The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  While she stood there with her eyes closed, she felt him bend down to her lips. He touched them lightly as if to taste her, while his fingers snaked more tightly around her wrists. Rose choked back a cry of protest as he crushed her forearms against his chest and slanted his mouth over hers for a deeper, more lingering kiss. The tip of his nose brushed hers in a surprisingly suggestive way. For an instant Rose tilted her head back, surrendering to his probing mouth. His lips were warm and soft, much softer than they appeared. And the taste of him was surprisingly wonderful. Surprisingly comforting. He had mentioned showing her how glorious it could be to be touched by a man—really touched. Was this what he had meant?

  As he kissed her, she forgot about her disturbing dreams of the past, about Bea's shattering revelations, and about her frantic attempt to escape her own thoughts. And for one wonderful moment she felt nothing but the glorious blankness of rapture as worry gave way to pure physical delight.

  Then she remembered the way he had treated her and the things he had said to her, and she pulled away from his mouth.

  "Don't you ever do that again!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

  "You liked it."

  "You're mistaken, Mr. Wolfe. Now let me go!"

  "All right," he replied huskily, but he still didn't let go of her wrists. "If you promise not to slap me again."

  "Only if you vow to not touch me again."

  "I don't know if I want to promise that." Smiling crookedly, Taylor released her wrists, only to slide his hands around her shoulders. She flinched at his touch, her flesh even more tender now that the briers had had time to send out their poison in her flesh.

  "What's the matter?" he asked.

  "I've got stickers in my back."

  "Sorry." He immediately lifted his hands. "I forgot."

  As if he cared. She grimaced, mostly to hide an acute attack of nerves, and was surprised when he stepped back, pulling the heat and pressure of his body away from hers. The sudden freedom confused Rose. She stumbled sideways along the rail to put some space between them in case he tried to capture her again.

  "I'll bet those briers caused your nightmare," he ventured.

  "I don't think so."

  "You move as if you're in pain."

  "I am, Mr. Wolfe."

  "Is there something I can do to help?"

  "I don't want your help."

  She saw him blink twice and step toward the wall as she passed by. If she could make it to her room and lock herself inside, she just might escape him for the night. Then in the morning she would decide what to do—stay at Brierwood or give in to Bea's odd fears and flee.

  Before she had gone more than a few steps, however, she heard the clatter of Taylor's cane and looked over her shoulder to see the cane slip through the uprights of the banister and sail down to the ground below, where it bounced end over end and skidded across the grass near the entryway.

  Rose whipped around to see what had happened to Taylor. He had stumbled through the French doors and was holding his hands to his ears as if trying to block out a loud noise. He staggered forward, bumping the dressing table and knocking off old bottles of perfume and the silver brush and comb. She could sense his fear as he propped himself against the bedpost to keep from banging into something else in his blindness.

  Against her better judgment, Rose ventured back to him but kept at arm's length, in case he was trying to trick her.

  "Taylor?" she queried, peering at his face. His skin was pale, his mouth parted as he gasped for breath, and his eyes were tightly shut, causing sunbursts of creases to bloom at the outer corners. The scar on his cheek pulled awkwardly to the left, dragging up that side of his mouth into a pained sneer.

  "Taylor?" she repeated. "What's happening?"

  "The noise...it's so loud—"

  "I don't hear any noise."

  "I do. And it's about to break my eardrums." He reached out for her, feeling the empty air. "Rose, get me away from here."

  She stared at his outstretched hand, wondering if he would grab her again and not release her. But if that were the case, why would he have let her go in the first place?

  Rose stepped closer and slipped her hands around his upper arm. The feel of his firm flesh sent a bolt of desire through her. She had to keep herself from gliding her hand along his well-defined biceps, so hard beneath his shirtsleeve. Whatever Taylor had done before his car accident, he had kept himself in excellent shape.

  "Get me out of here,'' he gasped.

  "Where?"

  "Anywhere! Downstairs."

  She pulled him toward the stairs, urging him in a loud voice to watch for the first step. Slowly she guided him to the landing and then all the way down to the foyer.

  "Any better yet?" she asked, wishing he would open his eyes.

  "A bit." He unclamped his left hand from his ear. "Take me outside, Rose."

  "It might help if you opened your eyes."

  "It won't do any good. I can't see a damn thing."

  Rose glanced at the front door. What if the Rottweilers tried to attack her again? She wasn't crazy about being outside at night. In fact, she hadn't gone outside in the dark since she was five and had tried to run away—the same incident she had just relived in her dream.

  Blocking out the disturbing memory, Rose reached for the doorknob. If she refused to go outside, she would have to tell Taylor her reasons for doing so, and she wasn't about to discuss her childhood with him, not under hypnosis and certainly not when she was awake and completely lucid.

  She opened the door and guided him out to the walk, carefully checking to see that the front door was unlocked behind them. Then she turned to Taylor.

  "Any better?" she asked.

  He nodded and brushed his fingertips over his eyelids.

  "It's cooler out here," she added.

  "Yes." He breathed heavily, as if he had been relieved of a great weight.

  "Is the noise gone?"

  "No, but it’s fainter." He opened his eyes and looked around.

  "What does it sound like?"

  "Ever hear a pipe organ?" Taylor asked, running a hand through his hair.

  "Yes, in church."

  "Well, the noise sounds like someone playing all the keys full blast."

  "Funny, but I didn't hear anything at all."

  At least not this time.

  But Rose distinctly recalled the sound she had heard the night of Donald's death. It had sounded like a pipe organ played at full blast. Taylor had described it perfectly. Was there some connection? Why hadn't she heard it this time, though? Did it mean that she was in danger? Could Taylor have something to do with the sound and Donald's death? Yet he hadn't even been at Brierwood at the time and had acted genuinely surprised when informed of the death of her alleged grandfather. Rose didn't know what to think or what to say, or whether or not to trust Taylor, especially since Bea didn't trust him.

  Instead of confiding in him, she walked across the grass and retrieved his cane. She returned to his side.

  "Here's your cane, Mr. Wolfe," she said, holding it up to his hand.

  "Thanks." His fingers curled around the wooden handle.

  Rose looked at him in the darkness. His face was full of sharp shadows in the dim light, and his expensive watch twinkled as he moved. He was taller than her by about a head and looked to be in top condition, with the exception of his leg. Either his clothes were hand-tailored to fit him or his figure had the proportions ideally suited to the conservative cotton shirt and jeans he was wearing. Rose guessed that his wide shoulders and slender hips would look good in anything he chose to wear, be it twills or tuxedo, and that he would feel at home in both.

  He sighed. At the sound, she looked up at his face, hoping he was recovering and would want to go in soon. The talk of strange noises and being out in the night air turned her skin to gooseflesh and made her teeth chatter, even though the evening was balmy. She clenched her jaw and hugged her chest with her arms, keeping a close watch for any si
gn of the dogs in the shrubbery.

  Taylor pinched the bridge of his thin nose, as if he had a headache, and Rose realized he wasn’t ready to return to the house just yet.

  "Have you seen a doctor about your eyes?"

  "Yeah. Lots of them."

  "And?"

  "If they knew what was wrong, do you think I'd be here at Brierwood falling over my own shoelaces?"

  He turned and walked away from her. She trailed after him.

  "How long have you had these spells?"

  "For a month or so, ever since the accident."

  Rose looked down. "The same accident when you hurt your leg?"

  "Yeah. The accident that ruined my life."

  "Ruined? What do you mean?"

  He laughed bitterly and looked up, his body outlined by the moon. "I can't see, Rose. I've been physically disabled and disfigured. My life will never be the same."

  "And what was your life like before?"

  "It was my own. But it won't be again if I don't lick this vision problem."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm as good as blind. Can't you understand?" He hobbled away from her, down the walk into the deepening shadows.

  She clasped her hands in front of her, reluctant to follow, but afraid of being left behind. "What is your life really like?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, is it happy? Sad? Do you have a wife, children, lots of friends? Do you do anything creative?"

  "What does doing creative things have to do with life?"

  "Life is a creation, Mr. Wolfe. I think that if we aren't creating something new here and there, then we aren't really living. We're simply marking time."

  Taylor paused and looked back at her. "Where'd you hear that?"

  "Nowhere. It's just how I feel."

  He gave a derisive snort. "Why all the questions?"

  "I was simply wondering."

  "Don’t waste your time." He turned toward the house, walking as quickly as he could with his injured leg. Rose followed, wondering if his brusqueness was a front to disguise his feelings of hopelessness.

  He yanked open the door, and she looked up at him.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Nothing. My eyes are fine now. And so is my life."

  "I was simply trying to—"

  "From now on, keep your questions to yourself, all right? I am not your concern. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly." She squared her tender shoulders and swept past him into the house.

  She heard the door latch behind her and the thump of Taylor's gait as he moved toward the stairs.

  "By the way, that kiss upstairs meant nothing, either. I was merely trying to snap you back to your senses."

  She glared at his back. "I quite understand, Mr. Wolfe."

  At her acerbic reply he turned on the stair. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. Some women read more into kisses than they should."

  "Really?" She raised her chin, not about to admit that the kiss upstairs had been her very first. "Actually, I had forgotten all about it. We hysterical melodramatic types have bad memories, too."

  For a moment he coolly regarded her. She felt a frisson of unease shimmer down her spine. Had she overstepped her bounds again? Was this man a threat to her, as Bea suspected? And why did he bring out the worst in her? Rose's heart thumped in her chest as he continued to survey her.

  Suddenly the grandfather clock near the foot of the stairs struck midnight, shattering the tense moment between them. Taylor waited until the last chime faded away. Then, without a word, he turned and hobbled up the stairs, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

  Outside, a huge crack of lightning split the stillness, echoed by a rumble of thunder that rattled the windowpanes. The storm had arrived.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Later, Taylor lay in bed, his fingers laced together behind his head as his thoughts raced. What was it about him that Rose distrusted? He had never done anything to hurt her or frighten her. He’d been his usual asshole self. But that didn’t make him untrustworthy. That made him honest. What she saw was his true self, no facades, no games.

  But why had he been so cruel to her, telling her that the kiss meant nothing, when he damned well knew he had wanted to brand her as his own with that kiss?

  He sighed, thinking of the way her soft mouth had opened beneath his, and a rush of heat passed over him. He wondered what it would be like to embrace her and really kiss her, to feel her graceful arms around his neck, and her hands in his hair? His loins tightened with desire at the slightest thought of her. Yet such musings only served to torment him. She didn't trust him, and he had vowed, if only to himself, to keep his distance.

  He slept fitfully and much later had a strange dream—the same dream he had experienced during his car wreck, when he had sat pinned by a tangle of metal and the twisted steering column, his leg crushed and his senses swimming. In the dream, he had risen out of his cloud of pain and hovered above the foggy highway, surveying the line of smashed cars with an odd sense of detachment, as if he weren't even involved. He saw his body in the demolished Jeep, his face a bloody mess, and barely recognized himself or the car. In fact, he felt immensely relieved that he wasn't bound in that body any longer.

  Then he heard his name and felt himself float upward. He looked up and saw a bright light above him. At first the light seemed to glow just above his head. Then he realized the glow extended as far as he could see into the heavens and was tremendously bright at the far end. He felt wonderful and unafraid, and more than happy to travel to a new dimension. He’d always been ready for a new adventure. He headed for the glowing light and knew he was grinning like a fool.

  "Taylor," a woman called. He didn't recognize the voice. He was terrible with names, but he never forgot a person’s voice.

  He looked to the side, his grin slipping, wondering who was keeping him from his path toward the beckoning light. A figure stood in silhouette against the light, a figure of a tall, slender woman with long hair. She raised a hand to reach for him.

  "Taylor," she called.

  He slowed his progress and stared at her, but the light blurred his vision, and he was unable to see her features or the color of her hair. All he could make out was the graceful curve of her body and the sweep of a long gown.

  "You must go back."

  "Go back?" Taylor croaked in surprise. "But why?"

  "You have been chosen."

  "Chosen for what?"

  "A task. Just like the other times."

  "What other times?" He glanced at the light beyond, impatient to continue, wondering who the woman thought she was, trying to detain him like this. "I don't remember being chosen."

  "You were chosen, Taylor, but failed. Maybe this time you will complete your task and end the cycle."

  "I would rather just go to the light."

  "If you go to the light, you will be damning someone else."

  "Who?"

  The woman answered, but Taylor couldn't hear over the sudden whine of a siren as a highway patrol car sped to the scene of the pileup.

  "Who?" Taylor demanded, while the vision of the woman flickered before his eyes. It looked like she going to fade to nothingness before he got an answer.

  "Go back, Taylor. I beg you. You are my only hope."

  As the image of the woman flickered, the light that poured around her touched off a scarlet-and-gold nimbus that blinded him. Taylor staggered backward, holding his forearms up to ward off the blinding glare.

  "I give you a special gift, Taylor Wolfe. Use it and save yourself this time."

  The siren grew louder as the patrol car pulled to a stop on the highway. Taylor looked down but saw only blobs of color dancing before his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, and his vision gradually returned. Below him he could see the flashing blue light and hear the distant whine of another siren. Then, as if in punishment for losing focus on the wonderful light above, he felt himself being pulled back to the Jeep, to the pain
, and to the rusty taste of blood in his mouth.

  "No!" he whispered.

  "Taylor!"

  He moaned and tried to shake his head. He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to feel the agony in his leg and head. If he could just concentrate on the light above instead of the sounds of the highway patrol cars...

  "Mr. Wolfe!"

  "Mr. Wolfe, are you awake?" Rose knocked on Taylor's bedroom door, hoping he wouldn't be too long in answering. She had made his breakfast, as Bea had gone back to bed with one of her debilitating migraines. On the tray were a wedge of blueberry whole-wheat coffee cake, fluffy eggs, sliced melon, freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and steaming coffee. The food sat under silver domes, but the coffee was open to the air, sending a feather of fragrant steam into the chilly morning air. Luckily Taylor was up, and he opened his door shortly after she knocked. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a wrinkled blue-and-white-striped shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The shirt was unbuttoned and revealed a narrow glimpse of his well-developed chest. As he held open the door for her, Rose wondered if he had slept in his clothes.

  "Well!" he exclaimed. "Where's Mrs. Jacoby this morning?"

  "She isn't feeling well." At his cue, she swept into the room and deposited the tray on the table in front of the sofa. The movement pulled her dress over her shoulders, and she couldn't suppress a small cry of pain.

  "What's the matter?" Taylor asked, coming up behind her.

  "It's the briers. They're sore."

  "Why don't you take than out?"

  "I would," she turned and faced him, "but I'd have to be a contortionist to reach most of them."

  He tilted his head slightly and studied her, and she could see the realization dawn on his face that he might be able to help her. She backed away. The last thing she wanted to do was to show the location of the offending briers to Taylor. Some were on skin she hadn't revealed to another human being since she was a baby.