The Haunting of Brier Rose (19 page)

He glanced over his shoulder at the beauty in his bed, her red
hair fanned across his pillow and her white hands curled on her chest. Her bare
fingers, bereft of her ever-present emerald ring, looked as delicate and soft
as a child's. No, he could never leave Rose alone, especially after witnessing
the black cloud entering her aura. Who or what had the figure been? Did it have
something to do with the Bastyr family, and with the stranger she claimed to
have seen in the house?

Taylor walked back to the bed and sat down in an upholstered
chair near the nightstand. Whatever he had seen, he planned to stand guard
against it until Rose awakened. This time he would not let anyone talk him out
of helping a woman—not even if it meant putting himself in danger.

A few hours later Rose rolled onto her side and opened her eyes,
surprised to find Taylor sitting beside her, his head propped on his fist, his
dark eyes trained on her face.
The sight of him sitting there
watching her made a warm sensation spread through her languid limbs.
How
long had he been gazing at her?

Seeing her awaken, he raised his head. His lean cheeks were
shadowed by a dark growth of beard, cut through by the pale jagged scar. An
unruly strand of black hair hung over his forehead. She remembered the taste of
him and the weight of him and tried to dash it from her thoughts. She must
never succumb to him again, no matter how she longed to be held in his embrace.

"Good morning, Brier Rose."

"Good morning." She sat up. "What are you doing
there?"

"Watching you."

She bunched the covers to her breast, suddenly wary.
"Why?"

"I'm worried."

"Worried?" Had she talked in her sleep? Had she relived
another painful shard of her past and revealed it to Taylor? She prayed she
hadn't. She didn't want to admit that she came from a twisted family, not even
to herself. "What are you worried about now?"

"That intruder—who was he?"

"I don't know."

"Last night you said you might have an idea."

Rose got out of bed and slipped on her robe, wishing he had
presented her with a cup of coffee instead of twenty questions.

"Well?" He stood up as if to prevent her from leaving
the room.

"Taylor, I just got up. Can we talk about this later?"
She stepped around him, but he reached for her arm to stop her.

"Rose, we need to talk now!"

Rose glared at him, and he instantly let go of her.

"Sorry," he growled. Frustrated, he ran a hand through
his hair, as if to calm
himself
. "What I mean is,
I don't think we should take the break-in lightly. And the more I know about
you and Brierwood, the better decisions I can make about it."

"I don't see what I have to do with the intruder."

"What about the person who came to Brierwood before me? You
talked to him. Who was he? And you said someone had come to your bedroom and
touched you. What was that all about?"

"They must have been bad dreams, just as you said."

"Cut the crap, Rose."

Suddenly Rose felt very much awake, and alarmed that he was
pressing her so hard for the truth. She wasn't ready to confide in him, not
when she didn't know what to believe
herself
. She
straightened her shoulders. "Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Wolfe?"

"You know more than you're telling me."

"Perhaps it's personal."

"Maybe I want to hear the personal stuff."

He stared at her, his eyes glittering. She had never seen such
opaque eyes, as if they were fashioned from obsidian. She had to get away from
his eyes before she buckled and told him everything, and dragged him all the way
into her troubled life.

"Well, maybe I don't want to tell you."

"After last night, I thought—"

"Last night never should have happened, Taylor. I was
frightened and vulnerable. And I had too much brandy."

"Don't blame it on the brandy, Rose. You wanted to be
there."

"You think so?" She threw frost into her voice, hoping
to come across as cruel and uncaring, so she could push him away. "Do you
think I would go for you, with your scars and your lame leg? I can do much
better for myself. Much better."

He blinked at her in shock, too startled to hide the flash of
hurt that flared in his eyes. She tore her gaze from his face and stared at his
model ship across the room while she hugged her robe around her and tried to
hold the pieces of her breaking heart together.

"I was just using you, Mr. Wolfe. Don't you get it?"

She hurried past him to the door before he could reply.

After a shower, Taylor went down for breakfast and plowed through
his eggs and fruit, trying to sort through the words Rose had flung at him. Those
words had echoed his own thoughts, that he wasn't desirable enough to be
attractive to her. Yet she was in danger, and no matter what she thought of
him, he couldn't walk away.

He thought of the women he'd had—laughing, sultry, gorgeous
females who had practically pulled off their clothes for him—and how easy
it had been to bring them into his sphere. The method had been simple—a dinner
date, a tour of the
Jamaican Lady
, a
bottle of champagne on the deck in the moonlight, and the lady was his for the night.

Taylor paused with the coffee cup at his lips as a flush crawled
over his cheekbones. Looking back, he could see the callousness of the
operation. He couldn't imagine trying the old routine with Rose. In fact, he
couldn't imagine asking her for a date. It seemed juvenile, somehow, as if they
were far beyond dating. Yet apparently he was the only one who thought that
way. From what Rose had told him, she didn't even want to get to know him.
I can do better than you.
Her words rang
in his ears, forcing him to put down his mug before he shattered it between the
pressure
of his palms.

No matter how
Rose
felt about him, he
had to look at the black spot in her aura and try to make out a face or feature
to identify the figure he had seen last night. He picked up his dirty dishes,
put a shoulder to the swinging door and pushed through to the kitchen,
surprising Bea, who was working at the sink.

"Mr. Wolfe!" She turned around, and he noticed her
glance down at a butcher knife on the sink board beside her. Taylor flushed
anew, unaccustomed to being distrusted so thoroughly.

Wondering if she would actually arm herself, Taylor sauntered to
the sink to deposit his dishes and watched as she sidled away. "If you'd
feel safer, Mrs. Jacoby, go ahead and pick up the knife."

She glanced at the blade and then
back
at him. "I don't think you're funny, Mr. Wolfe."

"I'm not trying to be." Smiling grimly, Taylor looked
down at her. "Where's Rose this morning?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I have to speak to her for a minute."

"She's too busy. She has to finish hemming the scarf before
her client comes today."

"Her client is coming here?"

"Yes. He was anxious to pick it up, so he's coming in
person."

"When?"

"This evening."

Taylor crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the
counter. "So she's upstairs in the workroom?"

"I didn't say that." Mrs. Jacoby wiped her hands on her
apron. He could see her fingers trembling and wished there was something he
could say to allay her needless fear of him.

"Listen, Mrs. Jacoby." He sighed, wondering how to
approach the subject of the Bastyrs. "I'm worried about Rose. I know you
don't trust me, but I need your help."

She studied him from the corners of her eyes. "My
help?"

"Yes. Something is going on at Brierwood. I think Rose knows
about it, but she won't tell me."

"Why should she?"

Taylor stuffed his left hand in the front pocket of his jeans. He
knew whatever he said must convince Bea to help him, and that meant he had to
be absolutely frank. His gut feeling about Rose was very different from what he
wanted to admit to anyone, especially since he had known her only a short
while. But deep in his heart he knew Rose was special, unlike any woman he had
ever known. He wanted her—in his arms, in his bed and in his
life—and that thought scared the hell out of him. He could hardly look at
the
truth,
much less say it out loud.

Taylor glared at the floor, fighting the urge to bolt out of the
kitchen and Brierwood. But there was no turning back. He had to win over Mrs.
Jacoby, and he could only do it with the truth. He sighed again and looked up
at Bea.

"Because I care what happens to her, Mrs.
Jacoby.
I care a hell of a lot."

Bea's gray eyes pored over his face. "I don't believe
you."

"I don't care if you believe me or not. I want to help
her."

Bea wiped her hands again, bunching the hem of her apron between
her palms. Taylor could tell that his words had shocked her into silence, and
that she was trying to make sense of them.

"I need to know about this family you've talked about—the
Bastyrs."

"Don't toy with me, Mr. Wolfe."

"I'm not!" He straightened and ran a hand through his
hair. "Don't you understand, Mrs. Jacoby? I'm not a threat. I'm not part
of that family. I want to help Rose. But I can't, not when I don't know what's
going on."

"Ask Rose, then."

"I have, but she claims she doesn’t know anything. She says
that she's just been having bad dreams. But I know for a fact that someone or
something is here at Brierwood, coming to
Rose
at
night."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen him."

"You saw someone?"

"Yes. And I don't know how to explain it, but I sense he is a
real creep."

Bea dabbed her forehead and temples with the corner of her apron
and shuffled away, turning her back to him. For the first time since he had met
her, he felt as if he had reached her. Could she be starting to believe him?

He stepped closer. "That's why I need to know about the
Bastyrs, Mrs. Jacoby. I don't want anything to happen to Rose."

She lowered her head, as if in prayer, and then slowly turned to
face him.

"Perhaps I've been wrong about you, Mr. Wolfe."

He nodded, hoping she would continue.

"But I can't tell you these things. Rose must. It is her
story to tell. If she chooses to remain silent, then I must abide by her
wishes."

"Even if she's in danger?"

Bea nodded. "Besides, I don't think there is anything you
could do to help her, Mr. Wolfe. This is between the Bastyrs and us."

"So I just stand by and watch?"

"Believe me, Mr. Wolfe, if you get involved, you could very
well lose your life."

"Why? What kind of family are we talking about here?"

"A strange family. And that's all I'm going to say."
She raised her chin and pressed her lips together.

Taylor limped to the door. "So where is she—upstairs
in the workroom?"

"Yes."

Edgar squawked when Taylor entered the workroom, ruining Taylor's
chance to catch Rose unaware, which was the best way to see her aura in its
purest form. Taylor was confident now that he could see her aura simply by
concentrating and shifting his vision. When he didn't want to see auras he kept
his vision from going out of focus. Knowing he had some power over his ailment
seemed to give him control over the sounds he heard as well. What had once been
cacophony became delightful musical tones when heard individually. Only the
unexpected pipe-organ sound could still overwhelm him.

He would have studied her aura earlier in the morning, when she
lay in his bed, except the dark background of green and burgundy in his bedroom
was a poor backdrop for the purpose. Here in the workroom, with its white walls
and tarnished gilt trim, he would be able to see her aura clearly.

As a test, Taylor glanced at Edgar and shifted his vision. The
raven's head and wings were crowned by an indigo sheen that emitted a faint
hum, much like a note drawn from the string of a cello. Edgar cawed again, as
if in protest at the survey, and Taylor shifted his sight to
Rose
.

She sat in a chair, the scarf draped over her knees, holding a
needle with its tail of thread trailing to the silk in her hand. Rose was
dressed in a deep apricot skirt and blouse trimmed with swirls of tiny rust-colored
braid on the bodice. Interlocked figures of birds were painted along the hem of
the skirt and the sleeves of the blouse, in the same color as her hair, which
was loosely braided and draped over her shoulder. The end of the braid hung
along the inside curve of her arm, drawing his eyes to the shapely mounds of
her breasts. She wore a chunk of carnelian nestled among a clutch of foreign
coins on a thong around her neck and another at her wrist. Rose had never looked
more beautiful, and for a moment all he could do was stare at her.

Rose regarded him coolly, aloof and beautiful, but with a small
muscle trembling at the corner of her mouth, as if she were holding back a
flood of emotion.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I've come to study your aura," he answered, stepping
closer. “Humor me.”

"Why?" She sat back in her chair, as if to distance
herself
from him.

"I need to get a better look at that black spot."

She bent over her work and took a stitch. "I told you I
didn't want your help."

"It will only take a minute."

"I don't mean to be rude," she said tersely, "but
I'm under a strict deadline, Taylor. I don't have a minute to spare. It will
take hours to hand stitch this hem."

"Just keep doing what you're doing. Ignore me."

"I would prefer that you leave." She frowned at her
work, obviously displeased with the last few stitches. "I don't like it
when you stare at me."