The Haunting of Brier Rose (4 page)

Before Rose reached the doorway to the hall, she was startled by
a flapping noise and turned around to see a huge raven alight on the windowsill
behind her.

"Edgar," she admonished. "Don't scare me like
that!"

He cawed loudly and soared over to her. He landed on her wrist
and turned a shiny eye to her, as if trying to tell her something.

"What is it, you rascal?"

He clacked and bobbed his head, agitated.

Another door thumped closed down below.

"Has Mr. Wolfe arrived?" Rose glanced at her watch as
she walked out to the hallway. 8:55.
Had
she gotten
the arrival time wrong? She distinctly remembered Bea telling her that he would
be at Brierwood at half past ten. Perhaps Mr. Wolfe had come earlier than
planned. If that were the case, she should go down and welcome him and try to
explain Mr. Jacoby's absence, for Bea hadn't informed the Wolfes about Donald
Jacoby's death.

Edgar refused to accompany her to the lower level, which was odd,
because he was usually interested in the comings and goings of people at Brierwood.
Perhaps he lingered behind because it was early evening, the time when he generally
went to roost.

Putting his odd behavior out of her mind, Rose flowed down the
stairs, wishing she had had time to change. Her painting clothes—an old
summer smock and a bandanna spotted with dye—were not at all
flattering,
certainly not appropriate attire in which to
greet Mr. Wolfe. But since he had arrived hours early, he couldn't expect her
to be ready to greet him in her best dress.

Frowning, Rose pulled off the scarf and ran her fingers through
her long red hair as she approached the study. She could hear Mr. Wolfe moving
around in the room. The door stood ajar.

Rose rapped on the woodwork, wondering how she could explain the
odd circumstances of Donald Jacoby's death and her own lengthy and secret
presence at Brierwood.

"Come in," a dry voice commanded.

Rose passed into the study, lit by the eerie glow of a small desk
lamp with a green glass shade. Mr. Wolfe had drawn the curtains, which plunged
the room into shadow. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, but she
attributed her reaction to her childish fear of darkness. In the dim light, she
could barely make out Mr. Wolfe as he stood near the wall of shelves at the
other end of the room, a book in his hand, his face and figure bathed in shadow.
He was a tall man, and from the shape of his body, not the old man she had assumed
he would be.

"Welcome to Brierwood," she said.

"Thank you."

"We didn't expect you so soon."

"Oh?"

His eyes glittered at her from the shadows, and his glance raked
her up and down. She felt as if he were touching her with his hands. Rose
resisted the urge to step backward, and forced herself to utter the proper
inanities.

"Did you have a pleasant journey?"

"As pleasant as can be expected." He shelved the book
and turned slightly. "But not as pleasant as seeing you. You are more
beautiful than I had hoped."

Rose paused. What an odd thing to say. As far as she knew, Mr.
Wolfe wasn't even aware of her existence, let alone her appearance. Maybe he
thought she was Bea.

"I'm not Mrs. Jacoby," she put in.

"Oh, I know that." He pulled out another book and
looked down at the cover. "You're Roselyn Bastyr."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is Quennel."

''Perhaps you have been told you are a Quennel. But you are a
Bastyr, my dear, through and through."

"What makes you say that?"

"I can tell just by looking at you. That peculiar shade of
red hair is a family trademark in the Bastyr women."

Rose paused. She had been told she was a foundling with no links
to her past. Where the Quennel name had come from, she hadn't the faintest
idea. To hear someone say she belonged to a family and bore a strong
resemblance to someone—anyone—made her heart surge in her chest.
More than anything, she wanted to belong to a family, a real family, with whom
she shared bloodlines and heritage. But most of her life she had lived with
Donald and Bea Jacoby, who swore they knew nothing about her, or whether or not
a Quennel family even existed.

"You know about me?" she asked.

"I know many things about you, Roselyn."

How much did he know? And what did he know of the current status
of Brierwood? Did he know that Donald was dead? That she had kept secret the
news of his death in hopes that Bea Jacoby wouldn't be fired? She was certain
that no one would want to retain an old woman as housekeeper after her husband,
who had served as grounds- keeper and handyman, had died. Worse yet, Rose
herself had been living at Brierwood for fifteen years without the Wolfe
family’s knowledge. Bea had been convinced it wouldn't matter, that no one ever
came to Brierwood anyway or cared what happened there. Yet Taylor Wolfe, son of
the owner of Brierwood, now stood before her in the study, claiming to know all
about her.

He hadn't thrown her out, though. Not yet, anyway.

"You say you think I'm a Bastyr?"

"I know you are a Bastyr."

"Who are they?"

"All in good time, my dear." He chuckled as he shut the
book. "We'll speak of that later."

She stepped closer. "Then it's all right with you that I'm
here? I can stay?"

"For now, of course." He looked up at her. She wished
she could see his face and his expression, but the darkness concealed
everything, even the color of his hair. She clasped her hands together, feeling
uneasy in his presence.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you, no. I will talk with you later, Roselyn."

"All right."

She was grateful for the dismissal and hurried back upstairs to
her work.

Seth Bastyr watched Rose leave the room. He smiled in the darkness.
Engaging little creature. She thought he was someone else. He had a mind not to
set her straight, not just yet. If she thought he was someone else, she might
accept his sudden appearance without putting up much of a fight. Then all of
Deborah Bastyr's schemes and plans would be for naught. He wouldn't mind
besting that bitch at last. He wouldn't mind it at all. And to vanquish Deborah
by taking her daughter, Rose Quennel, would only make the victory that much
sweeter. So far, the road to victory hadn't been difficult. Donald Jacoby was
dead and buried. That left only Bea. And then Roselyn would be his. Seth
thought of the ritual to come and closed his eyes to savor the sharp thrill of
anticipation. Anticipation was an integral part of the game.

 
“Brierwood,
sir," the taxi driver announced.

Taylor lifted his head from the back of the car seat as his taxi
pulled through the entrance pillars of his aunt’s estate. He had asked the
driver to inform him of their arrival so that he could spend most of the
journey resting, as the flight from San Francisco to Seattle had exhausted him.
He opened his eyes, hoping wild colors wouldn’t impair his sight and was relieved
to find his vision was normal. Wincing from the cramp in his neck, he looked
out the car window at the grounds of the old family estate, as the headlights
of the taxi illuminated great tree trunks, lacy fern fronds, and endless clumps
of brambles.

So this was Brierwood.

He had never set foot in the place. His Aunt Julia had cut
herself off from her sister upon her sister's marriage to Richard Wolfe. Taylor
had been told there was a mutual dislike between his father and his aunt, but
he often wondered if a deeper reason existed for the animosity. After Aunt
Julia died years ago, the estate passed to Taylor's mother, with the
stipulation that the caretakers remain employed until they reached retirement
age. For over a decade the estate had remained untouched, for Ruth Wolfe had
never concerned herself with the affairs of the place, mostly because it was
more of an albatross than an asset.

On the three occasions when his mother had tried to sell the
estate, not one buyer had come forward. Looking around, Taylor could see why.
Even in the encroaching darkness, he could tell that Brierwood was overgrown
and unkempt, a tangle of vines and trees and unfettered gardens. He had never
seen such vegetation except in the steamy jungles of the tropics. He had heard
that the rains of the Seattle area, coupled with mild winters, created a
friendly environment for plants, but he was surprised by the lushness of his
northwest surroundings. He made a note to himself to speak to the caretakers
about the grounds. Obviously the couple was shirking their responsibilities.

The taxi swung around a curve in the drive, and Taylor craned his
neck to get a good look at the facade of the Tudor mansion rising up from a sea
of hedges. His aunt’s house was three stories of half-timbered nooks and
crannies that rambled into the shadows of twilight. The entire face of the
house was draped in ivy, with only the windows and casements showing, and all of
them were dark, as if no one lived in the place.

Taylor glanced around, searching for a lighted window or door,
but found none. It appeared that his arrival time had been forgotten. He sank
back, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane.
So
much the better.
If he should suffer a vision attack on arriving at
Brierwood, he would rather suffer alone than in front of complete strangers.
There was no telling when his world would burst into color, and he didn’t want
anyone to see him stumbling around.

The taxi pulled up by the dark front entrance. Taylor unlatched
the car door, and struggled to get out before the driver could see how lame he
was. With his stiff leg, it was a lot harder getting out of a vehicle than in
one.

Rose woke at the sound of a door slamming again. She jumped to
her feet, shocked that she had fallen asleep so quickly. What time was it? She
glanced at her watch. Ten- thirty. She had slept for nearly two hours, slumped
in her chair, too exhausted to stay awake. She wondered if Mr. Wolfe had called
her and she had slept right through his summons. At this point, it wouldn't be
a good idea to make him angry. Mr. Wolfe seemed to be the kind of man who would
get angry easily. She walked to the door and out to the railing where she could
look over the edge to the entryway two stories below. She flipped on the light.

There in the huge foyer stood a dark-haired man with two suitcases
at his feet. Mr. Wolfe must have left Brierwood after their brief conversation
in the library and had come back with his things.

"Hello?" His deep baritone voice rang out, echoing up
to her position on the third floor. Rose stiffened. He was looking for her,
probably to take care of his luggage and show him to his room. "Is anybody
here?"

"Just a moment!" Rose called out.

The man looked up, trying to locate her, and finally backed up to
get a view of the third-story balcony.

"I'm coming!" Rose added,

Edgar appeared out of nowhere and soared down to the foyer while
Rose pattered down the stairs. She thought it was strange that Edgar had suddenly
decided to come to life, especially at this hour of the night.

Just as she gained the bottom of the stairs, she saw Edgar flap
close to Mr. Wolfe and dart at his hand. Something metallic hit the floor.

"Hey!" Mr. Wolfe exclaimed as Edgar disappeared into
the shadows of the drawing room at the front of the house.

Rose hurried forward, hoping her pet hadn’t pecked the master of
the house, and wondering why Edgar would fly so close to a stranger. Then she saw
a key glinting on the floor. In an attempt to make off with the shiny object in
Mr. Wolfe's possession, Edgar must have knocked the key out of his hand.

Rose reached down for it at the same time Mr. Wolfe did, and they
nearly bumped heads. She straightened, holding out the key, and smiled at the
humor of the situation. But all amusement died when she looked into the face of
the man before her. For a moment all she could do was stare at him.

He looked like a pirate—that was the only way she could
describe him—with his scarred face, shining black hair and sardonic slash
of a mouth. But this pirate wasn't laughing. In fact, his dark brown eyes
studied her with a guarded intensity that unnerved her. He had a prominent nose
with a narrow bridge—a nose some might call too sharp—and she had
the distinct feeling that he was looking down that nose in disdain at her. A
strand of black hair fell over a forehead crossed by a scar. Another scar
paralleled the line that stretched from cheekbone to chin on his lean face. His
jagged wounds branded his good looks with the mark of a brigand, compounded by
the ebony fire that smoldered in his unusually dark brown eyes. But even more
unsettling to Rose was a sudden flare of familiarity in his features, as if she
had seen him before.

"Do you always stare?" he demanded. “Or do you have
something to say about my face?”

"No. Pardon me." Chagrined, Rose dropped the key in his
outstretched hand. "And sorry about Edgar. He usually isn’t so mischievous."

"Edgar?" The man’s long hand snapped around the key.
"I can't believe a wild animal is loose in the house."

"Edgar isn't wild. He's quite tame. And once you get to know
him—"

"I have no intention of getting to know him." He turned
away and limped to the doorway of the drawing room. Her reaction to his face must
have upset him. Rose surveyed Mr. Wolfe as he walked. She hadn't noticed the
cane when she had first met him in the study a few hours ago, but he hadn't
been walking around then, either. And the library had been too dark to see much
of his face.

She studied him as he walked away, wondering at the queer feeling
of deja vu she had felt a moment ago, and how differently he appeared to her in
the light. His hair glinted blue-black and was neither straight nor curly, but
full of lights and body where it curved over the tops of his ears. His
shoulders were wide and straight, which she assumed was the product of the
expert tailoring of his leather jacket. He didn't look much older than his late
twenties, but even with the limp, he moved with the confidence of a man who had
seen a lot of the world and usually got his way, no questions asked.