Until Forever

by Johanna Lindsey

  But it was time to forget them. She’d had the right idea to begin with. Just stop thinking about it, get some much-needed rest, then tackle the research she wanted to get done while she was here. If she did that, she heartily hoped there wouldn’t be any more dreams to disturb the peace she intended to nurture this next week.

  8

  Roseleen was taking the longer, more scenic route back to the cottage after dropping David off at the train station, simply because of his parting remark. He’d warned that if she didn’t relax and have some fun, she’d end up collapsing from exhaustion. She did agree with him, but good intentions or not, it wasn’t long before all those “what ifs” from last night came back to haunt her. And here she’d been patting herself on the back for putting those dreams out of her mind so she could enjoy her last few hours with David.

  Of course, it was easy to forget troubling experiences when you had a companion to talk and joke with about other things. But now that she was alone, Roseleen’s thoughts veered with amazing swiftness right back to the crazy theory she had come up with last night—that Thorn Blooddrinker was an actual ghost, rather than merely a dream.

  There was really only one way to test the theory, and once that thought settled in her mind, the nervous excitement that built up within her was impossible to tamp down. She’d do it. She’d touch her sword again someday anyway, so why wait and wonder needlessly?

  She no longer noticed the scenery as other things occurred to her. If—and it was still a very big if—her ghost did appear again, and did decide to stick around for a while as he’d threatened to do, how was she going to control him? But his sticking around wasn’t a likely possibility. She was counting on the fact that he didn’t like being summoned by her. Each time she’d done so, he’d insisted that she send him back to wherever it was he resided when he wasn’t haunting.

  She would just have to assure him that she wouldn’t keep him for very long, only long enough for him to answer all her questions. She was hoping he’d simply cooperate with her.

  But regardless of whether she could control him, she was determined now to summon him again—if he wasn’t just a dream. The things he could tell her about the past were too important not to take that risk.

  There was no changing her mind this time, and she’d never driven as recklessly as she did in returning to the cottage once her decision was made. And as soon as she got there, she fairly flew up the stairs to her bedroom.

  The only precaution she took was in locking the door and hiding the key, so the ghost couldn’t escape from her room until she explained things to him. Or at least she hoped he wouldn’t be able to escape. If he could walk through walls and doors as ghosts were reputed to be able to do, then there wasn’t much she could do about restricting his movements.

  She was still out of breath when she dragged the sword case out from under the bed and opened it. This time she stared right at the corner before she touched the warm hilt of the weapon. She was also wincing in expectation of hearing that loud crack of thunder.

  The thunder came—and so did Thorn Blooddrinker.

  It was true! Roseleen’s heart was pounding almost painfully. This couldn’t be a dream. Dreams weren’t controllable like this, couldn’t be summoned at will. But her ghost could.

  He was dressed almost formally this time, or what would have passed for formal in his day. His dark blue tunic was finely embroidered with gold thread about the neck and down a V that opened to the middle of his chest. A short cape with the same embroidery was attached to his wide shoulders with large gold discs. His boots seemed of a better quality than before; at least the sewn seams weren’t as visible this time. And the belt that girded his narrow waist was much fancier, this one set with gold discs that matched those on his shoulders.

  He actually seemed more handsome to her each time she saw him, and she was still sounding a bit breathless when she said, “Hello, Thorn Blooddrinker.”

  Her voice instantly drew those clear blue eyes to her, and his sigh could be heard across the room. One of his hands even raked through his long curly mane in a clear sign of exasperation. Roseleen almost smiled. Her ghost didn’t want to be here—again.

  And then his eyes pinned her to the spot. “You have mastered your fear of me, I see.”

  That wasn’t at all true, but she didn’t bother to dispute it at the moment. She offered an apology instead. “I’m sorry if I’ve taken you from some sort of…special occasion. I won’t keep you long this time.”

  “Keep me?” His frown came immediately. “Lady, do you toy with me now?”

  That frown of his, so intimidating, had Roseleen stammering her assurance, “No—truly, I—I’m just curious about you. And I want to know how it’s possible for me to summon you here as I have.”

  “You already know how ’tis possible,” he said in a grumble. “You hold my sword in your hand. You know this gives you the power to summon me.”

  His eyes dropped to the sword as he said it. That possessiveness of hers reared up, and she let go of the weapon and quickly closed the case on it before she said, “I understand that much, but…you’ve asked me each time to send you back. What happens if I don’t?”

  His expression said he really didn’t like that question, yet he didn’t deny her an answer. “You draw me here with my sword, lady, so only you have the power to send me back. ’Tis my choice if I go or stay, yet by the same token, I cannot leave if you do not bid me to.”

  “In other words, the choice is yours if I want to be rid of you, but the choice is mine if I don’t?”

  His nod was curt, angry. He didn’t seem to like her having that control over him, any more than she liked being powerless if he chose not to obey her orders—if he was telling the truth about it.

  She supposed she’d find out if he decided to stick around, or leave before she told him to. In the meantime, she was going to satisfy her curiosity, and that could take hours, days even.

  With that in mind, she offered, “Would you like to sit down?”

  There was a comfortable reading chair set between the two windows, another chair at her desk. He chose to saunter to the bed and sit on it instead, right next to the sword case. She immediately snatched the box out of his reach and slipped it back under the bed. Her action brought a slight twist to his lips that might have passed for a grin, but she wouldn’t stake her career on it.

  He sat sideways on the bed so he faced her where she stood on the opposite side. His eyes briefly moved down her body, taking in her loose sleeveless blouse and baggy slacks, which were not at all becoming, but then her clothes never were. When she was home alone, she didn’t wear her hair so severely, but she’d just returned from dropping David off, so her hair was in the tight bun that the outside world always saw, and her glasses were firmly in place.

  For a moment, she thought he might be trying to find the woman he’d seen before in the short wrapped towel and flowing auburn hair, but his expression wasn’t revealing his thoughts at the moment. Hers likely was. Having him this close to her was truly disconcerting. He really was a big man or, rather, a big ghost. And every bit of him looked hard, solid…dangerous. Looked that way, anyway. For all she knew, there might be no substance to him at all, and in that case, he could hardly be dangerous.

  That thought had her asking bluntly, “What is it like, being a ghost?”

  His laughter came instantly. “I am as flesh-and-blood real as you are, lady.”

  It was a moment before anger took the place of her surprise. “You can’t be. You’re a ghost.” Now she was really confused.

  She had been counting on hearing him tell her about the centuries she was an expert on. She would have been able to tell by his answers if he was being truthful—or if this was some kind of elaborate hoax.

  He was still amused; at least the lingering smile said so. “You are not the first to accuse me thusly, yet have I already told you that only the gods can draw my blood, and Wolfstan the Mad. I look forward to the day he f
inds me again.”

  She was still angry, yet she was too intrigued by that last statement not to ask, “You want to die in battle with him?”

  Arrogance entered his tone. “I mean to prove he is no match for me.”

  “Then you can kill him as well?”

  He sighed. “Nay, he is already dead, killed by the witch Gunnhilda just so he could bedevil me. He hates me for that, and in that no Viking can blame him. Gunnhilda denied him Valhalla with her curse.”

  “Valhalla? Wait a minute…Odin’s feast? Yesterday, you said I took you from Odin’s feast—in Valhalla?”

  “Where else?”

  “Give me a break,” she said, feeling utterly exasperated. “Valhalla is a myth, just as Odin is, and Thor, and—” She stopped when she recalled what he’d said the night before last, that he’d been fighting Thor—his brother, Thor. She threw up her hands in disgust at that point. “That does it. If you’re going to tell me you’re a Viking god, then I have nothing more to say to you. My beliefs have been stretched enough in accepting the possibility that you might be a ghost, but I draw the line at mythical gods.”

  He was laughing again, almost rolling on the bed with it, his amusement was so strong. That his humor was at her expense had her cheeks flushing with color.

  Tightly, she said, “Is that a yes or a no?”

  He had to wind down to mere chuckles before he could manage, “I am no god. I might have had a small following of worshippers who knew me and knew I could not die, but ’twas the curse’s doing, and before my brother took pity on me and granted me entrance to Valhalla.”

  “But you are saying your brother is a god?”

  “He was worshipped much longer than I. Unlike my name, which has since been forgotten, his name has survived in legend.”

  She detected a little resentment there, and couldn’t resist asking, “That annoys you?”

  “Would it not you?” he demanded. “There is naught he can do that I cannot do, and I even best him more often than not when he will agree to fight me. Yet ’twas my misfortune to earn Gunnhilda’s curse.”

  Roseleen sighed at that point, realizing that she’d been snared into taking what he was saying as fact. “Gunnhilda the witch—you’re asking me to believe in witches and Viking gods now, and I simply can’t—”

  “Lady, your beliefs are no concern of mine. I do not need to prove what I say. That I am here is sufficient—”

  “If you are here,” she corrected. “I’m about ready to doubt that again.”

  That earned her a grin, and it was still there as he stood up and started walking around the bed toward her. Roseleen’s heart jumped up into her throat.

  “Ah—I think it’s time for you to leave,” she got out as quickly as she could, but not quick enough.

  “I thank you for giving me the means to do so, yet I am not ready to depart your time.”

  He was standing right in front of her as he said it, mere inches away. She enjoyed being a bit above the average female in height at five feet, eight inches, yet he stood a good nine inches over her—a fact she was most aware of now that she had to look up at him. And then she nearly fainted as she saw his hand coming toward her face.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped breathing. She expected—she didn’t know what. A haunting experience? Something really terrifying. All she felt was her glasses sliding off her face.

  “’Tis strange to me, this jewelry you wear. What is it called?”

  Her eyes flew open. He was staring at her glasses. Merely the way he held them, his fingers grasping the lens rather than the rims, proclaimed his lack of familiarity, if his remark hadn’t.

  No attack. No cold chills one might expect from a haunting presence standing so close to her. She let out her breath slowly.

  “Glasses,” she said.

  His eyes came back to hers and stayed there. The glasses he tossed over his shoulder, much as he had the chicken bone, not caring where they landed.

  “Ornaments are meant to enhance, lady. Why do you wear jewelry that does not?”

  “Glasses aren’t jewelry,” she started to explain, but she ended in a gasp, because he was reaching toward her face again. “What—?”

  She didn’t finish. He didn’t answer. His hand had already reached what it was after, the tight bun at her nape. He tugged at it once and dislodged the metal bobby pins that held it, sending her hair unrolling down her back. He grasped the mass of it and brought it forward to drop over her left breast. Too close to that same breast, he found a bobby pin to pluck out and examine. She had a feeling it would go the way of her glasses when he was done looking it over. She was right, and now his eyes were back on her.

  “Better,” he said as he slowly looked at each one of her features, then again at the long length of auburn hair that fell to her waist. “I am pleased that you showed me what was before hidden. I think I will not mind so much, your possession of my sword.”

  She would have had to be dense not to realize he was alluding to seeing her wrapped in no more than a towel, and the outlandish assumption he’d made at the time, that she had summoned him to bed her. Hot color was back in her cheeks. But before she could even think what to reply to his remark, he was reaching toward her again.

  The narrow shoulder of her sleeveless blouse had drawn his fingers this time. “How does this strange tunic come off?” he asked.

  That third leap and drop of her heart had her answering huffily, “It’s a blouse, and it’s not coming off. If you think I’m going to stand here while you examine everything I’m wearing—”

  “Nay, your raiments interest me not,” he interrupted, though he was tugging now at the narrow piece of material his fingers still grasped. “I can see now ’twould be a simple matter to tear it from you. If ’tis your wont to save it, lady, say so now.”

  Her heart was back in her throat and staying there. He couldn’t mean what that sounded like.

  “You’ve taken off enough already, Thorn. Nothing else is coming off.”

  He responded by hooking the thin piece of material on her other shoulder beneath two of his fingers. There was a slight pull on each shoulder as both his hands curled into fists, then a swift jerk. The thin summer blouse ripped straight down the center in both front and back, coming away in two pieces that now hung from her arms.

  In her shock, she heard his disappointed sigh. “Now what is that contraption that binds you?”

  Her bra. He was staring at her bra, and she could see it in his expression, the moment he decided he had figured out how to get rid of that too.

  Her arms came up immediately to cross in front of her. Pillaging and raping might have been standard practice in his time, but this wasn’t his time, it was hers.

  Sternly now, and desperately trying to overlook the fact that she was standing there only half-dressed, she said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you can’t do it. You can’t just take anything you want here. You have to ask—and my answer is no.”

  He merely grinned at that. “Then why would I be so foolish as to ask?”

  “You’re missing the point—”

  “Nay, I understand you plainly. You wish me to grovel, yet that I will not do. The last wench to possess my sword also uttered such nonsense. But you, lady, were warned that I have a large appetite.”

  “For food,” she quickly reminded him.

  “And fighting…and women. And it has been too long ere I have enjoyed the pleasures of a comely wench.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but you’ll have to continue your abstinence a little longer.”

  “I think not.”

  He sat down on her side of the bed then, and the next thing she knew, two hands were gripping her hips and drawing her forward between his spread legs, closer, then closer still, until she lost her balance and fell toward him. She heard his laugh just before her chest collided with his, and then he rolled, placing her beneath him on the bed.

  Stimuli came at her in waves—h
is weight, very real, very solid, very heavy; his rough cheek scratching against hers as his mouth sought and found her lips. There was nothing even remotely insubstantial about the body pressing her down into the mattress. And the lips moving over hers were the most sensual she’d ever tasted.

  The fear she still felt had to be contributing to the riot of sensations going on inside her. Her heart had never pumped so hard. Her blood was racing, causing a tingling feeling throughout her body. And when his teeth tugged at her lower lip just before he sucked on it, she came damn close to…

  She couldn’t even find her voice when his mouth left hers to drift down to her neck. She could have demanded he stop what he was doing, could have regained some meager control of the situation, but she was too busy experiencing the uniqueness of having her whole body come wildly alive.

  And then one side of her bra was being pulled down. He was using his teeth to do it. His large hands were gripping her sides, near her breasts, but not quite touching them. That his fingers were so close was driving her crazy. But when her breast popped free, the edge of the lacy material beneath it now, pushing it up, her nipple puckered immediately. No sooner did she gasp at the tightening there than her breast was surrounded by the heat of his mouth, completely surrounded, and being slowly drawn on.

  She moaned, arching toward that heat. She couldn’t help it. The chemistry was right. For the first time, it was exactly right, and she was combusting. And then he was looking down at her, grinning down at her actually.

  “Still think me a ghostly being, lady?”

  It sank in slowly, finally reaching her befuddled mind, but when it did, she felt—she wasn’t sure what, but it wasn’t nice. He’d done what he just did merely to prove to her that he could. He wasn’t actually going to rape her—or make love to her, however she chose to look at it. And now that her senses were returning to normal, she didn’t know if she should be disappointed or relieved.