The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  "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."<
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  "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.

  "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?"

&
nbsp; "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.