The Haunting of Brier Rose (5 page)

“You
are
Mr. Wolfe,
aren’t you?” she ventured.

“Yes,” he said over his shoulder. “But apparently no one got the
memo about my arrival.”

“What do you mean?”

Puzzled and annoyed by his gruff behavior, Rose stood at the foot
of the stairs, her arms stiff at her sides. Mr. Wolfe glanced down the central
hall, which led to the parlor, morning room and the kitchen, and then pivoted.
His jacket creaked softly. "Where is Mrs. Jacoby?"

"She has retired for the night." Rose wondered what had
happened to his earlier mood when he had told her she was beautiful. Now he was
looking at her as if she were an interloper.

"And Mr. Jacoby?"

"He hasn't been here for quite some time."

"Obviously. The lawn is overgrown. And the outlying gardens
look like a jungle."

"We have done the best we could, considering."

"We?" he quipped. "And who might you be?"

She knitted her brows in confusion. What kind of game was he
playing?

"Well?"

"Have you forgotten? Rose."

"Rose what?"

"I told you before. Rose Quennel."

He paused for a moment and glanced away, as if running through a
mental list. Then he looked back at her. "I don't recall seeing your name
on the list of people employed at Brierwood."

"I'm not exactly employed here. The Jacobys are my
guardians."

"Guardians?"

"Yes." She wondered why he was questioning her again
after he had already told her that she could stay. Hadn't he mentioned the fact
that he knew a lot about her? It certainly didn't seem like it now. She sighed
in exasperated confusion.

"And how long have you been here?"

"Fifteen years."

"I see." He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, inspecting
her in a way that brought a flush to her cheeks. She half expected him to prod
her with his cane as if she were an animal on an auction block. She drew
herself up as straight as she could, but she was still more than a head shorter
than Mr. Wolfe.

"And how do you earn your keep, Ms. Quennel?"

"I help in the garden, I cook—whatever Mrs. Jacoby requests
of me."

He gave her splattered smock another scathing look. His eyes were
cold and opaque, almost black, in perfect complement to his curt questions.
Once again her gaze strayed to the scar that ran across his forehead, just
above his left eyebrow, and the other angling down his cheek. Rose wondered
what had happened to him, to leave him scarred and crippled. His scars added a
primal ruthlessness to his expression, which caused her heart to patter more
quickly in her chest. She studied him while he inspected her. Then he switched
his cool regard to her face, and she quickly glanced away so he wouldn't catch
her staring.

"I called ahead to the Jacobys, instructing them to prepare
for my arrival. And when I get here, it’s like the place is deserted. They've run
off, haven't they, knowing they have been remiss in their duties?"

"The Jacobys are quite old, you know—"

"They've been living at Brierwood all these years without
lifting a finger to take care of the place. That’s plain to see. They couldn't face
me, could they?"

"Mr. Wolfe, you've—"

"And like cowards, they left you here to make excuses for
them."

"That is not the case."

"What did they do—drink away my aunt's money?" He
pivoted, leaning on his cane "Look at the place. It's a
complete—"

He broke off suddenly. His hand flew to his face, and his slender
fingers splayed over his eyes. He swore and stumbled backward, as if dizzy or
ill.

"Mr. Wolfe!" Rose exclaimed. She rushed to him and,
without thinking, clutched his arm, hoping to catch him before he fell.

"I'm all right!" he growled, wrenching his arm away.

She stepped back, staring at him in alarm as he staggered to a bench
in the hall. Was he having a migraine attack? It served him right for losing
his temper and subjecting her to an angry tirade without allowing her to speak
in defense. He collapsed onto the bench and leaned back, closing his eyes. His
cane clattered to the wood floor. Rose reached down and picked it up.

"Are you ill, Mr. Wolfe?"

"No." His heavy breathing belied his words. She could
tell something was wrong with him.

"If you had let me explain, Mr. Wolfe, you might not have
gotten so upset."

"Please leave me alone."

"And just because you're a Wolfe doesn't give you the right
to act like an ogre."

"Leave me alone, Ms. Quennel."

"And if you had taken the time to look around, you'd see
that the inside of Brierwood has received excellent care."

"You've said your piece, Ms. Quennel, now go."

"Not without an apology."

He raised his head and squinted at her. "An apology?"

She nodded.

"All right. I'm sorry. Et cetera." He sighed and let
his head ease back. "Now, will you just leave me alone? Please?"

"That apology did not come from the heart."

"So I'm a heartless bastard, Ms. Quennel. Ask anyone.'

He sounded gruff, and his lips were stern and tight, but what he
said didn't ring true. It was as if he were relaying someone's opinion of his
character, an opinion that had offended him.

She lingered, curious to discover his real character, the one she
suspected might lie beneath the gruffness.

"Can I get you something—a glass of water?"

He sighed again, as if realizing he was not to be rid of her.
"Scotch, if there's any around."

Carefully she leaned his cane against the end of the bench and
then walked to the drawing room, where Mr. Jacoby had kept a well-stocked liquor
cabinet. Rose selected a bottle of Glenmorangie and poured some into a glass.
She wondered if she should add anything else, but since Mr. Wolfe hadn't
requested it, she decided to take it to him straight. She shut the doors of the
cabinet and hurried out of the drawing room.

Mr. Wolfe was still sprawled in the bench, his head resting
against the wall, his lips slightly apart.

"Here's the Scotch," she said softly, not wishing to
startle him.

He put out his hand without opening his eyes, and she placed the
tumbler in his fingers.

She was surprised to hear him mutter a husky thank-you. Then he
raised his head slightly and brought the glass to his lips.

She surveyed his face while he drank. At first glance she had
considered him handsome, but upon closer inspection she decided he wasn't
handsome in the classic sense of the word. Instead of working together as a
harmonious whole, his features battled each other for dominance once his intense
eyes were closed. His sharp nose and cheekbones contrasted with his wide
sensual mouth and generous lower lip. Staring at him, she saw power and
authority in the ridge of his pointed nose and strong jaw, which was offset by
the sardonic upturn at the left corner of his mouth. He looked like a man who
had seen the world—perhaps too much of it—and found his place in it
somewhat ludicrous. His face seemed a contradiction in terms, and she wondered
if such a face reflected the character of the man.

He pinched the skin between his dark brows and leaned back again.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes?" Rose asked
as she stepped closer.

He ignored the inquiry. "I'll be all right in a
moment."

She clasped her hands and waited for him to recover.

"Ms. Quennel," he said at last, "do you hear a
buzzing sound?"

She looked around the entryway as if she could glimpse visual
proof of the sound to which he referred. "No—"

"I thought not." He scowled, pressing his lips
together, and then releasing them. Rose regarded his mouth, wondering what he
was talking about, and wondering what it would be like to lean over and kiss
those firm lips. It almost seemed as if a kiss would be a familiar gesture with
Mr. Wolfe, when in fact she had never kissed a man in her life. She flushed,
glad that his eyes were still closed and he couldn't see her blush.

Her reaction to his mouth confounded her, especially after he had
been so rude to her. She put it out of her mind, chiding herself for being as
hot and cold as Mr. Wolfe. Then she lifted one of his bags and struggled with
it to the foot of the stairs.

Though Mr. Wolfe was foul-tempered, he held her future in his
hands. She shouldn't antagonize him any further, in case he might tell her to
pack her bags and leave. She couldn't jeopardize her position at Brierwood,
because it was imperative that she
finish
her fabric
project before the end of the week, when her client was to pick it up. Then she
would have enough money to rent a place of her own, where she and Bea could
live.

Mr. Wolfe finished his Scotch and rose to his feet, his bad leg
making him appear clumsy.

"I assume there must be a free bedroom somewhere."

"Yes." Rose had cleaned and polished every inch of the
master bedroom, taking great care to see to Mr. Wolfe's comfort. She hoped that
he might overlook the condition of the rest of the estate once he saw evidence
of her hard work in his room. She hadn't anticipated the fact that he had difficulty
walking. Had she known, she would have made arrangements for him to stay on the
ground floor. But it was too late for that now.

"The master suite is on the second floor, Mr. Wolfe. Do you
think you can make it up the stairs?"

"Of course I can." He glanced up the curving walnut
staircase and took a deep breath.

“I’ll show you up to the room if you wish.”

"Thanks, but you don’t have to wait on me." He reached
for the bag she had picked up, pulled it out of her grasp, and tucked it under
his arm. Then he bent to pick up the second bag with the same hand, leaving a
hand free for his cane. He limped toward the staircase. Rose watched him out of
the corner of her eye, expecting him to collapse at any minute. But he
continued up the stairs without incident.

She waited until the sound of his uneven gait died out. Then Rose
padded to the kitchen. Mr. Wolfe might have boorish manners. But Bea had taught
her how to treat strangers. She would do her best to make the master of the
house feel welcome, even if he pushed her away. Bea always made the effort to
be civil, even to rude people. Rose would do the same.

Upstairs, Taylor quickly unpacked his clothes and took his
shaving kit to the bathroom. As he walked around the master suite, he eyed the
room appreciatively. Something about the dark greens and burgundy of the
wallpaper and bedcovering made him feel at home. The pile of pillows on the bed
looked soft and cozy, and the old-fashioned frame of the painting above the
fireplace spoke of a grand and opulent era, a far cry from the minimalist decor
of his mother's home in San Francisco. His gaze roamed over the plants near the
window and caught the green of the Boston fern hanging in the bath. They were
real plants, not cheap imitations, and someone had cared for them so well that
they looked as perfect as their silk counterparts. The genuine article pleased
him, just as much as a well-maintained wood boat did over a flashy fiberglass
craft. He sighed and pulled his shirttails out of his jeans. Idly, he unbuttoned
his cotton shirt as he continued to look around.

He had never felt comfortable sleeping in a house since taking up
residence on his ship, the
Jamaican Lady
.
A house didn't rock a person to sleep. A house wasn't full of the sounds Taylor
loved so much—the cry of a gull, the thwank thwank of rigging in the
wind, the sigh of water running across a beach. Yet for some reason, this
chamber in his aunt's house set his spirit at ease. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad
here at Brierwood.

As Taylor unfastened the last button on his shirt, he heard a rap
on his door. He limped across the floor to find Rose Quennel standing in the
hallway holding a tray of cookies and a tea service. Two cups sat near the pot,
as if she expected to sit and talk. He had no patience for chatty women or
teacups, especially when he was so tired.

"I thought you might be hungry after your trip." She
held up the tray and smiled at him. Taylor quickly looked away from her face,
struck by the lack of guile in her expression. Most of the women he had met in
his travels were college girls looking for adventure funded by daddy's
bankcard, tavern veterans full of beer and bitterness, dockside hookers or
stuffy debutantes his mother lined up for him during his rare visits to San
Francisco. But Ms. Quennel had an open face and a steady gaze bright with
honesty, much like that of a child. She was a far cry from any of the women that
had crossed his path.

"Mr. Wolfe?"

Taylor briefly inspected the tray, not in the least interested in
the food. "I usually don't eat at this time of night, Ms. Quennel."

"They're homemade cookies. Bea and I made them this
afternoon."

He glanced at her again. She looked like a Rembrandt
painting—all red-browns and ivory—as she stood framed by the
darkness of the hall, her deep red hair tumbling around her shoulders and her
white skin glowing in the lamplight. He had the strongest urge to cup her cheek
in his palm and see if she felt as smooth and soft as she looked. He hadn't
been with a woman for months and felt the ache of repressed desire. He’d have
to get used to it and start seeing himself as the rest of the world did now: a
scarred, half-crippled, half-blind man.

"Mr. Wolfe?"

He must have been staring at her—as thoroughly as she had
gawked at him down at the front door. Angry at his lack of self-control, he
motioned toward the sitting area near the fireplace. "Put the tray over
there if you like.
And no more Mr. Wolfe.
Just call me
Taylor. "

"Okay." She smiled sheepishly and then swept into the
room.

Formality had never been Taylor's strong suit. He thought of his
parents and their impoverished beginnings and how they had become more stilted
and formal with each million his father acquired. Formality was a sham that
meant nothing to him, and he would not practice it.