Until Forever (3 page)

“I
can’t believe you brought it with you,” David said as he filled his glass with Scotch at the small bar in the corner of the spacious drawing room. “If I had known you were going to do that, I would simply have shipped it here to Cavenaugh to await your arrival.”

Roseleen couldn’t quite meet her brother’s gaze and toyed with the ice in her tea instead. She wasn’t going to own up to the power that sword seemed to have over her. He’d never believe it, and she couldn’t put a name to it anyway. She had simply been unable to leave Blooddrinker’s Curse behind in the States.

She’d missed her first flight to England and had arrived in London a day late, because after she had left for the airport the first time, she’d turned around and gone back home to get the sword. For some unaccountable reason, she felt as if she had to keep it near her, at least have it in the same country that she happened to be in.

But David was due some sort of explanation, so she said now, “I wouldn’t have been able to wait that extra month until the summer break allowed me to come here, just to have my first look at it. And it isn’t all that odd that I’d bring it with me. Considering how valuable it is, and the fact that security systems aren’t infallible, particularly my system, which is so outdated, I would have spent my entire vacation here worrying about it.

“Besides, I had new neighbors moving in next door that I hadn’t met yet. Their moving van arrived only a few days ago. And you know how new neighbors always make me nervous. You never know if you’re getting the next serial killer or your next best friend.”

He grinned as he lifted his glass to toast her. “I was only teasing, Rosie. I know how eagerly you awaited that sword. I wouldn’t be surprised if you tucked it into bed with you each night.”

He was still teasing, but she had to fight down a blush, because she had come close to doing just that on a few occasions this last month. Her attachment to this particular antique was absurd, unhealthy even.

She had other old weapons; the previous star of her collection dated from the fifteenth century, a magnificent foot-long dagger whose scabbard had two pockets to hold two tiny jewel-hilted eating utensils. She loved that dagger, but she’d never had her emotions thrown into such turmoil over it, as was happening with Blooddrinker’s Curse. She was
treating the sword as if it were her child, for God’s sake, worrying about it being out of her sight, fretting over anyone else’s touching it, fearful that it might get damaged or lost.

She had been in a state of panic nearly the entire flight over, imagining it being thrown around by careless baggage handlers, despite the fact that she’d crated it with such meticulous care. And getting through customs had been a nightmare, waiting for some stranger to insist on opening the crate and—but she’d been lucky. The sword had passed through unmolested, only one of her three suitcases drawing inspection. But she was definitely going to ask David to send the sword back to the States for her on his wife’s private jet. She wasn’t going to go through that nerve-wracking experience again if she could help it.

David would probably say that what she was feeling was perfectly normal, after she’d waited years to obtain the thing. He would even assure her that it was only temporary, that her worries would settle down, given a little time. She wasn’t going to give him a chance to say so. She just couldn’t bring herself to admit to what had the earmarks of an obsession, even to this brother of her heart. She didn’t understand it, so how could she expect him to?

She offered him a smile to acknowledge his teasing, and waited for him to join her on the sofa. He’d picked her up at the airport that morning and had driven her straight to Cavenaugh Cottage. His wife, Lydia, was
presently in France meeting with the decorators who were handling her newest acquisition, a chateau near Troyes. Lydia wasn’t expected back until the end of the week, so David would be spending a few days with Roseleen at the cottage.

Though there was no reason for them to resemble each other, not sharing the same bloodlines, merely the same household as children, ironically, there was a slight resemblance between Roseleen and David. Anyone who saw them together would swear they were brother and sister, and they didn’t bother to correct the misconception.

That David had retained the name he was born with, David Mullen, only made people assume that Roseleen had married at some time or other. It was the fact that their last names were different that had allowed David to step in to deal with the sword’s previous owner, when Roseleen had failed to get anywhere with the man.

They both had deep, clear chocolate-brown eyes without a fleck of gold to lighten them. And although David’s dark brown hair lacked the soft reddish highlights that Roseleen’s had, they both had high cheekbones, the same oval shape to their eyes, and brows that slanted at the same angles, and they were both tall and slim of build.

She had been five years old when David had lost his folks and had come to live with her family. He had been only seven at the time. As far as she was concerned, he
was
her
brother, and he felt exactly the same way. Still, there were certain things you just didn’t feel comfortable discussing with siblings, or best friends for that matter. That you might be having a nervous breakdown was one of them.

Not to change the subject, but to redirect it, Roseleen said, “I feel somewhat guilty about owning Blooddrinker’s Curse, you know, because of its beauty and historical value. I keep thinking it belongs in a museum, where everyone could have the chance to be awed by it.”

David lifted a brow, a grin lurking in his expression. “Thinking about donating it?”

Roseleen laughed. “Not on your life. I’ll live with the guilt, thank you.”

“As it happens, I mentioned that to Sir Isaac—after the sword was in my possession. The old guy really was eccentric. He said he couldn’t trust it to a museum, where some woman might get her hands on it.”

“Did he ever tell you why he wouldn’t sell it to a woman?” she asked.

“He said he didn’t know.”

“What?”

David chuckled. “That was my own reaction. But Sir Isaac claims his father left him the sword, with the dire warning that if he didn’t want to spend eternity suffering the agonies of the damned, he’d make sure no woman ever got her hands on it. Apparently, Dearborn’s father had had to sign an affidavit similar to the one I signed when he first came
into possession of the sword, and the owner before him as well. Dearborn had no information earlier than that—at least about the previous owners. But I’ll tell you something, Rosie, Sir Isaac didn’t come right out and admit it, but from the way he acted and the things he said, I’d swear he really believes that sword is cursed.”

“Just because of its name?”

David shrugged. “You have to admit it’s strange, all those owners being so fearful and protective of the sword. That fear had to be based on something.”

“On legend, no doubt, that is centuries old and so obscure, it didn’t survive the last few. You know how superstitious and fanciful medieval folk were. Pagan gods, sorcerers and witches, demons and devils, even elves and fairies, all held great significance back then, because the people really believed in them. And that sword has had a thousand years to gain notoriety. It’s too bad the curse or whatever superstition was attached to it didn’t get passed along with the sword. I’d give anything to know what it was.”

“Whatever it was, it’s a pretty good guess that it involved a woman, or women.”

Roseleen nodded in agreement. “Which is strange in itself, if you think about it. Historically, with only a few exceptions, women aren’t usually associated with weapons of any kind. Queens might have commanded armies, but they didn’t bear arms themselves.” And
then she grinned. “Again, with a few notable exceptions.”

“Ah, now I have it. Did you get the urge to go to war when you touched the sword?”

She laughed and was still smiling when she answered, “Not war, actually, though I did have the urge to use that sword on old Barry when he arranged for a rather tasteless joke on me to celebrate his obtaining tenure.”

David frowned, since she hadn’t mentioned that to him before. She’d almost forgotten the incident herself and was no longer embarrassed to relate what had happened.

“What’d the bastard do this time?” David demanded.

“Somehow he must have found out that I’d finally gotten the sword, or was soon to receive it, because he sent a young man to me dressed in Viking costume, who was very good at pretending to be the real thing. He called himself Thorn Blooddrinker.”

“
Thorn
Blooddrinker?”

Her expression suddenly mirrored his own disgust as she recalled
that
part of the joke. David knew about all those crude rosebush innuendos associated with her name that she’d endured over the years. But no one had ever actually tried to claim that his name was Thorn. After all, what parents in their right minds would stick their son with such a name?

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s my guess that Barry had been planning his little joke for a long time, and he happened to see me lugging
the sword into my classroom the day it arrived. I didn’t have enough time to take it home after picking it up at the post office. If he saw me with that crate, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to guess what it was, and that would have given him ample time to set up the joke for that evening.”

“Just what one might expect from a man devoid of principles and—”

“Shh,” she cut in when he started getting red in the face. David despised Barry as much as she did. “He’ll get his one day—somehow. I’m a firm believer in justice catching up to those who escape it the first time around.”

Roseleen changed the subject then, until David got his anger under control and put all thoughts of Barry Horton from his mind. When she had him laughing again, an easy enough task—she had a droll sense of humor that only those close to her ever saw—she got back to the subject that she was presently fascinated with.

“So tell me, why did Sir Isaac sell the sword at all, if he was so worried about some silly curse?”

“Because he
was
worried about the curse. He doesn’t think he has too many years left, and he has only daughters who will be inheriting his estate. He wanted it sold and away from them before he died.”

She shook her head. “It’s amazing that someone could believe in curses in this day and age.”

“Ah, but to your benefit,” he said, grinning.
“If Sir Isaac didn’t believe that the sword is cursed, then he never would have sold it. Yet here we sit, proof that there’s nothing to fear from it. The curse, or whatever it is, hasn’t caught up with me for turning the sword over to a woman, and it doesn’t look like you’ve turned to stone yet, though I do notice a gray tinge on your—”

He stopped, laughing, when she tossed one of the sofa pillows at him.

W
hen Roseleen had inherited Cavenaugh Cottage, she had imagined a quaint, cozy little two- or three-room house covered in English ivy. It had been a shock to find instead a fourteen-room house that fit her description of a mansion, replete with a carriage house converted to a four-car garage, a separate caretaker’s house more the size of what she’d been expecting, and four acres of land.

She had been fortunate that John Humes and his wife, Elizabeth, had more or less come with the house. They had worked for her great-grandmother for nearly twenty years, and although they weren’t young anymore, they took excellent care of the house and grounds.

The cottage was over two hundred years old. That it had been thoroughly refurbished in the last ten years was the only reason Roseleen hadn’t been forced to sell it yet. She’d never be able to afford the repairs on
such a large house when they became necessary, as they were bound to, nor would she let it fall to ruin just to hold on to it. But that day hadn’t come yet, and in the meantime, she enjoyed the house for its historical beauty, if not its great size.

She hadn’t known her great-grandmother, Maureen, very well. The lady had come to the States to visit her grandson’s family only twice when Roseleen was 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 fought
that 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, where
it 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 room
faced, penetrating even the curtains covering them.

She glanced toward the windows, frowning, because if a storm was coming she’d have to close them. The windows had no eaves to keep the rain out, not with the mammoth attic above this floor, which had ceilings high enough for it to be converted into an entire third floor if she had the inclination or the wherewithal to do it.

But her eyes didn’t quite reach the windows, and a small shriek of fright accompanied the sight of a man standing in the corner of her room. And not just any man. It was
him
, the one who called himself Thorn Blooddrinker—Barry Horton’s idea of a joke. Impossible! She blinked, but he was still there. And her beleaguered, tired mind just wouldn’t accept it.

Barry wouldn’t carry a joke this far, to include paying for this man to come all the way to England. Would he? On the other hand, if the man had been scheduled to come there anyway, for some other reason, then Barry would jump at the chance to continue his little joke, since it had worked so well the first time he’d arranged it.

It was definitely the same man who had shown up in her classroom that night. His face, his body too, for that matter, were unforgettable, and just as fascinating as she’d found them before. She was attracted to him on a purely physical level, and not at all happy with that realization.

It wasn’t something that happened to her often. The few times she’d been drawn to a man because of his looks, nothing had come of it, because the attraction wasn’t mutual. And there had always been that tiny bit of curiosity in wondering what it would be like, having the chemistry just right. But not with
this
man.

He was dressed a little differently than before. Not in a normal fashion, however. He was still in costume, but—tattered was how she would describe his new apparel.

The pants and boots were the same as before, or very similar, but he was wearing a long-sleeved tunic now in a somewhat white color, loosely belted about the waist and completely ripped down the front. It took her a moment more to realize that the dark spots she was seeing on the cloth could be blood, and another moment for her to register that there was blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He’d been fighting, and the moment she drew that conclusion, another leaped into her mind. “Oh, God, you didn’t hurt David when you broke in here, did you?”

“David? It was my brother, Thor, I was beating. ’Tis rare he will fight me anymore. Send me back
now
, woman. I wish to finish—”

She had failed to note that the anger was there again in his expression. She couldn’t mistake it in his voice, however, because his unusual accent was more pronounced with it. Joke or no, it was disconcerting to have a man
of his size in her bedroom, and sounding so vastly annoyed—with her. She would, in fact, have been truly frightened, if she weren’t so angry herself.

So she cut him off with “Put a lid on it, mister. I don’t care how long it took you to rehearse those lines, you’re not playing to an appreciative audience. This foolishness has gone too far. I’ll have you and Barry both brought up on charges if you persist—”

He did some interrupting himself. “You summoned me, lady. I do not come willingly to your command.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “So you’re not going to drop it? Do you really think I find this amusing? Barry has misinformed you if he told you I would.”

His expression suddenly changed to one of curiosity. “You have berries that speak here?”

That caught her off-guard. “What?”

“I am partial to blue.”

“Blue—?”

A sound of pure frustration escaped her when she realized he was talking about blueberries. But before she could verbalize it, he said, “On second thought, lady, if you have summoned me for a bedding, my brother can wait.”

He was staring at the towel around her as he said that, and the few inches of her upper thighs that were visible to him from where she stood on the other side of the bed. Her face flooded with color over what he had just plainly insinuated.

She had been holding the sword so that it rested against the mattress. It was purely an instinctive reaction for her to lift it up in front of her. His reaction was demoralizing.

He laughed, his head thrown back, the sound one of genuine amusement.

And when that amusement wound down, he was still grinning at her. He
did
have dimples, she noted irrelevantly. And he didn’t mind telling her what he found so funny.

“My sword cannot draw my blood. Only the gods can do that now—and Wolfstan the Mad, if he ever finds me.”

Roseleen heard nothing beyond the words “my sword,” and every bit of the possessiveness that she had developed for the weapon in question came rushing to the fore. “Your sword?
Your
sword! You’ve got two seconds to get out of my house, or I’m calling the police!”

“No bedding then?”

“Get out!”

He shrugged. He grinned again. And then he disappeared before her eyes—and again, thunder cracked in the distance with a flash of lightning on its tail.

For five minutes, she continued to stare at the space where he had stood. Her heart was pounding. Her thoughts were frozen. Her skin was covered in gooseflesh.

When her mind began to function again, she carefully put the sword away and tucked the box beneath her bed. She put her nightgown on, yanking the towel out from under it
only after it fell to her knees, something she’d never done before—or felt she had to do.

Her eyes kept returning to that empty spot in the corner that remained empty. Even after she crawled into bed, she still sat there and stared at it for a long while. She didn’t even consider turning off the lights that night.

When she did finally lie back against her pillows, it was with a weary sigh. In the morning, she’d have a logical explanation for what had just occurred. In the morning, she wouldn’t be too tired to figure it out. Just now, all she could think was that she really was losing her mind.