The Haunting of Brier Rose (8 page)

"I never said that I knew anything about her."

"Rose is unusually bright, Mr. Wolfe. When she tells me
something, I have no reason to doubt her memory or her reason."

"Then maybe she's just confused." He took a sip of coffee,
wishing he could enjoy his breakfast in peace and quiet. As it was, his meal
lodged in his chest, bound up by the terse words between himself and the
housekeeper, and by the idea that he might be in the process of being framed.

"Whatever you may think you have found in Rose, Mr. Wolfe,
be assured that you are wrong about her. She has no family. Do you understand?
None. Just because she has red lair doesn't mean she is connected to any
family."

"I never said she was." Exasperated, Taylor sighed.
'Look, Mrs. Jacoby, I have no interest in Rose Quennel. "None whatsoever.
How many ways do I have to say it?"

She studied him, staring at him from the corner of her eyes as if
to judge the veracity of his words. He kept his gaze steady, willing her to
believe him, until she turned and left the morning room. Taylor watched her,
wondering what in the hell was going on.

One thing he was sure of, he wasn't about to become a victim of a
frame job, no matter how beautiful the bait. The sooner he recovered his normal
eyesight, the better. And that meant finding out all he could on the subject of
the human eye and related diseases. He finished his breakfast and then limped
up to the study on the second floor, where he spent the rest of the morning on
the phone ordering books about the human eye, vision and anything else remotely
related to his peculiar problem. He was determined to get his normal sight
back, no matter what the doctors said. Doctors had misdiagnosed their patients
before. They could be wrong in his case, too. Taylor hoped to God they were.

Rose stayed in the third floor workroom for most of the day. She
didn't want to take the chance that she might run into Mr. Wolfe in the parlor
or on the stairs, and she certainly wasn't in the mood for waiting on him. But
by three o'clock she was suffering from hunger and heat. Her hair was damp, and
her dress clung to the backs of her legs. She couldn't bear another minute of
the heat. A dip in the pond just outside the grounds would revive her and give
her the impetus to continue her work. She had made great strides in finishing
the scarf and deserved a break.

She slipped out of the house and caught a glimpse of Mr. Wolfe
walking down the lane. Rose took the opposite direction and headed for the back
gardens, toward the pond at the rear of the property. As she got closer to the
pond, her anger faded, replaced by the joy she always felt when walking through
the canopy of fir trees. Stellar jays squawked as she strolled down the path,
alerted by the presence of Edgar, who soared ahead.

Just as she was about to turn off the path to the pond, she heard
a snuffling noise and a growl. Rose stopped at the Y in the path and cocked her
head to listen. The growl was closer this time, coming from the curved trail
ahead of her. Though she knew it was impossible, she could swear she heard her
name—
Roselyn, Roselyn, Roselyn
—as
if some kind of creatures were chanting her name as they ran. The hair or the
back of her neck rose, and she turned to flee just as four black-and-orange Rottweilers
burst around the bend in the path and thundered toward her, panting and
snarling. They had huge blocky heads and powerful jaws frothing with white
foam.

Rose knew enough about dogs not to run or show fear. If she did
either, chances were that they would attack her. If she could stand her ground
and intimidate them, she might buy enough time to find a way to escape.

"Back!" Rose shouted, glancing around for a stick with
which to defend
herself
. The dogs
tRotted
around her, sniffing the ground and growling. They had massive chests, as big a
man's, and muscular legs and necks, and she was certain she would be no match
for them. She backed toward the berry bushes where the two paths joined and
looked down. A rock lay on the ground near her feet. Without taking her
attention off the dogs, she crouched down and picked up the rock.

"Get back!" she shouted again, brandishing the rock.
"Get!"

The dogs showed no fear. Where had they come from? The nearest
neighbor was miles away, on the other side of the dense wood. She had never
seen Rottweilers in the vicinity and wondered if they were they a pack of wild
dogs.

Roselyn, Roselyn, Roselyn
,
they growled, pacing in front of her. One padded closer and showed his teeth.
The other three
tRotted
up behind him, barking and
snarling.

Desperate, Rose threw the rock at the leader. It hit the dog's
chest and thudded to the ground. He didn't even take notice of the impact and
lunged forward.

Rose screamed and scrambled backward, over the soft bank of the
path. The earth gave way beneath her weight, and she toppled over, landing in
the briers.

"Oh!" she cried, impaled by hundreds of little thorns
tearing at her shoulders, arms and legs. Tears sprang up, but she blinked them
back, too worried about the Rottweilers to indulge in crying. The dogs paced at
the top of the bank, glaring down at her, their jowls dripping froth on the
blackberry leaves. Apparently they knew better than to jump down into the
brambles. But how long would they stay there?

Grimacing in pain, Rose tried to look behind her for an escape
route beyond the brambles, only to discover that her braid had come partially
undone and her hair was caught in the briers. The more she twisted and turned,
the more entangled she became, and she couldn't turn her head far enough to see
how to free herself. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, she panicked and nearly
pulled her hair out by the roots, until the pain in her scalp and in her arms
and palms made her fall back, exhausted and frightened. What would she do? How
long would the dogs stand guard over her? How would she ever get loose? Bea was
slightly deaf and would never hear her cries for help. The only person who
could help her was that awful Mr. Wolfe. And who knew if he was within earshot?
And if he did hear her and came to her aid, what would the dogs do to him?

She glanced at the Rottweilers and noticed they had turned their
attention to something on the path. Their ears pricked forward as if they were
listening.

"Ms. Quennel?" a familiar voice called.

The dogs turned and loped off in the opposite direction. But for
the stickers in her back, Rose would have wilted in relief.

"Mr. Wolfe!" she shouted. "I'm over here!"

Taylor leaned on his cane and wiped the sweat from his brow with
the back of his hand. That was Rose calling him, and she sounded as if she were
in trouble. Regardless, he had to pause for a moment and catch his breath. He
hadn't realized how tired he would get after such a short walk, or how hot it
was outside in the afternoon. Even though the garden and grounds looked cool
and inviting from the house, they offered little relief from the close air. His
leg throbbed and his breath came hard as he continued to hurry down the trail,
following Rose's raven, who soared ahead of him.

"Help! Mr. Wolfe!"

"Coming!" He was certain now that the plaintive voice
must belong to Rose Quennel. She didn't appear to be the type who would beg for
anyone's help, yet who else would be here in this remote place? Taylor limped
along the sun-dappled trail until he came to a clearing, where the path forked
off toward a small pond.

"Mr. Wolfe!"

He caught sight of a white figure lying spread-eagled in a
thicket of blackberries at the edge of the trail. He limped closer.

"Rose?" he gasped in disbelief.

"Watch out for the dogs, Mr. Wolfe!"

"What dogs?" He glanced around. "I don't see any
dogs."

"There were four Rottweilers. They attacked me."

"I don't see them."

"You don't? Maybe you scared them off."

He nodded and looked down at her. "You look as if you've
gotten yourself in quite a spot there."

"My hair is caught. And I'm in a great deal of discomfort."

Taylor surveyed the situation, wincing when he noticed the bright
red scratches on her fair skin. Dressed in denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, he
didn't relish the idea of wading in after her, but he couldn't leave her and go
back for an ax to chop her out. With his slow walk, he wouldn't make it back
for half an hour, at least. He couldn't let her suffer that long. And if there
were dogs around, they might return.

Scowling, he stepped down the bank, using his cane to fend off
the encroaching brambles. Even so, he received more scratches on his already
scarred face and legs. A lusty brier brushed the gash on his leg and ripped off
part of the bandage. Taylor felt a warm trickle of blood course down his shin
_.
He ignored it and blocked out the throb of pain as he hacked his way to
Rose.

"How'd you manage to fall into these?" he grumbled,
whacking at a stray vine.

"The dogs lunged at me. Please hurry."

Taylor bent over her and inspected the intricate tangle of hair
and briers. Gingerly he pulled a strand of red hair free, trying not to hurt
her. He was accustomed to working with his hands on small difficult
details,
a talent honed by many hours spent building his
models. The practice provided him with unusual patience and concentration,
which he could apply with ease to his ships but found nearly impossible to
grant to people.

He pulled on another strand, and she let out a gasp.

"Easy, Rose," he encouraged. "I’m getting
somewhere."

He put aside his cane and slipped a hand under her head,
supporting its weight to take the strain off her neck. She sighed in relief,
and he felt her relax somewhat. If this were a ploy to get them together, she
had certainly placed herself in considerable pain for the cause. He wondered
whose idea it was, Bea
Jacoby's
or Rose Quennel's, and
whether she had become far more entangled than she had planned?

He worked quickly, freeing tangle after tangle, until the last vine
was pulled from her hair. "There," he said, helping her to her feet,
one hand on her wrist, the other on her hip, knowing he should step away from
her as quickly as possible. She rose gracefully and stood before him, slightly
dazed and pale, brushing her tousled hair out of her face. Her actions and
expression seemed too genuine to be mere fabrication. Worried that she might
collapse back into the thicket, Taylor grabbed her around her slender waist and
surveyed her critically.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I—I think so," she murmured. "Thank
you." In wonder, she looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first
time. "You saved my life."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I might never have gotten away."

"You'd have managed." His eyes locked with hers, and he
wasn't even sure what he was saying. All he knew was that he longed to bend
down and kiss her lips, so red against her pale skin. She was lovely, even
covered with scratches, and the paleness of her skin accentuated the blue of
her eyes, the same periwinkle blue of the forget-me-nots growing at the edge of
the briers. Beads of moisture hung in her lashes, adding to their lushness.

"I just can't understand where those dogs came from,"
she said. "I've never seen them around here before."

"And they attacked you?"

"Yes. And I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come
along when you did."

Suddenly Edgar swooped down at them and landed on the grass
nearby, cawing raucously. Rose glanced at the bird, breaking off the tender
possibility that had hung between them.

"And where were you, Edgar?" she admonished. "You
could have gone for help."

"He did. He guided me over this way."

"He did?" Surprised, Rose looked back at the bird.

Edgar bobbed his head.

Taylor came to his senses and realized that he had been considering
succumbing to Rose just as they planned for him to do. This was no time to play
the fool. Immediately, he released his light hold on her.

Rose backed away and lowered her lashes, while two patches of
crimson blossomed on her cheeks. The shock had worn off, and it was obvious she
was embarrassed. Flustered himself, he picked up his cane and gently took
her wrist to lead her out of the briers, thankful to occupy his hands with
something other than her soft curves. If he touched her again or gazed at her any
longer, he would forget his vow to steer clear of her.

Once they reached the trail, he released her. "There you go,
Brier Rose. Safe and sound."

He heard her suck in a sharp breath.

"Mr. Wolfe, your leg!"

He looked down. The slash on his right calf had broken open and
painted his leg in blood.

Rose knelt beside him to inspect his wound and brushed at the
trickle of blood with the hem of the slip beneath her dress.

"How did you hurt your leg, Mr. Wolfe?"

"In a car accident.''

"On a piece of glass?"

"I don't know how it happened. I was unconscious."

She dabbed at his leg with the corner of her slip, her touch more
gentle than that of any of the doctors or nurses who had attended him at the
hospital. Taylor looked down at her, wondering why he was letting her fuss over
him.

"It's quite a deep wound, as if you wore cut with a
knife."

"It's nothing."

"How long ago were you injured?"

"About two months."

"It should be healed by now." Rose straightened and
deftly pulled the half-slip down, stepping out of it with her inimitable
gracefulness. The slip was a virginal concoction of lace trim and rosebud embroidery,
and for a moment Taylor stared at it. He hadn't seen such a feminine piece of
clothing for years. "Here," she said, kneeling down again. "Let
me stop the bleeding, at least."

"Wait. You'll ruin your slip."

"I'd rather soil my slip than have you bleed to death, Mr.
Wolfe."

Before he could back away, she was removing the old bandage in a
way that didn't pull at the hairs on his leg. Then she tied torn strips of the
slip firmly but comfortably about his leg. Taylor watched her, marveling that
she would take such care of a virtual stranger—unless, of course, she was
doing it only to ingratiate herself with him.

When Rose finished, she stood up. "I'd get that taken care
of, Mr. Wolfe. It could get infected. It looks like it may be infected
now."

"The doctors did all that could possibly be done."

"Have you tried plantain?"

"What?"

"Plantain. It's a plant, one of the best remedies for cuts
and infections. I'm going to gather some for my scratches. I get some for you,
too."

"Forget it." There she went again with her herbal advice.
Taylor had no use for quacks, even beautiful ones. He didn't like her staring
at his scars, and he didn't want to be her patient. Most of all, however, he
hated appearing as a wounded weakling in her presence. "My leg needs time
to heal, that's all."

He hobbled away from her. He didn't want her fussing over him and
touching him. And he didn't want some unschooled healer messing around with his
health. He also couldn't bear another moment looking at the vision she
presented as she stood in a pool of sunlight—a luscious, flame-haired
nymph with a crestfallen expression.

The farther he stayed away from Rose Quennel, the better. All he
had to do was straighten out the question of the missing caretaker and then he
intended to avoid Rose for the rest of his stay at Brierwood. Even now, he knew
he had to get clear of her tantalizing presence before he made a fool of
himself.

Taylor turned on the path to glance back at her. She hadn't
moved.

"I want to talk to you later," he said. "In the
study at four o'clock, if you can fit it into your busy schedule."

Her chin rose at his sarcasm.

"I'll be there," she replied.

He turned and limped away, suddenly realizing that he hadn't even
thanked her.

Sitting on the edge of the desk in the study, Taylor looked at
his watch. Ten after four. The woman was late. He should have expected as much.
From all appearances, Rose was one of those flighty, artsy women who didn't
quite fit into the modern world. He had never spent much time with women like
Rose, preferring the type who played hard and loved on the run. Impatiently, he
tapped the cane on the tip of his shoe and mentally counted the minutes, all
the while listening for her step in the hall and wondering why he didn't do
something more productive than sitting there waiting for her.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the new bandage he had
wrapped around his shin to stop the bleeding. Not only did the dressing look crooked
and ineptly applied, it wasn't doing a very good job of staunching the flow.

He was about to get up and return to the bathroom for a towel
when he heard a flutter of wings and Rose's voice in the hallway. Immediately
he straightened his spine and faced the door, making sure to put on one of his
sternest expressions. With the correct approach, it shouldn't take long to get
to the bottom of Mr. Jacoby's unexplained absence.

Rose hadn't changed her dress, which was stained and torn by the
berry bushes and spotted with her blood. One look at her drawn face and he felt
his scowl slide away. She hadn’t taken care of her scratches. She hadn’t even
cleaned herself up. No wonder she could barely move. Didn't she know how to set
priorities or manage her time? Such disorganization annoyed Taylor, especially
when he suspected that she had been out foraging for plantain after he had
specifically told her not to concern herself with his wound. Blinking back his
anger, he watched her mince into the room and stand in front of him, her
shoulders unusually stiff.

"You're late," he blurted.

"I was picking plantain for your leg."

"I told you to forget my leg."

She glanced at his bandage and then
back
to his face. He kept his expression impassive, even though he knew she disdained
his clumsy handiwork. He could read the thoughts in her eyes as clearly as if
she had spoken. Her silent criticism rankled him more than anything she might
have said.

The interview was not going as he'd intended.

Before he could think of a way to get back on track, however, he
was forced to duck as Edgar flew past his head and landed on a bust of Victor
Hugo near the window. Taylor straightened, a scowl on his face.

"I thought I told you to keep that bird out of the
house."

"You said nothing of the kind."

"Didn't I?"

"No, you simply wondered why we would let him in the
house."

"Wild animals belong in the wild."

"Edgar is not wild. And I assure you, Mr. Wolfe, he will not
be a problem."

"Then you pick up after him?"

"Pick up?" she repeated vaguely.

"You know—clean up his droppings."

"Edgar doesn't disgrace himself in such a fashion."

"He's housebroken? Whoever heard of a bird being
housebroken?"

"Apparently you haven't." Her level stare brought him
down a peg.

Taylor stared right back, surprised that his stern countenance
had no effect on her. Most people went on the defensive in the face of his
censure, stumbling and stammering in their haste to please him. She didn't even
seem to notice that he was upset.

This interview was not going well at all.

He stood, walked around the desk and motioned to a chair.
"Sit down for a minute."

She looked at the chair, then back to his face. "I'd prefer
to stand."

"Suit yourself." He sank into the burgundy leather
chair and hooked his cane on the arm beside him. Then he faced Rose.

"So, what's going on around here?"

"What do you mean, what's going on?"

Did he see a hint of uneasiness cross her face? Good. "I
want to know why Brierwood is in such a state and why Mr. Jacoby is nowhere in
sight."

She stared at him, her eyes widening.

"Well?"

"Didn't Mrs. Jacoby explain?"

"No, she didn't. So why don't you just sit down and enlighten
me."

Rose clasped her hands together in front of her. "Mr. Jacoby
is away."

"I know that." He leaned forward. "But where is
he?"

"He's..." She licked her lips. "Well, honestly,
Mr. Wolfe, I don't see why you should worry. I can fill in while he's
gone."