Novel & Cerita Novels By Rosamunde Pilcher

“I know but there are some lies that are necessary, especially when you promise someone else to maintain them.” “What lies?” This time Paul heard the anger in my voice. “Rose, the man that attacked you, what do you remember about him?” Paul pressed like this had everything to do with what he wanted to tell me. The memory was blurry as I tried to put the pieces together. “I don’t know… he was fast, really fucking fast. And his teeth— No, I was so frightened I imagined most of it.” “Rose,” Ivan touched my hand and my eyes flew open. I hadn’t even realised I’d closed them so tightly. “Just tell us even if it sounds crazy.”

Something within her leapt to meet it. The darkness was grainy, empty — gilded in small pools by candlelight and the thin shafts of moonlight that penetrated the stained-glass windows. Rose smiled, feeling disappointed. Wishful thinking. Too many vampire novels. Anne Rice and Freda Warrington had a lot to answer for. Then the shadows moved. The breath caught in Rose’s throat. Her mouth went dry with anticipation even while a heady pulse ticked between her legs. ‘Come then,’ she said softly.

It didn’t help that I was running like my life depended on it, which it might if Ollie’s story really was true. “Jessica,” the sing-song voice called. Every time I heard that voice, I would get the shivers and that made it twice as hard to catch my breath. I raced down a street that had the river on its left while a row of mansions appeared to my right. This was Rosecliffe Way, the street where wealthy Oregonians parked their vacation homes. Meaning they were all empty as the holidays were still two months away. I would find no help here. “Just a little… more…” I gasped.

I watch intently with my brows raised as he removes a sizable oil painting from its place on the wall, unveiling a hidden safe that had been seamlessly integrated into the structure. I pivot on my heel and survey the colossal collection of books that had escaped my memory until now. The tips of my fingers delicately graze the uppermost edges of the book spines as my eyes glide over the titles. My fingers hover over one book in particular. It's a book that is very improper in Alessandros’ collection. This book is a historical romance novel written by Sylvia Day. One of Roses’ all-time favourite authors. Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to slide the book out, “come here, tesoro.” I

She pulls her pyjamas on, and once they’re both dressed Rosie takes down the glamour to put it back on the overhang. Caelius had taken the first watch, and was sitting by the fire reading a tattered paperback book. She makes her way over; he smiles up at her and puts a bookmark in and closes his book. “Interesting book?” He smiles, “Yes, actually. It’s a classic, ‘Il nome della rosa’; The Name of the Rose. It’s a murder mystery.” Celine nods, “I’ve had this a while.” She chuckles, and he smiles, “It’s not had an easy life, this book.” She nods,

"Mickey, you're finally here. I was so scared. I had another nightmare. Tell me—tell me I escaped. Tell me I wasn't violated, right?" She clutched at him, desperate for reassurance. Her doe-like eyes shimmered with fear. Mickey wrapped her in his arms and gently stroked her back. "You got away. No one laid a finger on you. Don't be afraid, Rose. I'm here." Rose? Mickey, the woman in your arms—do you really believe she's your beloved Rose? Don't you know Rose is already dead? You killed her. My eyes stung as I watched another woman take my name and identity. And I could do nothing.

"Painting, novels, or poetry are all fine. The thicker the better." In the evening, several half-old thick books were placed by her pillow. An oil lamp was added to the low cabinet by the bed, and her coin purse was placed under the lamp. Along with them, a sentence was left. "If you still think having someone else help you to the toilet is too awkward and persist in not eating, tomorrow I will take over caring for you personally."

His hand lifted, fingers brushing a loose strand of her hair back from her face with a touch that was almost careful, which somehow made it worse. “You must be a witch,” he murmured. “You’ve put a spell on me.” Rose’s pulse kicked hard, her body betraying her in a way her mind refused to accept. This was insane. She was standing in the middle of nowhere, alone with a man who had just admitted he was a predator, who had killed without hesitation not half an hour ago, and yet… She wanted to be here. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” she said, though her voice came out softer than she intended.

No. Household accounts. Definitely no. Then blue-green cloth with worn gold lettering. A Season for Lady Rosamund. I did not know Lady Rosamund. Promising. I opened it. The first page began with a carriage arriving at a country estate beneath cold rain. Lady Rosamund disliked the rain. Reasonable. She disliked the man who had sent the carriage. More promising. I turned the page. A drawing room. A fire. A woman sitting near it with embroidery in her lap.

I still don't know what prompted me, I checked the windows. The burglary proof bars wouldn't even accommodate my head. I didn't feel discouraged, I tried the bathroom too, the window was very small. I noticed another door, my curiosity was ignited. I pulled the knob and the door opened to reveal a half empty storeroom. It was littered with junks and stuffs*. I took a step inside, the air in there was musky and dust filled, I rushed out quickly before I had another asthma attack. I stood by the doorway, looking at the junks, a stupid idea brewing up in my head. I shook my head slightly, to dispel them stupid thoughts.