"Ye are lovely," he remarked in a dry voice. "Now, down on thy knees. 'Tis long past time."
Constance shot a glance at Nathaniel. His eyelids fluttered as he tried not to succumb to his injury. For Nathaniel, she must be strong. Choking back her rage, she sank to her knees.
Another robed figure lashed her wrists with a leather thong to the crude iron gnomon of the sundial. Constance watched him, realizing in an offhand way that the moon cast a shadow much like the sun, and that the time on the dial showed midnight. She had reached the evening of her twenty-first birthday and the end of her servitude, only to be lashed to a sundial for purposes she didn't even want to contemplate. Pockets of gloom ringed the dial, where strange angular symbols had been carved in the stone long ago.
"Lift me," Seth demanded. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him being raised to the flat surface of the rock. He walked to the center of the dial and gazed down at her.
"Lean over," Seth commanded. "And present thyself to thy master."
She placed her palms on the stone. The indignity of the position was nearly too much to bear. Tears of humiliation clung in her throat while she stared at the rough stone beneath her, too ashamed to look at Nathaniel.
Terror sped like wildfire through Constance's veins. What was going on? How could Patience let her be treated this way? How could another woman just stand there like that and watch?
Suddenly she realized the people in the robes had begun to chant in a soft drone that blended with the rustling breeze in the oaks. She couldn't understand the words, whether because they were spoken in a strange tongue or were sung too softly to be heard, she couldn't tell. Unnerved, Constance craned her neck in an effort to look behind her. The moonlight silvered the pale skin of Seth's bare feet and legs and cast a sheen on the cloth in which he had wrapped himself.
For a moment he regarded her from above while the chanting increased. Someone hit a small drum as if to mimic the sound of a heartbeat, although Constance's heart raced far more quickly than the thump-thump, thump-thump of the drum. Through eyes burning with hatred, she watched Seth step up behind her.
"And so it begins in the New World," he said. "A new world, a new family, a new bride."
New bride. The words resounded in her ears as if a thunderclap had boomed overhead. His hands clutched the shining cloth around his shoulders, and she suddenly realized the cloth was the very same fabric she had been weaving on her loom, and that he was stark naked beneath the shining cloak.
She watched him smile and knew that he had seen the recognition in her face. The smile sickened her. His bride? Was this why they had sent for her two years ago—to become his bride? That hadn't been part of the contract. She wrenched at the thong that bound her wrists but she couldn't break free. There was no escape. No hope.
The drum suddenly stopped beating.
"This union shall strengthen us," Seth declared to the sky. "And this woman's love for Nathaniel Cooper shall nourish us."
With a flourish, Seth opened his robe. Moonlight poured over him, highlighting the front of his body. Horrified, Constance gaped at him, for she had never seen a naked man before, and certainly not one in full arousal. The sight repulsed her. She cried out and yanked on the thongs as Seth knelt down. The drum began to beat furiously, again echoing the hammering of her heart. He draped the shining cloth over her, covering her entirely, as if he did not want to see her body or her face. Beneath the cloth she felt as if she would suffocate from the musky smell of him and the heat of his body. The cloth turned her skin to fire and then to ice. She tried to hold on to the image of Nathaniel, tried to convince herself that this would be over soon and she would be saved. But she couldn't think over the thundering sound of the drum. Then Seth's cold hands imprisoned her hips, and as he clutched her, the image of Nathaniel faded, became a blur and disappeared forever.
Through a shimmering haze, Nathaniel watched Seth Bastyr thrust himself against Constance.
"No!" Nathaniel wailed. "No!"
He tried to get up, to rally all his remaining strength, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't even get to his knees. He never should have lingered in the clearing. He should have taken Constance to the ship at once, just as she had asked him to do. Why hadn't he listened to her? Why had he let his lust dictate to him? Now they were both paying the price for his foolhardiness. His Connie—ah, God, his Connie—was paying the highest price of all.
The chanting droned through the buzzing in Nathaniel's ears as he struggled once more to stand. He stumbled to the sundial. "Connie!" he gasped, sliding on the wet grass. He fell to the ground near her satchel, mouthing her name, and knew that he had failed her. Panting in frustration and helplessness, he laid his head on the ground and closed his eyes, trying to fight the heavy lassitude that weighted his limbs. He was so tired—so tired. For a moment he closed his eyes. Then blackness swept up in a wave and devoured him.
CHAPTER ONE
Brierwood, outside Seattle, the Present
"Bea!"
Twenty-year-old Rose Quennel rushed down the stairs. She had just heard the strangest noise—something akin to a chord on an organ, with deep ominous notes. The sound had come from the gardens behind the house and had been loud enough to reach her workroom on the third floor. Perhaps Bea had heard it, too, and would be able to identify the sound.
Rose called again and searched the gardens to the rear of the mansion, thinking she would find her guardian in the vegetable patch weeding in the cool of the evening. Mrs. Jacoby was not there. Perplexed, Rose stood near a clump of poppies, her light cotton dress wafting against her shins. The summer evening breeze suddenly felt chilly. Rose shuddered and glanced around. Where was Bea? Her guardian, the housekeeper of Brierwood, was old and not one to wander too far when daylight began to fade.
Suspecting that something was wrong, Rose broke into a trot. She ran past the sundial to the herb garden, which was enclosed by an old stone wall, and pushed through the wooden gate. There stood Bea, staring at the still figure of her husband, who lay facedown, his arms and legs splayed like that of a tragic scarecrow. All around him, the pennyroyal and lady slippers were withered and brown, as if a killing frost had struck both the plants and Mr. Jacoby, toppling him into the garden.
"Bea, what happened?" Rose dashed to the old woman's side.
"I don't know, Rose! I heard an awful noise and came out and found my Donald lying dead!" She turned to face Rose, her wrinkled face gray with shock. "He's dead, Rose! He's dead!"
Rose dropped to her knees beside the man who had been her surrogate father and her friend, while shock dammed a flood of tears that sprang into her throat. She reached out to touch Donald Jacoby and instantly recoiled. His skin was cold, even though the summer night was balmy.
"Did you hear him cry out?" Rose asked.
"No. Nothing." Bea fingered the lace collar of her dress, and her hand trembled visibly. "Just that awful noise. Oh, Rose, my Donald's gone!"
What had happened to him? Rose surely would have heard him if he had cried out. Rose's workroom on the third floor of the house was directly above the garden, and she had been up there all day with the windows wide open. Had Donald come out to the garden and collapsed? Was it something as common as a heart attack, or had someone killed him? She wondered if the strange noise had something to do with his death.
Rose forced herself to reach out again. She eased Mr. Jacoby onto his back, a difficult feat because of the old man's bulk, and then glanced at his face, afraid that she would see a mask of terror and fear. But Mr. Jacoby's eyes were closed, and his wrinkled mouth was slightly parted, as if he slept. Rose inspected the rest of his ample frame. She could find no evidence of violence. Perhaps he had died of a heart attack out here in the garden. He was seventy-five years old and had never practiced healthy eating habits.
Yet why were the herbs withered? And what had made that horrible noise? She looked back at his body, at his outstretched right hand. It was then that she noticed the emerald was missing
from his ring. Had a thief killed Donald Jacoby for the sake of the modest gem? Somehow, she didn't think so.
A movement near the garden wall caught Rose's eye. She searched the shadows and thought she saw the dark shapes of animals in the shrubbery. Dogs? There were no dogs at Brierwood. Perhaps she had seen the leaves of the rhododendrons shivering in the breeze. Rose stared at the shadows and felt an almost overwhelming urge to run for her life.
San Francisco, a month and a half later
"I'm afraid, Mr. Wolfe," the doctor said, "we don't know what's wrong with your eyes."
Taylor Wolfe's grip tightened on the handle of his cane. "What do you mean, you don't know?" He turned to face the doctor, and a sharp pain shot up his injured leg. "You're a specialist!"
"I know, I know, Mr. Wolfe. But we found no damage to the retina or optic nerve. No ocular trauma whatsoever."
"You're saying that these flashes of light I see have no medical explanation?"
"None that I or my colleagues are familiar with. However, there are one or two more tests—"
"No more tests!" Taylor waved him off with an impatient hand and turned back to the window of his hospital room. Just beyond the rooftops he could see the sparkle of San Francisco Bay and the orange span of the Golden Gate Bridge. He yearned to be out of the hospital and back on the water, where he belonged. No more hospital room for him. He couldn't stand another day cooped up in this sterile prison.
"Please, Taylor, listen to Dr. Bennidetto," his mother repeated. She clutched her purse and leaned forward. "There still may be some hope."
He slanted a dark look at his frail mother, sitting there in her rose-colored suit with her snow-white coif, not a hair out of place. He wished she had never come to the hospital. She meant well, just as she always did, but the sight of her kind and honest face always made him feel like a heel for the time he had spent avoiding his family and their wealth. She was not responsible for the shadow on his soul. She didn't know where the Wolfe fortune had come from and what it had cost a frightened young woman so long ago. Only he and his father knew about that. And now that his father was dead, the secret resided in Taylor's heart alone.
"I know this must be hard for you, Mr. Wolfe, being such an active man," the doctor said, coming up behind him. "If there's anything we— "
"You've done your best," Taylor put in.
"But what about the other tests?" Ruth Wolfe turned in her chair to look up at the balding doctor. "I want only the best for my son."
"Mom, don't. I've had enough." He reached for his worn leather jacket hanging on the back of a chair. "My insurance is topped out with medical expenses as it is."
"Taylor, you know you don't have to worry about that. I'll take care of it."
"No, you won't." He shrugged into his jacket and held his cane in his left hand while adjusting the collar with his right. Every time he came to San Francisco it was always the same. His mother tried to force the Wolfe money on him. And always he refused it. Blood money—that was how he saw the family fortune, and he would never spend a dime of it. Anything he possessed in the world—no matter how insignificant when compared to the Wolfe estate—he had earned with his own two hands. And that was the way it was going to be.
The car crash had left him with a scarred face, a crushed right leg and impaired vision. The doctors had told him he was lucky to be alive—many in the pileup had died—lucky to have retained the use of his leg—even though the wound wasn't healing properly—and lucky that his scars could be repaired with plastic surgery—over a period of time, of course.
Lucky, hell. He was twenty-eight years old, disfigured and crippled. Sports were out of the question. Sailing his small schooner with impaired vision would be risky. Running, dancing, playing racquetball—all would be impossible. And his love life would be nonexistent. He could just imagine a woman tracing his scarred face and whispering sweet nothings in his scarred ear. He could just imagine limping up to a woman and asking for a date. Some stud he was now.
Taylor squeezed off his self-pity party and looked down at the drapes blowing in the breeze from the air conditioner. He had to get everyone off his back and spend some time alone. He was best when alone. With some solitude, he could make peace with his situation and chart a course for his future. Maybe even overcome some of his lameness.
He wasn’t sure how he would he tell his mother that he wanted to say goodbye right here in the hospital. No dinner at home, no coffee in the cafeteria downstairs, not even a ride to the marina. She wouldn’t like it.
"Perhaps if you rested your eyes—" the doctor said behind him.
''Rest? I've had enough of that."
"Yes, well—the human eye is slow to heal, Mr. Wolfe. Much slower than other parts of the body. I suggest you refrain from returning to your normal activities for a few weeks. Perhaps take a vacation—somewhere quiet."
"I've got to get back to work." Taylor had money socked away but refused to dip into his nest egg. And if he didn't return to his job at Jenson's Quality Boats, he would be out another paycheck, not to mention the hefty commissions he made with the company. People would come in to Jenson's just to talk to him about his voyages, get caught up by his love of the sea and end up purchasing a yacht of their own. Taylor had intended to stay at Jenson's only long enough to fund a trip to New Zealand. But his accident and subsequent hospital stay had seriously impacted his traveling plans. Taylor limped to the nightstand and lifted his water glass.
"If you return to your active life-style, Mr. Wolfe, your eyes might not have a chance to heal at all."
"And what will that mean?" Taylor sipped the water. "Total blindness?"
"We don't know at this point. I am merely suggesting that you take time off. Find a peaceful retreat."
Taylor squeezed the glass. If he spent any more time surrounded by peace and quiet, he would go absolutely crazy. But the alternative was even worse. What if he should lose his sight altogether? That would mean losing his independence. Scars he could live with. A limp could be overcome. But blindness? He gulped the water, hoping to douse the burn of panic in his gut.
"Whatever you decide, Mr. Wolfe, I advise you to limit strenuous activity, long stretches of reading and exposure to bright light."
Taylor nodded, only half listening.
"Do you have any other questions, Mr. Wolfe?"
He shook his head, put the water glass down, and couldn’t help noticing the red scar between his thumb and forefinger, another souvenir of his car wreck. He had sailed alone around the world. He had faced hurricanes and typhoons, had spent weeks adrift in the Sargasso Sea with a burned-out engine, had been knocked overboard off the coast of Alaska. He had escaped all kinds of perils, only to come home to San Francisco and fall victim to a mundane fog bank on Highway 101.
"I'd just like to say what a pleasure it was to meet you, Mr. Wolfe." Dr. Bennidetto held out his hand, and Taylor shook it. "I've read about you in the papers. Must be something to live those adventures we mere mortals just dream about."
"Yes, well, thanks for your help, Doc."
"If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to call me."
"Right."
The doctor turned to the door. "Good luck, Mr. Wolfe."
“Thanks.”
As far as Taylor was concerned, his luck had run out.
After the doctor left, Taylor limped to the door, still frustrated with a body that did not perform in peak condition.
"You're not really going, are you, Taylor?" his mother asked, rising from her chair.
"Yes, I am. I'm getting the hell out of here."
"Do you think that's wise?"
"I don't care. If I stay here another minute, I'll go crazy.'
"Wait a minute, Taylor. I'm coming with you."
He stepped into the hall, frowning. Instantly his vision shifted into a cacophony of color—Technicolor tunnel vision that swirled around the periphery of his sight. Nurses blurred into moving blobs of green and lavender. Docto
r disassembled into flashes of red and blue. Carts and gurneys shimmered into floating planes of pink. And from somewhere came a crazy quilt of tones—buzzing, chiming clanging.
Taylor struggled to maintain his balance as the color danced and flared in a dizzying array and the noise pressed in on his ears. He grabbed for the doorjamb, using it to ground him, while a cold sweat broke out beneath his jacket and chambray shirt.
"Mr. Wolfe?" a female voice called out. He recognized the tone as belonging to the nurse who took his temperature each morning, precisely at seven o'clock, rousing him from a perfectly good sleep. "Are you all right, Mr. Wolfe?"
"I'm fine," he lied.
"Are you sure you're okay?" She touched his arm. "You look pale."
He couldn't make out her face or her body, but he saw a halo of green settle around his elbow where her hand cupped him. He stiffened and stood up straight, and released his hold on the woodwork.
"I'm fine, Miss Anderson. I'm checking out."
"Stay here and I'll get a wheelchair to take you downstairs."
"I don't need a wheelchair."
"Hospital regulations, Mr. Wolfe."
He watched her blob of color flow toward the nurses' station and then squeezed his eyelids shut. Damn hospital regulations. He wasn't about to be pushed around in a wheelchair. Maybe he would have to enlist his mother's help after all.
He turned. "Mom, where's the car?"
"Out front, Taylor, but you heard the nurse—"
"Never mind her." He stepped away from the door. "Come on." All he had to do was make it to the elevator and out to the main lobby exit. He trailed his fingertips along the wall and limped in the opposite direction from the nurses' station, knowing another set of elevators was just down the hall.
The Haunting of Brier Rose Page 2