Until Forever Read Online Free PDF Page B

still a child. Her own family had never been able to afford the luxury of a trip to England. But all of Maureen’s personal belongings had come with the house, fascinating journals from her younger years, an attic full of antique furniture, outdated clothes and jewelry. It had been a treasure trove for someone who loved old things as much as Roseleen did.
    She had taken the master bedroom for herself, a room that was bigger than her living and dining rooms combined at home. Even the bed in it was an antique four-poster, the handmade comforter probably fifty or more years old itself. Except for the belongings she had brought with her, and the typewriter she had bought during her first trip to England and left here for her research, everything in the room was older than she was—in particular, Blooddrinker’s Curse.
    She glanced at the wooden case as she passed through the bedroom to the bath. The urge to go straight to the box and open it wasn’t as strong here as it had been in the States. For an entire month, she had foughtthat urge, determined not to let it control her. Only when the urge wasn’t as strong would she allow herself to look at the sword.
    Today had been the only exception. When she’d unpacked it here at Cavenaugh, she’d had to make sure it had survived the flight without any damage. But she still hadn’t touched it again. That was the strongest urge, the one she fought the hardest.
    Fighting her desire to touch the ancient weapon had become part of her obsession. She’d even refused to put the sword in the expensive glass display she’d had made for it, which was presently hanging in the center of her collection at home, just waiting for her newest acquisition. She wouldn’t put Blooddrinker where she could view it at any time—until she no longer wanted to view it all the time.
    The bathrooms in the cottage had been converted to modern plumbing some time during the present century. The master bath had both a shower and a tub. As much as Roseleen liked a good soak, she was too tired to indulge in one tonight. Jet lag was catching up to her. She was surprised she’d lasted through the evening. Even David had already gone to bed.
    So she was in and out of the shower in fewer than ten minutes, and with a thick towel wrapped around her, she headed for the old-fashioned wardrobe to search out one of the nightgowns she’d unpacked earlier. She tossed a baby-blue silk one on the bed, whereit settled in a pool next to the mahogany sword case. She was still too damp to slip into silk yet, so she moved to the vanity to brush out her hair first.
    In the mirror, she could see the bed, and the case lying on it, and it occurred to her suddenly that she had no desire to open it just then. She was probably too tired. Or maybe the sword was more comfortable here in England, back where it came from, and so was exerting less power over her—oh, God, she was getting fanciful again, attributing feelings and motives to the sword now. This was her problem, all in her mind, and she would beat it.
    But she had promised herself that she could examine the sword again, once she wasn’t feeling compelled to do so. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, in no hurry to claim her reward, and relieved that it was so. But even if she was feeling indifferent due to exhaustion, a promise was a promise. So when she finished with her hair, leaving it loose and flowing down her back, she fetched the key from her purse and moved to the bed.
    In only a few seconds, the sword was in her hand again, the hilt as warm as she remembered it had been the last time she’d held it. And then strangely coincidentally, she heard something she remembered hearing before, a crack of thunder in the distance, and even though the room was well-lit, there was a slight flash as lightning illuminated the backyard on which the two windows in the roomfaced, penetrating even the curtains covering them.
    She glanced toward the windows, frowning,