Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (36 page)

Terry’s contemptuous attitude grew more evident with the information. "There you have it. You expect my lads to carry the extra weight, easy enough request when you aren't doing it yourself,
historian.
"

One corner of Ian's mouth curved up in an unpleasant smile.

"Is that a challenge?"

"I'm in as long as you're willing to make it interesting. Shall we say one hundred pounds if I win and my lads wear the replica equipment of our choosing?" Terry nodded with a self-satisfied smirk to his supporters who had gathered around.

Ian appeared neither impressed nor intimidated. "All right. But if I win, I'll take your money. You'll wear my armor selection, and I'll not hear one whimper from you the rest of the shoot."

"Agreed."

Both men went off to don the armor.

Stuntmen and crew had formed a circle, eager for combat. Heavy wagering began between the two groups, most of the money on Terry. All the stunt people were well aware of his reputation as an excellent swordsman and bet accordingly.

The production staff backed Ian, but bets were small. Miranda hoped they backed him out of faith in his ability, or at least out of loyalty. Her blood boiled hearing several cover their bets on Ian with larger ones on Terry. She felt like slapping their traitorous faces raw.

In a booming Highland brogue Duncan announced, “One hundred pounds to any here willing to take my wager and back the historian against my man.”

Miranda stepped forward, glaring at the turncoats from the staff who bet against Ian. "I'll take your bet Scotsman."

Duncan nodded in acceptance, then turned and made a big show of laughing at her foolishness with the other stuntmen. She watched him “high five” several and flick his head in her direction.

"You'd bet against me, sweet lips? I should be hurt." Terry eyeballed her with a gaze as bold as it was lusty. "Since you're in a mood to lose, want to wager with me?"

Miranda disliked him from the start and figured him for a conceited lager lout. She wondered more than once what sort of woman would be attracted to his cheesy charm.

"Sure, what do you want to bet? Your lackey was willing to go a hundred," she said sarcastically and jerked her head in Duncan's direction.

"I'm too chivalrous to take a lady's money. How about you meet me for a drink when I win and..." leering at her mouth, he added, "a kiss."

She countered his prurient stare with a disdainful one of her own. "I doubt you can spell chivalrous, but I'll accept your wager and when you lose I'll take two hundred quid."

Terry laughed. "I won't lose sweet lips."

Miranda spun on her heels and raced back to Ian. "Did you hear that last bet?"

Ian grunted and continued to work on a fastener.

She took it as a yes. "I'd rather suck a bulb of garlic soaked in vinegar than kiss that cretin."

His gauntleted hand wrapped around hers, dwarfing it. "I guess I'll just have to win.” He smiled and ran a leather covered finger down her nose. The glove’s riveted, overlapping plates that protected the back of his hand clinked as he did. "May I carry a favor of yours into the contest?"

Ian's warm breath tickled her skin as he bent close. Miranda searched for something, anything. She settled on a ribbon from her ponytail and tied it around his arm.

"I guess this makes you my knight in shining armor, literally."

"Yes, I am,
literally."

The time for their fight approached. A nervous Miranda fussed over Ian checking and rechecking fasteners. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise you won't do something to get yourself hurt because of that fool."

"You have my solemn word." Ian kissed the area where her brows drew together in worry. "What about us? Shall we have a wager, milady?"

He was trying to put her at ease. She knew it and adored him all the more for the gesture. "Name your terms, Sir Knight." Miranda batted her lashes and made a deliberate pouty mouth hoping she didn’t look like a guppy
.

His helm cradled in one arm, Ian stood absorbed, watching Miranda as she stroked his plated arm and chest. To anyone who bothered to notice, a dozen naked sex symbols couldn't drag his attention away from the woman in front of him.

Worry etched her face. She leaned into him and pressed her cheek against his. Ian kissed her brow ever so lightly in return and the lines of concern on her forehead smoothed.

"When I win you can make dinner for me tomorrow

night."

"And if you lose?"

"I like beef stroganoff," he said, winking.

Miranda was scared witless as the combatants took the field. It's just a mock battle she tried to tell herself. The fact they were using real swords had her stomach in high speed turmoil. On various programs, Ian had demonstrated the use of different medieval weapons, including swords, but he was still basically a historian. Terry's bread and butter were dangerous stunts. He'd worked with dozens of weapons on dozens of movies, taking risks was no big deal to him.

The adversaries faced off. Terry came on strong, his blows rapid, each from a different angle. Ian reacted with equal speed, simply angled away with minimum movement, countered with defensive steps only when necessary. Miranda watched the clock. They'd been at it for five minutes. It felt like five hours to her. Ian had yet to take offensive action. She kept her distance from the other spectators while changing spots constantly to get a better view. Their cheers for the sleazy stuntman grated on her nerves and fed her fear.

More minutes passed. Terry's blows were slowing down but no less forceful. A hard strike caught Ian on the forearm, and dented his vambrace. Ian reeled momentarily. The effort and impact even staggered Terry and it took him several seconds to regain his balance. Miranda flinched, but stifled a cry of alarm, afraid she’d distract Ian. She sent up a silent prayer.
Please, don't let him get hurt. Just keep Ian unharmed and if you could help him win this quick that would be okay too.

After that vicious blow it became clear Ian had deliberately waited till Terry tired to retaliate. Miranda wondered if Terry had listened at all to Ian. Ian told him straight off wearing an enemy’s energy down was a common tactic. If the jerk was too arrogant to believe Ian, oh well, and damned good for her side.

Ian raised his sword. With incredible and surprising speed, he struck and struck at the stuntman, always forcing him to take a step backwards. The technique effectively limited Terry's ability to counterattack.

Ian pushed Terry all over the field as the stuntman's breathing became more and more labored and his reactions slower. Several times Terry was unable to keep his sword at the ready.

Transfixed, Miranda followed each step Ian took. It seemed choreographed, part of a dance he'd done a thousand times. She stayed riveted on him. Brilliant to watch, all power and grace, his movements had an economy to them, nothing flamboyant, nothing wasted, none of the artifice seen in movies or staged sword fights. Miranda hugged herself and rocked back on her heels in sudden realization. She wasn’t simply projecting Ian’s face on the imaginary knight.
He and the knight of my visions are truly one and the same.

Ian knocked Terry's sword from his hand into the air.

The stuntman bent and rested his hands on his knees, panting, sweat leaked out from under his helm. "I surrender. You've made your point."

Terry took the hand Ian offered. Some of the stuntmen and other supporters grumbled but begrudgingly congratulated Ian. The more sullen ones drifted to the rear of the group.

Terry managed a smile and a half laugh as he turned to the other losers, "Sorry about your losses, I shall make amends at the pub. The first round is on me." He gave Ian a curt nod, "Of course, that includes you, historian." This time no derogatory intonation accompanied the word.

An elated Miranda ran through the crowd and launched herself at Ian. He beamed at her like she was heaven sent and captured her with one arm. She kissed him full on the mouth in front of the company. Miranda told herself she only intended to hug him. His reaction made her dare to kiss him in spite of the crowd. Right. And cake eaten a spoonful at a time had less calories than eating it slice by slice.

Ian deepened the kiss as the crew egged him on and finally broke the kiss off when they both came up for air.

Terry scanned Miranda like a hungry wolf.

Ian aimed a piercing stare at his former opponent. "Thanks for the offer, but
we
have other plans."

"Sorry, I didn't know." The stuntman lifted his hands in a mock surrender and turned to mix with the group of onlookers.

Ian hugged Miranda tight so only she could hear, "I've changed my mind. Tomorrow is too long to wait for my winning dinner. Tonight sounds much better."

Their kiss had exposed the relationship the office rumor mongers alleged. She didn’t care what people said anymore. She was thrilled with his victory. What better time to cast her fate to the wind and do what she wanted. And, this would be a lovely dinner, just the two of them, at her home, with no parking garage scenes.

The crowd dissipated and they were left alone. Miranda had an incredible urge to tell Ian about the visions. What would he think if she told him he was the knight?

"We'll stop at my hotel so I can have a quick shower and change," Ian said, stripping off the rest of his gear.

Miranda abandoned the idea of telling him about her knight. Things were going too well at the moment to complicate matters with talk of wild imaginings.

Miranda sat on the bed. The large hotel room had a sitting area to one side and a king bed and desk on the other side. The tasteful décor was a traditional style in muted tones of chocolate brown, tan and steel blue. Too neutral for Miranda’s taste, she’d add a splash of color with bright jewel tone throw pillows or oriental vases.

Ian began to undress. "I won't take more than twenty minutes, unless, of course, you want to join me."

A giggle bubbled up at the playful invitation. Another giggle. They were coming with more frequency. Good Lord, she was turning into Kiki.

The light laughter didn’t stem from humor as much as a self-conscious effort to cover the temptation of the invite. The man was the wave of warm water that laps at your knees, your legs, your chest, higher and higher until you're over your head. How long can a woman be expected to tread water? The question danced in her thoughts as she turned her head while he disrobed.

After the bathroom door shut, she wandered around the room. Extremely neat, he left nothing lying around. His paperwork was tidy and organized on the desk like at work. She continued while listening for the shower. Miranda peeked into the closet, not really sure what she expected to find other than clothes. Everything was lined up neatly, shoes with shoe trees, suits, shirts, and slacks were separated by purpose and color.

The fastidiousness of a man who’s
endured chaos
.

She stood with one hand still on the doorknob and one on her hip puzzled as to where the assumption came from. She let the question go and shut the door. It was one of the mysteries about Ian she just seemed to know.

The shower stopped. She sat on the bed again and picked up a book from the nightstand. A picture of the American General, Norman Schwartzkoff stared back at her. She wondered if Ian had ever considered pursuing a military career.

He came out bare-chested and in jeans with the top button undone. His skin was the color of polished cedar in the afternoon light. He stood in front of her towel drying his hair.

Clothes didn't do justice to his powerful build. His lack of fatigue during the exercise with Terry made sense now. Miranda let her gaze trail down past the indentation under his pectorals. His waist was trimmer than it looked in business attire. Black, silky hair added another sexy layer to his tanned chest.