The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  Just before dawn, Taylor heard the pipe-organ noise again. He jerked awake and sat up, blinking in the dim light that filtered through the windows of his bedroom. For a moment he forgot where he was and thought he was back again on the Jamaican Lady. But then he remembered that he was sleeping on a cold, cramped settee in his bedroom at Brierwood, and that Rose Quennel was snuggled in his bed.

  He threw off the blanket and looked at the bed where Rose slept.

  For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, because he thought he saw a dark figure standing at the side of the bed, looking down at Rose. He blinked, sure that he was imagining things. But the figure was still there.

  "Hey!" Taylor shouted, jumping to his feet.

  The figure turned. In the dark, Taylor couldn't make out the features of the man's face or the details of his clothing, but he was acutely aware of a feeling of malevolence. Taylor paused, unsure of what to do. As a last resort he let his eyes go out of focus as he had done in the workroom with Rose. He saw the figure bounded by an aura of undulating black. As if in a trance, he watched as the aura of the figure pulsed and surged in an enormous murky cloud, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Taylor was sure that Rose’s intruder had returned and was standing beside her. But what kind of person had a black aura? For the first time in his life, Taylor felt utter and complete terror. He knew without consulting the tattered green book that the aura of the man before him represented evil—pure, quintessential evil.

  Taylor froze, unable to utter another word. He knew he should do something to protect Rose or at the very least warn her of the intruder's presence. But he was so frightened he couldn't move. The wound on his leg seemed to throb in time with the undulating aura, shooting spikes of pain up his shin and thigh. All he could do was watch in horror and agony as the figure dissolved into muddy-colored smoke. Then the murky cloud funneled into a swirling mass that poured into the pure colors of Rose's rainbow aura, condensing to conform to the confines of the black spot above her right shoulder.

  "My God!" Taylor gasped.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shaken, Taylor limped to the bed, his leg throbbing with each step. As he reached Rose’s side, he was startled when she turned and mumbled in her sleep. For a moment he thought she would wake up and see him staring at her. He hung back, thinking twice about the impulse to wake her and tell her what had just happened, because he would have to explain his own inability to act at the same time. That impotence would not endear him to her. More than anything, he wanted Rose to see him as a capable man, heroic even, and not the hesitant, injured man he had become.

  Since the time he was a teenager, he had climbed mountains and sailed oceans, braving hardship and personal injury. He had spent his entire life facing danger and the possibility of death, as if he had been in training. Training for what, though? For Brierwood? How could he hope to help Rose when he could barely walk? Still, the desire to save her from evil burned like a wildfire inside him.

  Taylor turned away and limped to the balcony. He pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window as the first rays of light glowed behind the trees. The pain in his calf gradually subsided as he watched the sun come up. He scowled as he tried to figure out what was happening at Brierwood and what was happening to him. At any other time he would have found it easy to walk away from a woman and her problems. He would board the Jamaican Lady, set out to sea and soon forget any and all entanglements. But his boat was moored hundreds of miles away in San Francisco, and he was here at Brierwood, caught in an ever-increasing web of questions. He couldn't leave, not physically, and certainly not emotionally, when Rose was in danger with only old Bea Jacoby to protect her.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the beauty in his bed, her red hair fanned across his pillow and her white hands curled on her chest. Her bare fingers, bereft of her ever-present emerald ring, looked as delicate and soft as a child's. No, he could never leave Rose alone, especially after witnessing the black cloud entering her aura. Who or what had the figure been? Did it have something to do with the Bastyr family, and with the stranger she claimed to have seen in the house?

  Taylor walked back to the bed and sat down in an upholstered chair near the nightstand. Whatever he had seen, he planned to stand guard against it until Rose awakened. This time he would not let anyone talk him out of helping a woman—not even if it meant putting himself in danger.

  A few hours later Rose rolled onto her side and opened her eyes, surprised to find Taylor sitting beside her, his head propped on his fist, his dark eyes trained on her face. The sight of him sitting there watching her made a warm sensation spread through her languid limbs. How long had he been gazing at her?

  Seeing her awaken, he raised his head. His lean cheeks were shadowed by a dark growth of beard, cut through by the pale jagged scar. An unruly strand of black hair hung over his forehead. She remembered the taste of him and the weight of him and tried to dash it from her thoughts. She must never succumb to him again, no matter how she longed to be held in his embrace.

  "Good morning, Brier Rose."

  "Good morning." She sat up. "What are you doing there?"

  "Watching you."

  She bunched the covers to her breast, suddenly wary. "Why?"

  "I'm worried."

  "Worried?" Had she talked in her sleep? Had she relived another painful shard of her past and revealed it to Taylor? She prayed she hadn't. She didn't want to admit that she came from a twisted family, not even to herself. "What are you worried about now?"

  "That intruder—who was he?"

  "I don't know."

  "Last night you said you might have an idea."

  Rose got out of bed and slipped on her robe, wishing he had presented her with a cup of coffee instead of twenty questions.

  "Well?" He stood up as if to prevent her from leaving the room.

  "Taylor, I just got up. Can we talk about this later?" She stepped around him, but he reached for her arm to stop her.

  "Rose, we need to talk now!"

  Rose glared at him, and he instantly let go of her.

  "Sorry," he growled. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair, as if to calm himself. "What I mean is, I don't think we should take the break-in lightly. And the more I know about you and Brierwood, the better decisions I can make about it."

  "I don't see what I have to do with the intruder."

  "What about the person who came to Brierwood before me? You talked to him. Who was he? And you said someone had come to your bedroom and touched you. What was that all about?"

  "They must have been bad dreams, just as you said."

  "Cut the crap, Rose."

  Suddenly Rose felt very much awake, and alarmed that he was pressing her so hard for the truth. She wasn't ready to confide in him, not when she didn't know what to believe herself. She straightened her shoulders. "Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Wolfe?"

  "You know more than you're telling me."

  "Perhaps it's personal."

  "Maybe I want to hear the personal stuff."

  He stared at her, his eyes glittering. She had never seen such opaque eyes, as if they were fashioned from obsidian. She had to get away from his eyes before she buckled and told him everything, and dragged him all the way into her troubled life.

  "Well, maybe I don't want to tell you."

  "After last night, I thought—"

  "Last night never should have happened, Taylor. I was frightened and vulnerable. And I had too much brandy."

  "Don't blame it on the brandy, Rose. You wanted to be there."

  "You think so?" She threw frost into her voice, hoping to come across as cruel and uncaring, so she could push him away. "Do you think I would go for you, with your scars and your lame leg? I can do much better for myself. Much better."

  He blinked at her in shock, too startled to hide the flash of hurt that flared in his eyes. She tore her gaze from his face and stared at his model ship across the room while she hugged her robe around her and tried to hold
the pieces of her breaking heart together.

  "I was just using you, Mr. Wolfe. Don't you get it?"

  She hurried past him to the door before he could reply.

  After a shower, Taylor went down for breakfast and plowed through his eggs and fruit, trying to sort through the words Rose had flung at him. Those words had echoed his own thoughts, that he wasn't desirable enough to be attractive to her. Yet she was in danger, and no matter what she thought of him, he couldn't walk away.

  He thought of the women he'd had—laughing, sultry, gorgeous females who had practically pulled off their clothes for him—and how easy it had been to bring them into his sphere. The method had been simple—a dinner date, a tour of the Jamaican Lady, a bottle of champagne on the deck in the moonlight, and the lady was his for the night.

  Taylor paused with the coffee cup at his lips as a flush crawled over his cheekbones. Looking back, he could see the callousness of the operation. He couldn't imagine trying the old routine with Rose. In fact, he couldn't imagine asking her for a date. It seemed juvenile, somehow, as if they were far beyond dating. Yet apparently he was the only one who thought that way. From what Rose had told him, she didn't even want to get to know him. I can do better than you. Her words rang in his ears, forcing him to put down his mug before he shattered it between the pressure of his palms.

  No matter how Rose felt about him, he had to look at the black spot in her aura and try to make out a face or feature to identify the figure he had seen last night. He picked up his dirty dishes, put a shoulder to the swinging door and pushed through to the kitchen, surprising Bea, who was working at the sink.

  "Mr. Wolfe!" She turned around, and he noticed her glance down at a butcher knife on the sink board beside her. Taylor flushed anew, unaccustomed to being distrusted so thoroughly.

  Wondering if she would actually arm herself, Taylor sauntered to the sink to deposit his dishes and watched as she sidled away. "If you'd feel safer, Mrs. Jacoby, go ahead and pick up the knife."

  She glanced at the blade and then back at him. "I don't think you're funny, Mr. Wolfe."

  "I'm not trying to be." Smiling grimly, Taylor looked down at her. "Where's Rose this morning?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "I have to speak to her for a minute."

  "She's too busy. She has to finish hemming the scarf before her client comes today."

  "Her client is coming here?"

  "Yes. He was anxious to pick it up, so he's coming in person."

  "When?"

  "This evening."

  Taylor crossed his arms and leaned against the edge of the counter. "So she's upstairs in the workroom?"

  "I didn't say that." Mrs. Jacoby wiped her hands on her apron. He could see her fingers trembling and wished there was something he could say to allay her needless fear of him.

  "Listen, Mrs. Jacoby." He sighed, wondering how to approach the subject of the Bastyrs. "I'm worried about Rose. I know you don't trust me, but I need your help."

  She studied him from the corners of her eyes. "My help?"

  "Yes. Something is going on at Brierwood. I think Rose knows about it, but she won't tell me."

  "Why should she?"

  Taylor stuffed his left hand in the front pocket of his jeans. He knew whatever he said must convince Bea to help him, and that meant he had to be absolutely frank. His gut feeling about Rose was very different from what he wanted to admit to anyone, especially since he had known her only a short while. But deep in his heart he knew Rose was special, unlike any woman he had ever known. He wanted her—in his arms, in his bed and in his life—and that thought scared the hell out of him. He could hardly look at the truth, much less say it out loud.

  Taylor glared at the floor, fighting the urge to bolt out of the kitchen and Brierwood. But there was no turning back. He had to win over Mrs. Jacoby, and he could only do it with the truth. He sighed again and looked up at Bea.

  "Because I care what happens to her, Mrs. Jacoby. I care a hell of a lot."

  Bea's gray eyes pored over his face. "I don't believe you."

  "I don't care if you believe me or not. I want to help her."

  Bea wiped her hands again, bunching the hem of her apron between her palms. Taylor could tell that his words had shocked her into silence, and that she was trying to make sense of them.

  "I need to know about this family you've talked about—the Bastyrs."

  "Don't toy with me, Mr. Wolfe."

  "I'm not!" He straightened and ran a hand through his hair. "Don't you understand, Mrs. Jacoby? I'm not a threat. I'm not part of that family. I want to help Rose. But I can't, not when I don't know what's going on."

  "Ask Rose, then."

  "I have, but she claims she doesn’t know anything. She says that she's just been having bad dreams. But I know for a fact that someone or something is here at Brierwood, coming to Rose at night."

  "How do you know?"

  "I've seen him."

  "You saw someone?"

  "Yes. And I don't know how to explain it, but I sense he is a real creep."

  Bea dabbed her forehead and temples with the corner of her apron and shuffled away, turning her back to him. For the first time since he had met her, he felt as if he had reached her. Could she be starting to believe him?

  He stepped closer. "That's why I need to know about the Bastyrs, Mrs. Jacoby. I don't want anything to happen to Rose."

  She lowered her head, as if in prayer, and then slowly turned to face him.

  "Perhaps I've been wrong about you, Mr. Wolfe."

  He nodded, hoping she would continue.

  "But I can't tell you these things. Rose must. It is her story to tell. If she chooses to remain silent, then I must abide by her wishes."

  "Even if she's in danger?"

  Bea nodded. "Besides, I don't think there is anything you could do to help her, Mr. Wolfe. This is between the Bastyrs and us."

  "So I just stand by and watch?"

  "Believe me, Mr. Wolfe, if you get involved, you could very well lose your life."

  "Why? What kind of family are we talking about here?"

  "A strange family. And that's all I'm going to say." She raised her chin and pressed her lips together.

  Taylor limped to the door. "So where is she—upstairs in the workroom?"

  "Yes."

  Edgar squawked when Taylor entered the workroom, ruining Taylor's chance to catch Rose unaware, which was the best way to see her aura in its purest form. Taylor was confident now that he could see her aura simply by concentrating and shifting his vision. When he didn't want to see auras he kept his vision from going out of focus. Knowing he had some power over his ailment seemed to give him control over the sounds he heard as well. What had once been cacophony became delightful musical tones when heard individually. Only the unexpected pipe-organ sound could still overwhelm him.

  He would have studied her aura earlier in the morning, when she lay in his bed, except the dark background of green and burgundy in his bedroom was a poor backdrop for the purpose. Here in the workroom, with its white walls and tarnished gilt trim, he would be able to see her aura clearly.

  As a test, Taylor glanced at Edgar and shifted his vision. The raven's head and wings were crowned by an indigo sheen that emitted a faint hum, much like a note drawn from the string of a cello. Edgar cawed again, as if in protest at the survey, and Taylor shifted his sight to Rose.

  She sat in a chair, the scarf draped over her knees, holding a needle with its tail of thread trailing to the silk in her hand. Rose was dressed in a deep apricot skirt and blouse trimmed with swirls of tiny rust-colored braid on the bodice. Interlocked figures of birds were painted along the hem of the skirt and the sleeves of the blouse, in the same color as her hair, which was loosely braided and draped over her shoulder. The end of the braid hung along the inside curve of her arm, drawing his eyes to the shapely mounds of her breasts. She wore a chunk of carnelian nestled among a clutch of foreign coins on a thong around
her neck and another at her wrist. Rose had never looked more beautiful, and for a moment all he could do was stare at her.

  Rose regarded him coolly, aloof and beautiful, but with a small muscle trembling at the corner of her mouth, as if she were holding back a flood of emotion.

  "Yes?" she asked.

  "I've come to study your aura," he answered, stepping closer. “Humor me.”

  "Why?" She sat back in her chair, as if to distance herself from him.

  "I need to get a better look at that black spot."

  She bent over her work and took a stitch. "I told you I didn't want your help."

  "It will only take a minute."

  "I don't mean to be rude," she said tersely, "but I'm under a strict deadline, Taylor. I don't have a minute to spare. It will take hours to hand stitch this hem."

  "Just keep doing what you're doing. Ignore me."

  "I would prefer that you leave." She frowned at her work, obviously displeased with the last few stitches. "I don't like it when you stare at me."

  "Why?"

  "Because it makes me nervous." She shot a glare at him. "And then my stitches go awry."

  "Well, at least I elicit some kind of emotion from you."

  Rose jumped up and held the silk to her breast. "I want you to leave. Now."

  "Just a minute—"

  "Now, Taylor."

  He frowned, unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone. Yet he didn't want to offend her any more than he already had by coming on too strong with her.

  "I will. Just humor me for a minute and stand still."

  She sighed and shifted her weight impatiently. "Is this another one of your ploys, like the brandy?"

  "Hardly," he retorted. "Last night I saw someone or something turn into a cloud of smoke and go into that spot in your aura. And I want to know who the hell it is."

  "You saw something go into my aura?"

  "Yes. The pipe-organ noise woke me up, and I saw someone standing by the bed."

  "What did it... he look like?"