian waited until she got the point and left.

  "Where are you going?" he asked Alex.

  "Into Miranda's room, I'm not staying alone in your office where that thing can swoop down on me like a sitting duck. Did you see the way she looked at me?" He made a face and shuddered.

  Ian would've laughed at Alex's
grimace and alarmed tone if it wasn't Miranda's room where he sought refuge.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Miranda looked up from the screen, surprised when Alex set his drink on the desk and pulled a chair up to hers. Ian dogged his steps.

  “Miranda,” Ian said.

  “Yes?” she said, turning from Ian, distracted by Alex. Thumbnail pictures of medieval swords were displayed on her computer. He clicked on several, blowing up the images on the screen.

  Ian barked. "Miranda!”

  She turned to Ian. “What?” she asked with a small, impatient open-handed gesture.

  Alex sat unperturbed as Ian pointed a finger at him. "Don’t let my friend here charm you out the door with tales of déjà vu possibilities. He’d love nothing more than to beetle off with you to some cozy spot. If anyone is going to beetle off with you it will be me. I don't care if he says the studios on fire, unless a fireman personally tells you to leave, you're to remain here. Do you understand?"

  She nodded and he left. “Wow, too weird.”

  "Just ignore him. He's always been a fusspot. Tell me what you're working on, sweetling."

  "Ian's first show is on the Hundred Years War. The initial segment ends with the capture of King John. Much of the beginning portion is the battles of Crecy and Poitiers. I'm trying to find the exact type of sword the Black Prince used."

  Miranda found the swords under consideration and enlarged her preferences. "Of the two I've found, one has a rather ornate pommel with a lion's head carved in the wheel. It's from his effigy in Canterbury Cathedral. I like this one though," she pointed to a second picture. "I think the simpler design is the better choice."

  After a cursory glance at the more elaborate sword Alex said, "You're right, take this one. The prince could be very flamboyant at court. But in battle, he was a serious warrior. He used a sword with a simple unadorned pommel, the cross-guards straight and plain."

  Alex leaned back in the chair and appeared to choose his words carefully as he described the Black Prince. "Edward had one of the finest military minds England has ever known."