Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (28 page)

"Black or white?"

"Black."

Miranda gingerly set the hot cup down and took up her original position.

"Why Ian? Why explain anything about yesterday? What do you care? It was only dinner."

“Miranda--”

"How about I explain it to you in two words? Two words and we'll let it go at that and you leave?" She didn't give him a chance to speak, "You say it was a misunderstanding. I say it’s a case of Mea Culpa."

They weren’t the two words he'd expected. Intrigued, Ian folded his arms and sat back. Stretching his legs, he crossed them at the ankle, mimicking her stance. "Mea Culpa?"

"It's Latin for my fault."

"I'm familiar with the term...
and the language
." He stressed the last in a subtle retort, after all not many people could claim his knowledge of Latin. “Go on.”

"My fault for being stupid. You stroll into my workroom, the sexy, smart, sophisticated scholar and pretend you're interested in me."

"Good alliteration," he interrupted. Her eyes narrowed, and he waited for the fallout from his flip remark.

She surprised him and acknowledged the compliment with a cursory nod. "Idiot that I am, I believed you were sincere. Too gullible to see this is a game you play. You used me to amuse yourself while you awaited the arrival of your girlfriend."

As Miranda waffled on about Jennifer’s arrival, his mind wandered for a minute. Did Elinor jabber this much? He tried to remember. Miranda seemed able to ramble on and on without taking a breath, an amazing ability he conceded. Ian concentrated on her mouth as she berated him. How long could she kiss without taking a breath?

Miranda abruptly stopped.

Ian sipped the coffee and waited to see if she was finished or just refilling her lungs. Her tight-lipped silence continued. A clue. He assumed his chance for rebuttal had come.

"Are you done with your rant?"

"I wasn't ranting."

"Actually, you were darling."

"Don't call me that. I'm not your darling."

"Miranda, Jennifer isn’t my girlfriend and we didn't have a previous commitment last night."

Miranda stared straight ahead. The lack of eye contact made it impossible to judge her reaction.

"I briefly dated Jennifer before I left for Los Angeles. It wasn't serious and definitely not an exclusive relationship, as least not for me. I told her it was over. I guess she thought there was more to it or didn't believe me, who knows?"

Ian took Miranda's hand and pulled her to the chair next to him. He sat her down so they faced each other, knees touching and kept her hands in his while he talked. A brief tug of war ensued as she tried to free them and failed.

"I don't lie Miranda.”

“Not true. Everybody lies. Everybody.”

“You’re right. I stand corrected. But, I’m not lying about this and I’m not lying to you. By everything that's holy, I swear to you I had no idea she was going to show up yesterday."

Ian leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. When she didn’t move, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. "I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't do that to anyone."

She looked wary. He tried to think of alternative ways to win her trust if she didn't accept his honest explanation.

"If you dumped Jennifer, why did she come to the studio and tell our security you expected her? If she had any doubts about the finality of your previous relationship wouldn’t she have gone to your flat?”

"Everyone knows Hugh's show is broadcast live. With all the promos on my appearance, it doesn't take a Rhodes Scholar to know where I’d be yesterday. Maybe she thought if she just showed up, I’d take up with her again.” Ian shrugged. “Who knows? Jennifer is clearly a bit of a head case.”

Miranda still didn’t look convinced. Frustrated by the situation, he added, "I live on Cumberland Terrance near the Regent's Park barracks in a brick Edwardian. You know the ones, solid outer doors, brass deadbolt locks and high wrought iron fences. I oversaw the installation of the security myself. I’m away on location a lot and security is important to me. She knew she couldn't get into my place."

"She made it into the station without any problem.”

"What do you want me say? My security is better than your security."

Miranda didn’t comment and neither did he. He thought it best to give her several minutes to think over what he said. Most of the storm and fury had left her eyes. He could almost see the wheels of her mind spinning, analyzing the veracity of his explanation. Sunlight from the window only lit part of her face. The part in shadow heightened the dark circles that colored the area underneath her lower lashes. He guessed she hadn’t gotten much sleep and hoped the weariness would work to his advantage.

“I don’t know Ian,” she sighed. “I want to believe you. I just..." Her voice trailed off.

"Then do believe me. I don't make a habit of galloping across the countryside to plead my case before angry damsels."
Not anymore.

“
I’ve never been called an angry damsel.” She looked away at the roses he sent. Finally, she turned to him. “I believe you.”

Ian placed a gentle test kiss on her lips, not a hundred percent sure of the depth of her belief. He didn’t want to give her too much time to think and change her mind. He kissed the corners of her mouth, her nose, the baby soft skin in the base of her ear. Hesitant at first, then with more conviction, she returned those kisses. The tension between them faded.

She pulled away. Quiet, she studied him for a moment, her thoughts unreadable.

Ian scanned the room. “I like your kitchen. It reminds me of an old French bistro with better appliances.”

“Thank you.”

Ian looked around more, taking note of what else had changed over time. He had a clear view of the drawing room through the archway and locked on the Leighton pictures. Elinor’s paintings.

He went into the drawing room and stood in front of the paintings. Memories of the night Elinor hung them flooded back. Her struggle with their weight and how pleased she was with herself when she thought she’d managed the job alone. Her shocked disbelief at first seeing he and Guy.

“Ian?”

“Hmmm?” He turned his attention to Miranda standing in the archway.

“You had one of those thousand meter stares.”

“I like your paintings,” he said and joined her. “I’m curious. How did you find this place? It's a marvelous location." An incredible understatement, he thought. "Come on, you can tell me while we walk in the woods."

Miranda owned Elinor's house. The coincidence was too unusual to be an accident, in his mind anyway.

They set a leisurely pace and Ian let her talk.

"I discovered this house by chance, in the back of an estate agent’s distinguished properties book. I wanted a place closer to London. I work at home or in the field a lot. But, on the days I have to go into the studio, I didn’t want a long commute. The affordable price swayed me to inquire." She paused and shot a glance his way, "Aren’t you going to ask why it was so reasonable?”

"This is your story. Tell it the way you want."

"The agent tried to put me off when I asked to see the house.” Miranda lowered her voice an octave. “Bad history to the place. It’s totally unsuitable for a woman alone.”

She laughed lightly at the retelling of the warning. Miranda put a hand on his arm as she shared the details. She probably wasn’t aware of the casual touch or how much he cherished the small intimacy it held.

"I asked him to show me the property anyway. After that mysterious comment, who wouldn’t be keen to see the house?"

"I can’t wait to hear these tales." Ian’s curiosity soared. He suspected he knew what the “bad history” consisted of but wanted to hear her version. Maybe the combination of his presence and her talking about the manor would trigger some memories.

Say it. Say how, once you saw the manor you were inexplicably drawn to the house. Tell me the moment you entered you felt the warmth of love, some nostalgia.

"Ages ago, the young woman who owned it died in some kind of accident.” Miranda fluttered her hand, as though the fact had little bearing on her story. “Her family put the place up for sale. But whenever someone came to look at the house, weird things happened and potential buyers were scared off. Soon, rumors spread about the manor being haunted."

Miranda's cavalier description of Elinor disconcerted Ian. There'd been no indication she felt any connection with her past life. He worried whether her lack of attachment included him.

"A family finally bought the house but within months they too complained of spooky happenings and sold the place. The manor changed owners a few more times. It always went back on the market shortly after the new people moved in.”

Miranda’s enthusiasm spilled out. She stopped every few feet to emphasize different parts of the story. “A few of the previous owners left all kinds of things behind in their rush to leave. To my benefit, I might add. I found those reproductions of the Leighton paintings in the attic."

Ian found her enjoyment contagious. Her voice rose and fell as she described what she liked and didn't like about the place. The words clipped and rapid fire as she discussed her ideas for change. As they strolled hand in hand, his thoughts dwelled on Elinor, but not in a way he'd have guessed. Instead of sweet remembrance, he caught himself watching Miranda and tried to recall if Elinor had ever been so animated. He didn't think so. To his surprise, he liked Miranda's gregarious nature more.

"You’re staring. I’m boring you aren’t I?"

"Not at all." From the skeptical look on her face she didn't believe him. He had lost track of the conversation but was too charmed to feel guilty. "Do you have any idea how pretty you are when you're excited? Your cheeks turn the loveliest shade of pink all the way to your chin."

"Thank you,” she said, a note of skepticism in her voice. “You really don’t want to hear about my house, do you?"

“Yes, I do. Multitasking, I can listen and appreciate your beauty.”

"Anyway, the manor remained unsold for ages. The only people interested were a few ghost hunting groups. They didn't want to buy, only lease. You know the type, the ones who want to set up cameras and equipment to record sightings."

At the mention of ghost-hunters, Ian tightened his grip on her hand.

"Do you know about these groups?" she asked.

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."