The Haunting of Brier Rose (6 page)

"Is everything all right with the room?" Rose Quennel
asked, walking to the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Yes. It's fine." Taylor trailed behind her, unbuttoning
the sleeves of his shirt while he surveyed her tall, lithe figure. She had
changed into a gauzy summer dress in a tapestry design that swept past her
knees and bared the tops of her arms. The dress was plain, but on her it looked
surprisingly sexy.

She turned, and he realized why the dress seemed so attractive.
Every movement she made was graceful, even the way she lifted her hands from
the tea tray and stepped away from the table. She moved like a hula dancer, or
a geisha
serving sake, with a quiet, almost ceremonious,
rhythm. Her hands slipped through the lamplight like luminous fish gliding
through water. Something glinted as she gestured. She wore a square cut emerald
on her right hand, a simple ring that complemented her slender fingers.

He was staring again. And it wasn’t like him to gape at a woman. Taylor
dragged his gaze from her hands and turned his attention to his sleeve, which
he rolled up with exaggerated care, even though there was no reason to fuss
with it, since he planned to undress as soon as she left.

He rolled up his other sleeve and saw her glance dart across the
sinews of his forearm, which had caught the glow of the lamp on the nightstand.
He wondered what she found so fascinating about his arm, but she quickly
averted her gaze and turned to speak.

"Are your eyes still bothering you?"

"They're fine." His voice came out more gruffly then he
intended.

She paused, as if unsure whether to continue the conversation.
Taylor hoped she would go. She was doing something to his senses. He felt as if
his sight, smell, hearing and touch had been put on full alert and were aching
to leap into action. His loins tightened in response, and he limped away from
the tea table in an effort to distance himself from her tantalizing presence.

She ventured forward. "I know a bit about herbs and healing.
Perhaps I could—"

"All I need is some rest." He walked to the coffee
table and hoped she wouldn't trail him. "And if you would excuse me, I'm
very tired."

He glanced sidelong at her face and saw her friendly expression
fade. Why did he feel like a jerk for dismissing her? She was only hired help,
as far as he knew, a person with whom he wasn't required to sit and chat. Yet
there was something about her that made him think twice about his usual tendency
to classify women according to their value to him and whether or not he wanted
to take time out for them. Women were dangerous, as far as be was concerned.
They could tie a man down and lay claim to his independence. He hadn't let many
women get close to him, and never once had he allowed himself to become
romantically involved with one. There was something to be said for having a
woman in every port. It allowed a man his freedom and his pleasure at the same
time. He wouldn't give up such a life-style without a fight.

Still, he felt like a jerk. Trying to disguise the fact that he
was a complete asshole, he reached down for a cookie, even though he wasn't
hungry. "Thanks for the snack."

"Be sure to try the tea. It's my own special blend."

"Of what?"

"Herbs to help you sleep and make you heal more
quickly."

Herbal concoctions? Homemade cookies? He was more the dark ale
and big juicy steak type. That’s what made a man feel like a million bucks. Not
cookies. Taylor grimaced and saw her expression darken. He must have offended
her again.

"To heal yourself," she put in, her tone cool,
"you must believe that you can be healed."

"If the best doctors in the country can't heal me, Rose, I
doubt a cup of tea is going to do the trick."

"With an attitude like that, no." She walked to the
door and turned. "Good night—Mr. Wolfe."

"Goodnight."

She closed the door behind her while Taylor stared after her. For
household help, she had quite an attitude. What had she said, ‘
To heal yourself, you have to believe you
can be healed?
’ Who did she think she was—his personal shaman? Taylor
bit into the cookie and chewed mechanically, ignoring the delicious flavor. He
didn't need her help, and he didn't need to complicate his stay here by
allowing himself to be aroused by her. She was too young and innocent for him,
anyway. Besides, he'd seen the way she glanced at his scars, trying not to be
obvious about it.
She was probably repulsed by the sight of
him
.

Taylor wasn't accustomed to women being repulsed by his looks. If
anything, he had used his outward appearance to win whatever woman he desired.
Females were drawn to his dark looks and six-foot height. He'd never thought
twice about using his physical attributes to get what he wanted. Now, however,
he would have to depend on his personality. Taylor grimaced. People had called
him a heartless bastard. Cold. Impossible. That didn't say much for his
personality. Looks like he had a huge job ahead of him if he ever expected to
date again.

Taylor grabbed two more cookies and ate one as he limped to the
table where he had set up his wooden boat model. He would concentrate on
finishing the three-masted schooner and stay away from the redhead. And after a
week of peace and quiet here at Brierwood, perhaps he would be on the road to
recovery.

Later Rose tossed and turned in her bed, dreaming of Mr. Wolfe
smashing her cookies with his cane, claiming that she had put rocks in them.
She tried to protest, but the words wouldn't come out. Then she felt a warm
hand on her shoulder and knew a slight sense of relief.

Someone was talking to her in a low, singsong voice. Was she
still dreaming? The hand on her shoulder felt very real. Yet she couldn't quite
open her eyes, couldn't quite gain consciousness. Had Mr. Wolfe come into her
room? He had stared at her in a strange way when she had arrived with his
snack. Maybe the piratical master of the house was the type of man who would
try to take advantage of her. Somehow, she didn't think so. But if this wasn't
Mr. Wolfe in her dream, who was it?

"Roselyn, Roselyn," a voice said near her ear. The
voice was dry, seductive, and she eased onto her back, trying to see who stood
near her bed, but she couldn't open her eyes.

"Roselyn, you hear me, don't you, my dear?"

She stirred, heard herself mumble an incoherent phrase.

"Roselyn, you must tell me where your mother has hidden her
possessions."

My mother? I don't have a
mother.

"You did. You just don't remember."

Maybe I don't want to
remember. My mother gave me up, sent me away. Why should I want to remember a
mother like that?

"It's true. Your mother was not a nice lady, Roselyn. But I
believe she gave you something that belongs to me."

I have nothing of my
parents'. Not even their name.

"Roselyn, my beauty." He kissed her bare shoulder, and
Rose felt a warm, melting feeling spread through her. She sank farther into her
bed. "Such bitterness. You have been hurt, haven't you? You suffer."

Yes, I suffer. But why
should you care?

"Because I want to help you. I can give you back the family
you lost so long ago."

She ached to know about her family, but she was afraid of the
truth, of the guilt and shame associated with being a foundling. Surely if her
mother and father had loved her, they would have kept her. So the truth was
that they had not loved her and that they had rejected her. Rose didn't want to
face that particular truth or learn the reasons for the rejection.

"Roselyn, I can show you the family you once knew."

No, I don't want to see. I
don't care about them.

"Yes, you do, Roselyn. I know you're curious. You are looking
back now. See, you can just make out a candle at the end of the corridor."

Yes, she could. Was she sleepwalking? She tried to turn her back
on the candle, tried to close her eyes, but couldn't seem to command the
movements of her own body.

"Go toward the light, Roselyn, and tell me what you
see."

The light startled her. Rose scrambled to her feet as her mother
bent over her crib and then hurriedly dressed her.

"Shh, baby," Deborah
Bastyr
whispered. "
Mother's taking you for a walk."

Rose looked to the window, wondering why they would take a walk
so early in the morning. They'd never done that before. She yawned and held out
her arm so that her mother could slide on the sleeve of her red dress. She
liked the dress, which was decorated with lots of bows and
hearts,
so different from the plain black-and-white dresses she usually wore. Her
mother had bought the red dress for her, but for some reason she rarely got to
wear it. She didn't know why that was. It was such a pretty dress, after all.

"There you are, pumpkin," her mother crooned, pulling a
sweater on over the dress. "Good girl."

Rose put a knuckle to her mouth and sucked on it while her mother
lifted her out of the crib. Her mother was wearing her black coat, the one with
the fuzzy collar that felt so soft. She reached out and stroked it as her
mother carried her across the room. Maybe when she was big, like Mother, she
would get a coat just like it.

"We're going to play a game now, Rose," Deborah said,
grabbing a cloth bag from the bed. "Let's pretend we have zippers on our
mouths and we can't open our lips."

She made a zipping movement across her mouth. Rose smiled and
copied the motion.

"Good. Now, once we zip our mouths, we can't speak. Not
until I unzip yours, okay?"

Rose nodded, eager to play the game. Mother hadn't been playing
many games with her lately, and she was glad to see that life was getting back
to normal, although she wasn't too certain about walking around before
breakfast. That was not at all normal. But if she were with her mother, it
would be all right.

The house was dim as her mother carried her down the hall to the
stairs. She wondered why her mother didn't turn on the lights. Perhaps when she
was big, she wouldn't be afraid of the dark, either. She clung tightly to her mother's
neck as they passed Uncle Enoch's room near the top of the stairs. His room was
a spooky place she wasn't allowed to visit, and the dark wood of the sealed
door seemed even scarier in the dark. Once she had caught a glimpse of him
sitting naked in a chair in his room with drool hanging from his mouth.

Down the stairs they hurried. Her mother clutched her too
tightly, and she squirmed, wanting to complain but remembering the zipper on
her lips. Daisy, their big hound, lifted her head as they walked past the
kitchen, but her mother made a motion for her to stay. That was odd, because
Daisy always went with them on their walks. Rose looked over her mother's
shoulder at the dog, her head bouncing, and hoped Daisy wouldn't feel too bad
about being left out.

A light rain started to fall as they headed across the rear lawn.
Why weren't they walking down the lane, as usual? Why was Mother headed to the
woods in back of the house? Wasn't she afraid of the wild animals that lived
there? Rose clutched her mother's neck even harder.

"It's all right, baby," Deborah murmured softly. But
never once did she put her down to walk, even though she seemed out of breath.

It was still too dark to see much. All the pretty flowers were
closed. And once they left the yard, there was nothing to see but trees and
shrubs shrouded in morning fog. Rose's eyelids felt heavy, and pretty soon she
put her cheek down on the fuzzy collar and shut her eyes, hoping her mother
wouldn't get lost. Her mother's hair smelled nice.

The next thing she knew she was being handed to someone in a car
while her mother crooned a reassurance that she would be all right. Then her
mother slid in beside her and shut the door. All she said was "Let's
go." With a lurch, the car sped away, and Rose snuggled against the curve
of her mother's shoulder and fell back to sleep.

In her bed at Brierwood, Rose felt another kiss on her shoulder,
but the physical contact barely registered. She had dreamed of her mother. She
had seen the face of her mother for the first time, had felt her gentle touch
and heard her soft voice. Overwhelmed by the sudden memory, Rose couldn't
concentrate on the words of the man at her bedside.

"A man was in the car. Your mother's lover."

Leave me alone, Mr. Wolfe.
I can't talk right now. Can't think.

"Your mother was an adulteress, a disgrace to the family."

Rose scowled, still not able to wake up. The dream she had just
experienced disturbed her. She had never dreamed of her mother before. Why now?
And was the dream based on actual childhood memories, or was it simply the
result of her desire to create a past with which she could be satisfied? In the
dream her mother had held her, crooned to her and reassured her. Was that the
kind of mother who would reject her child? What sort of nonsense was Mr. Wolfe
showing her? She tried to wake up, wanting to rid herself of the memories and
the man at her bedside, but she couldn't open her eyes.

"Her lover wanted her to run away, to leave your father."

Father? I don't remember
having a father at all.

"Oh, you had a father, Roselyn. You still do. He's looked
for you for years. You are his only living heir."

That's not possible. I am
an orphan. My father is dead.

"He isn't dead, Roselyn. And he's very anxious to get to
know you after all these years. He's pleased that you have grown up to be such
a beautiful young woman.
Very pleased.

The man at her bedside touched her breast. Rose turned away, and
she sensed that he had straightened but was still regarding her.