Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (42 page)

"What are you doing?" Ian asked, confused.

"If you know Weymouth has what you want, why are we going?"

"Because, I want you to see it. Your reaction is important to me." A host of disturbing emotions showed in her eyes. Wariness? Hurt? Suspicion? “God, not now,” he whispered, as an ominous sense of foreboding nagged at him. She had to go. "You'll like it. I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised."

The emotions of a moment earlier disappeared. “No,” she said, flatly.

"What do you mean no?"

"Just what I said, no. I'm not going."

"You already agreed. You have to come. It's important."

"Nonsense. You're saying that to get your way. You've just said Weymouth has all you need, so why is it so important for me to go?" she inquired in that same flat tone.

“Trust me, it is.”

"I can't go."

Impatient with her obstinacy, he demanded, "Can't or won't?" He hadn't anticipated this situation, never even contemplated the possibility she'd refuse.

"Both. I can't let myself be hurt by you anymore. I’m done playing mouse to your cat.”

If he thought himself confused before it was the tip of the iceberg compared to his current state. "Pray, go on,” he said, sarcasm getting the better of him. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I am utterly baffled as to your meaning."

"In the beginning--"

Miranda glared when he sighed aloud.

“Sorry, go on.”

"In the beginning, I thought you were truly interested in me."

Ian opened his mouth to interject but didn’t. Instead, he half-listened to her and half-questioned how a day that started off so good could turn to shit so fast.

"I wanted to think there was a chance for us. If you got to know me over the course of time, I’d come to mean something to you, not be some office fling."

Ian clenched his teeth to keep silent. He thought he’d made it clear she wasn’t a fling. What triggered this sudden and unwarranted doubt?

She paused and took a deep breath, which Ian guessed was to screw up her courage for additional vitriol aimed at something he had or hadn’t done. Ian wasn't sure at this point.

"The first time you began to seduce me, in the garage, I was embarrassed. I blamed myself for letting it go so far. I behaved like a tramp,” she said with a cool, almost detached attitude that worried him more than tears or anger.

Miranda continued, “I haven’t forgotten the disgusted look on your face. Then last weekend when you rejected me, I added ashamed and hurt to embarrassment.

"I'm not a complete fool, Ian. Twice, you've started to make love to me, and when I responded, you ended it. I spent the past few days trying to figure out why.

“Now, I realize it doesn't matter. I’m not good at these cat and mouse games. You are what you are, and I am what I am. Whatever that is, clearly it's not what you want."

He listened, stung by the cynical analysis.

"I'm your research assistant. It's better if we keep it that way," she said, with a hint of defiance, like Joan of Arc taunting the torchbearer.

The cutting speech wasn’t spontaneous. She’d rehearsed and waited for the right time to deliver it. Ian cursed his blindness. All week, the evidence of her intent had been obvious. Her sparkle when they worked together had vanished, their easy repartee replaced by polite but reserved conversation. He'd been too absorbed with his own grand plans to question her behavior the way he should have.

Ian drew Miranda closer, anchoring her at the waist with his free hand. There'd be no tug of war, no battle of wills, no chance for her to do anything but listen.

"Everything you believe is wrong."

She opened her mouth to no doubt object.

"Don't say a word. It's my turn to talk. I listened while you crucified my character for the last few minutes and called me an insensitive s.o.b."

"I never said that. I didn't call you names."

"Didn't you?" Ian grunted, "Could have fooled me."

The corridor wasn’t the best place for this conversation. He was afraid if he moved them to his office, he’d lose the advantage of time. The longer she had to think the more adamant she might become.

He bent low and spoke in a hushed tone. "I was not disgusted with you that night in the garage. I was disgusted with myself. I backed off because you deserved better than a quick seduction in a dirty car park. From the earful you just gave me, I see that courtesy was a mistake."

Miranda had the decency to look embarrassed.

"I've wanted you from the moment I saw you and not just physically. If I'd told you the truth then, you'd have misinterpreted my intentions. You’d have labeled my sincere feelings as self-serving flattery."

She remained stiff in his arms and refused to make eye contact.

"As to last weekend, I said all would be explained, which I plan to do today. What I have to say can't be said here." Ian lifted his lips to her temple and brushed a light kiss against a small blue vein that pulsed.

Miranda gave her head a little shake.

“I’m sorry Ian. I imagine you have a host of reasons to justify what’s transpired. It doesn’t make a difference.”

Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. A small sign of how close to the surface her emotions were. He didn’t know if that was a turn for the good or bad.

“I know with a certainty, you will break my heart. Better to remove myself from your crosshairs before I’m too shattered to recover.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I just know. It’s as if it’s stamped on my psyche, almost organic. I’ve...I’ve...sensed it in a way I can’t describe.”

She remembered...but, only the pain. Not the love.

His mind raced.

“Four hours, that's all I ask. There's so much you need to know."

“What can four hours do?”

“Everything you think you know will change.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

An agonizing long minute passed in silence. He held her so tight it took him several seconds to realize she nodded yes.

With her in tow, he rushed to his car.

The Lotus’s engine roared to life.

“Before we get to Weymouth, I’ve a story to tell you. It may be hard to believe, but it’s true.” He glanced over. Miranda sat straight, eyes forward. A horrible vision of her covering her ears by the end of the drive flared. He took a deep breath as he pulled out onto the ring road leading to the motorway.

“I used to be the ghost of a medieval knight named, Basil Manneville. You were a lovely young woman named Elinor Hawthorne. You owned the house I haunted—Badger Manor. We...”

Weymouth Hall sat on a hill, its butter colored walls visible for several miles. An impressive structure from a distance, it was glorious up close. A winding, gravel drive snaked its way from the road to the front door.

The original gatehouse and curtain wall were destroyed long ago and the ruins removed. The surviving rectangular Keep had been restored in stages over the last three centuries along with the other buildings. Square towers rose high at each corner, all topped with grey stone and pointed spires. Rectangular windows gracefully positioned along the curve of each turret on the upper floors were offset by the medieval arrow loop windows scattered around the stronghold.

Miranda rolled the window down as Ian entered the castle road. “It’s magnificent.”

Ian waited, letting her take as much time as she wanted to look the castle over. No matter what went on inside her head about the two of them, the historian in her would be fascinated. If only for a few minutes, she'd put aside everything else.

“Some guide books call it one of the most beautiful castles in England,” she said, “and it is.”

“I thought you’d think so.”

Quiet on the two hour drive, Miranda listened as Ian told her about his past and then, their past. He'd gone into great detail discussing how Basil and Elinor's love affair changed him. He left nothing out-all that was good and all that made them separate was retold.

When he related how he knew she was his Elinor the first time they met, she asked only a few questions. Her stillness chilled him. He assumed when she heard their story it would awaken some memories. Just a shred, the smallest acknowledgement, would be enough. Nothing. Not the tiniest reaction. Perversely, he'd welcome any emotion from her now, even if she called him delusional, or a liar. Anything was better than this silence.

The Weymouth family butler came out to greet them.

“Good afternoon, I hope your drive was pleasant." The butler dipped his head to Miranda and took their bags.

"Thank you Claude, the drive was fine. Did the delivery from Symington’s arrive?" At this point, Ian didn't really care if the tapestries came. He doubted they'd have the effect he'd sought.

"Yes, they were placed according to your request as was everything else. Did you wish to see them?"

"No, I'm confident they’re perfect." Hesitant, Ian laid a light palm on the small of her back and led Miranda into the elegant receiving hall of the castle's private quarters.

A fair-haired woman Miranda’s age in a simple black dress with white collar and cuffs stepped forward.

"I'm Hannah, your maid. I'll take your bag upstairs and unpack for you Miss Coltrane."

"Hannah, you needn't bother to un--" Miranda shot a hesitant glance in Ian's direction. "That will be fine, thank you."

As she started to follow the maid, Ian hooked Miranda’s elbow. She raised flat, firm palms to his chest. The response seemed defensive and his spirits sank lower.

"Talk to me, please. I can't let you walk away, not knowing what you think, what...," Ian stopped. He struggled to find the words to make her stay.

Miranda put a finger to his lips.

"Don't say anymore right now. Let me be alone with my thoughts for a bit. Give me a little time to sort out my feelings. We'll talk after."

Ian's arms folded around her in a tight embrace that went unreturned.

"Where will I find you?” she asked.

"Just past this room is an informal drawing room. Take as long as you need," he said and dropped his arms to his sides. He wanted to offer reassurance, as much for his sake as hers. The only words that came to him seemed inadequate and hollow.

He watched her climb the stairs and walk down the hall until she was out of sight. Never, had he been so unsure of himself. For the first time, in a long, long time, he said a silent prayer.

In the drawing room, Ian paced a relentless path over the Aubusson rug. He lifted a scotch he'd poured at the start of his vigil to his lips only to bring it back down untouched. An action he repeated numerous times as Miranda remained upstairs.

He stopped pacing as the scent of L’interdit drifted over to him. Ian started toward Miranda and then paused, uncertain what to do. For one interminable minute neither moved nor spoke.

“My room overlooks a giant garden maze,” Miranda said at last.

“How apropos.”