Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time)

by Chris Karlsen

  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."

  "How do you know I wouldn't murder you in your sleep?" She arched and looked up at him with arrowed brows.

  "You wouldn't." He ground the words out with some effort. With her back arched the way it was, her hips pushed against his groin slightly every time she spoke. Agony never felt so good.

  "How do you know?"

  "I'd keep you too tired to lift a weapon."

  Ian trailed his hands along Miranda's tailbone and over her buttocks. He struggled for control. For a tortuous moment he held her hips pressed against his arousal. She nestled herself in a perfect fit between his legs. He groaned as he brought his hands up, fisting them in her hair, oblivious to her small whimper. Desperate to bury some part of himself, he kissed her roughly, a choking kiss that penetrated deep. She angled so he could take more and in a violent frenzy of her own, Miranda thrust back.

  Ian lifted his head so his lips hovered a mere inch from hers. One week. In one week, he could bring everything he needed together. He was bursting to tell her everything now but giving her the dream back, the memory, was worth the short wait.

  Miranda slid her hands down his chest, her nails dragging over places that made him shiver in response. He had to make her stop. As her fingers dipped under the waistband of his pants, Ian grabbed her hands.

  “I can’t do this.” It took his last vestige of will power. "We have to stop...for now."

  Pain and confusion flickered across her face.

  "Why? I don't understand.” The pain disappeared. She stiffened and asked, “Why is it when I say I don't want an office romance you argue, then when I give in you stop?"

  A fatalistic dread crept into his thoughts. What if her confusion morphed into rejection?

  "You must trust me. I have my reasons. Believe me, there's nothing I'd rather do than make love to you. The time isn't right, but it will be soon. God help me, it better be."

  “Now, the time isn’t right. Interesting turnabout.”

  Miranda tried to jerk away, but he held her close and hoped she'd understand when he explained.

  "Don't be angry. Please trust me, just a little. Give me one week, okay?"

  His hold eased a bit. She sprang from his arms. “Sure.” A myriad of emotions danced in those green eyes. No longer dilated with passion they were jade ice floes, cold, wary, condemning, but not sad. He’d turn those feelings around.

  “You’re upset and you shouldn’t be. There’s a lot you don’t understand. This will all make sense in a few more days.” Ian smiled as he offered his reassurance.

  Her expression didn’t change.

  It would be so easy to play to the present, forget the past, win her over and sort the details out later. He refused to take the coward's way. She deserved to know what they were to each other. This was the fulfillment of the dream they couldn't live then. Once he recreated the scene, she’d remember. What she didn’t remember he'd explain. Their past will merge with the present and the moment will be that much sweeter.

  She broke away and went into the kitchen. He watched her work at the sink, her movements compact and robotic. The sight tore at his resolve and his heart. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt her, even temporarily.

  “I think it’s best if I leave,” he said, joining her in the kitchen.

  She didn’t argue. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, she only nodded.

  “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. But, mostly thank you for the company.” He stood close. So close, he felt the warmth of her body heat.

  She dried her hands and briefly turned to look at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.”

  “And the company.”

  “Me too,” she said, stepping from him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Worried, Ian didn’t move. “You’re angry.”

  “I promise I’m not angry.”

  He didn’t know what to do. At a loss, he went to the door.

  “Good night, Ian.”

  Her lips remained closed when he kissed her.

  “You may not be angry, but you’re clearly upset. I--”

  “Ian, stop. I’m not angry or upset. You asked for time. Take it. Take as much as you need to do whatever,” she said with a smile as warm as the one she greeted him with when he arrived.

  He relaxed. On the front step, he paused to kiss her again.

  The door shut before he had the chance.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Saturday night’s debacle with Ian continued to weigh heavy on Miranda’s heart. She’d immersed herself in various duties around the house to keep her mind occupied. Badger Manor never looked so immaculate. Zulu’s tack shined. Zulu shined. He’d always been brushed and groomed after each ride. But this past weekend, his mane and tail were trimmed and combed, hooves polished, and his coat warm water shampooed. Too bad, none of it helped Miranda wash Ian from her mind.

  He called Sunday. She broached the subject of the production’s shooting schedule for the upcoming week. Three, twelve hour days were blocked out for the filming. It was a tough sell, but Miranda convinced him she should return to London. No production, whether for the small screen or big, ever goes smoothly.

  “I’ll handle any unforeseen administrative problems,” she said. “You’re needed to oversee the location shoot.”

  Ian balked at first and then finally agreed. He wanted to come over and spend the rest of Sunday with her. Miranda begged off with a lie.

  “Lovely as that sounds, Ian, I have a nasty migraine. It’s better if you stay at the hotel.”

  Filming was completed early and Ian returned on Wednesday by noon. She avoided him most of the day while he attended production meetings. When he came back to his office, Miranda kept her door closed. The few times he came in to speak with her, she laughed at his jokes, offered opinions when he solicited one and did everything he asked. Unless, she had a business question, she didn’t seek him out or go to his office.

  Thursday didn’t go as well. Ian managed to be a constant presence in her office. Or, so it seemed.

  After he tracked her down hiding in another part of the station, she escaped to the British Museum’s library. A favorite haunt, she’d visited often. A peaceful place, the high ceilings, the recessed wood paneling that lined the walls, the old brass lamps with their pleated shades eased her troubled mind. The emotional razor blade she balanced on at work seemed a bit less sharp here, her frayed nerves a little less ragged. She loved the smells of the venerable building, an odd mix of musty linen, leather, and the pipe tobacco that clung to scholarly men of indefinite age. She wandered among the new volumes and ancient texts. Nothing here could hurt her.

  Miranda caught the Oxford Street bus westbound to Bond Street heading back to work. On board, she climbed the dimpled metal stairs to the upper deck. She loved the views of the city the second level offered.

  As she transferred buses, a quick glance at her watch showed the noon hour sneaking up. No reason not to blend the library and lunch into one journey. Not that she was hungry. One positive thing
about relationships gone awry, they were good for losing weight. Too bad, they were so brutal on the system in every other way.

  Miranda rode this route on a regular basis. The next stop was in front of Sound City, the biggest music store in London. Every woman knows, shopping is an excellent alternative to food.

  When the bus stopped, she hopped off and went inside. An old-fashioned place, the store had multiple sound booths. A customer could listen to demo CD’s in their entirety rather than the thirty-second sound bites online.

  She gave the rock section a cursory check then moved toward movie soundtracks. As she rounded the end of the aisle, she almost bumped into the broad back of a tall, long haired man, one she knew.

  She tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi. I can’t believe I’m seeing you here. I thought all you had to do was pick up the phone and CD’s were laid at your feet.”

  “Hi yourself. Don’t you look pretty.” Alex held her fingers between his warm palms and kissed Miranda on the cheek. “Actually, I do have tons of CD’s and digital files laid at my doorstep. But I also like to visit the shops. I like to hear what people are saying about different groups. It helps me to predict trends. Other times, I’m looking to add to my personal collection. Walk with me while I check out some new remixes.”

  Alex went to the solo artists section and pulled out a Frank Sinatra and a Shirley Bassey.

  The selections surprised Miranda. “I never saw you as a Sinatra or Bassey type. They’re ancient. I always think of you as a rock and roll kind of guy.”

  Alex frowned. He appeared somewhat offended by her comment. “I try to keep an open mind when it comes to art and music is art. I enjoy all kinds of music with two exceptions--weird Japanese instrumentals that sound like someone plunking on something hollow in a cave. I don’t get it. There’s no melody, just plink, plink, plink. And, I am not a fan of Hawaiian music or songs involving coconuts and ukuleles,” he commented with a distasteful shrug.

  Alex added the two CD’s to the stack already in his hand. “Come, let’s listen in one of the booths.”