By the time he stumbled into the elevator he was bathed in sweat. He couldn't even see the numbers well enough to select the lobby. He had to ask his mother to do it for him. Scowling and frightened, he leaned against the back of the elevator, knowing he would never make it on his own if his vision didn't get any better. Maybe he would have to take it easy for a few weeks.
"Mom," he said, running a tongue over his dry upper up. "Did anyone ever buy Aunt Julia’s place?"
"Brierwood?" she replied. "Oh, here's the lobby, dear. Can you see well enough to walk?"
"Yeah," he lied. Carefully, he followed her lavender glow out of the elevator and onto the tile of the main floor. His cane clicked on the hard surface, startling him. He tried not to let it show, but he felt increasingly rattled with every step he took in the unfamiliar surroundings. People and potted plants loomed up unexpectedly. Voices came from nowhere. He was conscious that his breathing came in agitated spurts.
"Brierwood?" his mother repeated. "No, it's still empty, except for the caretakers, that is. Why?"
"I'm going there." He heard the whisk as the automatic doors slid open and felt the cool rush of air on his face. Thank God. A few more steps and they would be in the car.
"All the way to Seattle? Why don't you stay here, dear, where I can keep an eye on you? You aren't doing that well, you know. You look terrible."
"Thanks a lot, Mom." He raised his face up to the sun, basking in the natural heat after more than a month trapped in the controlled environment of the hospital. "But I'm going."
A remote place like Brierwood would keep him out of the public eye, at least until he got a handle on the mysterious blindness that plagued him. And Brierwood had nothing to do with the Wolfe estate. It had belonged to his mother's eccentric sister, Julia, who had been estranged from the family before she died. Taylor had often been told he favored crusty Aunt Julia both in coloring and temperament. He only wished he had known her. He imagined they might have gotten along very well, for they had more than looks and temperament in common. Neither of them had possessed one shred of respect for Richard Wolfe, his father.
Brierwood, two days later
Rose heard a thud down below and jerked to attention, listening intently. Ever since Donald Jacoby's death, she hadn't slept well, hadn't been able to turn out the lights in the house or shake the feeling that she was being watched. She felt like a scared child and chided herself for being silly and high-strung, but no matter how much she tried to rationalize her fears, she could not put them aside.
The noise downstairs had sounded like a door shutting. She must have forgotten to lock the front door, and someone had come in. Rose set aside her brush and capped her dye. She should answer the door before Bea woke up and went downstairs. Bea needed all the sleep she could get these days. The death of her husband seemed to have drained her of energy. The last thing Rose wanted was to put Bea's health in jeopardy.
She pulled off her rubber gloves and walked around the end of the six-foot length of silk stretched over a long worktable.
After graduating early from college, she had started a business designing one-of-a-kind scarves for wealthy clients in the Seattle area. In a year her business had blossomed enough to show a small profit, and she considered herself lucky to be doing something she loved for a living. But since Donald's death, Rose felt as if her luck were fading like cheap pigments left too long in the sun. Something had changed at Brierwood. Something was different. The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker. She couldn't put her finger on the reason for the change, but she attributed it to the untimely and inexplicable death of Donald Jacoby.
Before Rose reached the doorway to the hall, she was startled by a flapping noise and turned around to see a huge raven alight on the windowsill behind her.
"Edgar," she admonished. "Don't scare me like that!"
He cawed loudly and soared over to her. He landed on her wrist and turned a shiny eye to her, as if trying to tell her something.
"What is it, you rascal?"
He clacked and bobbed his head, agitated.
Another door thumped closed down below.
"Has Mr. Wolfe arrived?" Rose glanced at her watch as she walked out to the hallway. 8:55. Had she gotten the arrival time wrong? She distinctly remembered Bea telling her that he would be at Brierwood at half past ten. Perhaps Mr. Wolfe had come earlier than planned. If that were the case, she should go down and welcome him and try to explain Mr. Jacoby's absence, for Bea hadn't informed the Wolfes about Donald Jacoby's death.
Edgar refused to accompany her to the lower level, which was odd, because he was usually interested in the comings and goings of people at Brierwood. Perhaps he lingered behind because it was early evening, the time when he generally went to roost.
Putting his odd behavior out of her mind, Rose flowed down the stairs, wishing she had had time to change. Her painting clothes—an old summer smock and a bandanna spotted with dye—were not at all flattering, certainly not appropriate attire in which to greet Mr. Wolfe. But since he had arrived hours early, he couldn't expect her to be ready to greet him in her best dress.
Frowning, Rose pulled off the scarf and ran her fingers through her long red hair as she approached the study. She could hear Mr. Wolfe moving around in the room. The door stood ajar.
Rose rapped on the woodwork, wondering how she could explain the odd circumstances of Donald Jacoby's death and her own lengthy and secret presence at Brierwood.
"Come in," a dry voice commanded.
Rose passed into the study, lit by the eerie glow of a small desk lamp with a green glass shade. Mr. Wolfe had drawn the curtains, which plunged the room into shadow. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, but she attributed her reaction to her childish fear of darkness. In the dim light, she could barely make out Mr. Wolfe as he stood near the wall of shelves at the other end of the room, a book in his hand, his face and figure bathed in shadow. He was a tall man, and from the shape of his body, not the old man she had assumed he would be.
"Welcome to Brierwood," she said.
"Thank you."
"We didn't expect you so soon."
"Oh?"
His eyes glittered at her from the shadows, and his glance raked her up and down. She felt as if he were touching her with his hands. Rose resisted the urge to step backward, and forced herself to utter the proper inanities.
"Did you have a pleasant journey?"
"As pleasant as can be expected." He shelved the book and turned slightly. "But not as pleasant as seeing you. You are more beautiful than I had hoped."
Rose paused. What an odd thing to say. As far as she knew, Mr. Wolfe wasn't even aware of her existence, let alone her appearance. Maybe he thought she was Bea.
"I'm not Mrs. Jacoby," she put in.
"Oh, I know that." He pulled out another book and looked down at the cover. "You're Roselyn Bastyr."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken. My name is Quennel."
''Perhaps you have been told you are a Quennel. But you are a Bastyr, my dear, through and through."
"What makes you say that?"
"I can tell just by looking at you. That peculiar shade of red hair is a family trademark in the Bastyr women."
Rose paused. She had been told she was a foundling with no links to her past. Where the Quennel name had come from, she hadn't the faintest idea. To hear someone say she belonged to a family and bore a strong resemblance to someone—anyone—made her heart surge in her chest. More than anything, she wanted to belong to a family, a real family, with whom she shared bloodlines and heritage. But most of her life she had lived with Donald and Bea Jacoby, who swore they knew nothing about her, or whether or not a Quennel family even existed.
"You know about me?" she asked.
"I know many things about you, Roselyn."
How much did he know? And what did he know of the current status of Brierwood? Did he know that Donald was dead? That she had kept secret the news of his death in hopes that Bea Jacoby wou
ldn't be fired? She was certain that no one would want to retain an old woman as housekeeper after her husband, who had served as grounds- keeper and handyman, had died. Worse yet, Rose herself had been living at Brierwood for fifteen years without the Wolfe family’s knowledge. Bea had been convinced it wouldn't matter, that no one ever came to Brierwood anyway or cared what happened there. Yet Taylor Wolfe, son of the owner of Brierwood, now stood before her in the study, claiming to know all about her.
He hadn't thrown her out, though. Not yet, anyway.
"You say you think I'm a Bastyr?"
"I know you are a Bastyr."
"Who are they?"
"All in good time, my dear." He chuckled as he shut the book. "We'll speak of that later."
She stepped closer. "Then it's all right with you that I'm here? I can stay?"
"For now, of course." He looked up at her. She wished she could see his face and his expression, but the darkness concealed everything, even the color of his hair. She clasped her hands together, feeling uneasy in his presence.
"Can I get you anything?"
"Thank you, no. I will talk with you later, Roselyn."
"All right."
She was grateful for the dismissal and hurried back upstairs to her work.
Seth Bastyr watched Rose leave the room. He smiled in the darkness. Engaging little creature. She thought he was someone else. He had a mind not to set her straight, not just yet. If she thought he was someone else, she might accept his sudden appearance without putting up much of a fight. Then all of Deborah Bastyr's schemes and plans would be for naught. He wouldn't mind besting that bitch at last. He wouldn't mind it at all. And to vanquish Deborah by taking her daughter, Rose Quennel, would only make the victory that much sweeter. So far, the road to victory hadn't been difficult. Donald Jacoby was dead and buried. That left only Bea. And then Roselyn would be his. Seth thought of the ritual to come and closed his eyes to savor the sharp thrill of anticipation. Anticipation was an integral part of the game.
CHAPTER TWO
“Brierwood, sir," the taxi driver announced.
Taylor lifted his head from the back of the car seat as his taxi pulled through the entrance pillars of his aunt’s estate. He had asked the driver to inform him of their arrival so that he could spend most of the journey resting, as the flight from San Francisco to Seattle had exhausted him. He opened his eyes, hoping wild colors wouldn’t impair his sight and was relieved to find his vision was normal. Wincing from the cramp in his neck, he looked out the car window at the grounds of the old family estate, as the headlights of the taxi illuminated great tree trunks, lacy fern fronds, and endless clumps of brambles.
So this was Brierwood.
He had never set foot in the place. His Aunt Julia had cut herself off from her sister upon her sister's marriage to Richard Wolfe. Taylor had been told there was a mutual dislike between his father and his aunt, but he often wondered if a deeper reason existed for the animosity. After Aunt Julia died years ago, the estate passed to Taylor's mother, with the stipulation that the caretakers remain employed until they reached retirement age. For over a decade the estate had remained untouched, for Ruth Wolfe had never concerned herself with the affairs of the place, mostly because it was more of an albatross than an asset.
On the three occasions when his mother had tried to sell the estate, not one buyer had come forward. Looking around, Taylor could see why. Even in the encroaching darkness, he could tell that Brierwood was overgrown and unkempt, a tangle of vines and trees and unfettered gardens. He had never seen such vegetation except in the steamy jungles of the tropics. He had heard that the rains of the Seattle area, coupled with mild winters, created a friendly environment for plants, but he was surprised by the lushness of his northwest surroundings. He made a note to himself to speak to the caretakers about the grounds. Obviously the couple was shirking their responsibilities.
The taxi swung around a curve in the drive, and Taylor craned his neck to get a good look at the facade of the Tudor mansion rising up from a sea of hedges. His aunt’s house was three stories of half-timbered nooks and crannies that rambled into the shadows of twilight. The entire face of the house was draped in ivy, with only the windows and casements showing, and all of them were dark, as if no one lived in the place.
Taylor glanced around, searching for a lighted window or door, but found none. It appeared that his arrival time had been forgotten. He sank back, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane. So much the better. If he should suffer a vision attack on arriving at Brierwood, he would rather suffer alone than in front of complete strangers. There was no telling when his world would burst into color, and he didn’t want anyone to see him stumbling around.
The taxi pulled up by the dark front entrance. Taylor unlatched the car door, and struggled to get out before the driver could see how lame he was. With his stiff leg, it was a lot harder getting out of a vehicle than in one.
Rose woke at the sound of a door slamming again. She jumped to her feet, shocked that she had fallen asleep so quickly. What time was it? She glanced at her watch. Ten- thirty. She had slept for nearly two hours, slumped in her chair, too exhausted to stay awake. She wondered if Mr. Wolfe had called her and she had slept right through his summons. At this point, it wouldn't be a good idea to make him angry. Mr. Wolfe seemed to be the kind of man who would get angry easily. She walked to the door and out to the railing where she could look over the edge to the entryway two stories below. She flipped on the light.
There in the huge foyer stood a dark-haired man with two suitcases at his feet. Mr. Wolfe must have left Brierwood after their brief conversation in the library and had come back with his things.
"Hello?" His deep baritone voice rang out, echoing up to her position on the third floor. Rose stiffened. He was looking for her, probably to take care of his luggage and show him to his room. "Is anybody here?"
"Just a moment!" Rose called out.
The man looked up, trying to locate her, and finally backed up to get a view of the third-story balcony.
"I'm coming!" Rose added,
Edgar appeared out of nowhere and soared down to the foyer while Rose pattered down the stairs. She thought it was strange that Edgar had suddenly decided to come to life, especially at this hour of the night.
Just as she gained the bottom of the stairs, she saw Edgar flap close to Mr. Wolfe and dart at his hand. Something metallic hit the floor.
"Hey!" Mr. Wolfe exclaimed as Edgar disappeared into the shadows of the drawing room at the front of the house.
Rose hurried forward, hoping her pet hadn’t pecked the master of the house, and wondering why Edgar would fly so close to a stranger. Then she saw a key glinting on the floor. In an attempt to make off with the shiny object in Mr. Wolfe's possession, Edgar must have knocked the key out of his hand.
Rose reached down for it at the same time Mr. Wolfe did, and they nearly bumped heads. She straightened, holding out the key, and smiled at the humor of the situation. But all amusement died when she looked into the face of the man before her. For a moment all she could do was stare at him.
He looked like a pirate—that was the only way she could describe him—with his scarred face, shining black hair and sardonic slash of a mouth. But this pirate wasn't laughing. In fact, his dark brown eyes studied her with a guarded intensity that unnerved her. He had a prominent nose with a narrow bridge—a nose some might call too sharp—and she had the distinct feeling that he was looking down that nose in disdain at her. A strand of black hair fell over a forehead crossed by a scar. Another scar paralleled the line that stretched from cheekbone to chin on his lean face. His jagged wounds branded his good looks with the mark of a brigand, compounded by the ebony fire that smoldered in his unusually dark brown eyes. But even more unsettling to Rose was a sudden flare of familiarity in his features, as if she had seen him before.
"Do you always stare?" he demanded. “Or do you have something to say about my face?”
> "No. Pardon me." Chagrined, Rose dropped the key in his outstretched hand. "And sorry about Edgar. He usually isn’t so mischievous."
"Edgar?" The man’s long hand snapped around the key. "I can't believe a wild animal is loose in the house."
"Edgar isn't wild. He's quite tame. And once you get to know him—"
"I have no intention of getting to know him." He turned away and limped to the doorway of the drawing room. Her reaction to his face must have upset him. Rose surveyed Mr. Wolfe as he walked. She hadn't noticed the cane when she had first met him in the study a few hours ago, but he hadn't been walking around then, either. And the library had been too dark to see much of his face.
She studied him as he walked away, wondering at the queer feeling of deja vu she had felt a moment ago, and how differently he appeared to her in the light. His hair glinted blue-black and was neither straight nor curly, but full of lights and body where it curved over the tops of his ears. His shoulders were wide and straight, which she assumed was the product of the expert tailoring of his leather jacket. He didn't look much older than his late twenties, but even with the limp, he moved with the confidence of a man who had seen a lot of the world and usually got his way, no questions asked.
“You are Mr. Wolfe, aren’t you?” she ventured.
“Yes,” he said over his shoulder. “But apparently no one got the memo about my arrival.”
“What do you mean?”
Puzzled and annoyed by his gruff behavior, Rose stood at the foot of the stairs, her arms stiff at her sides. Mr. Wolfe glanced down the central hall, which led to the parlor, morning room and the kitchen, and then pivoted. His jacket creaked softly. "Where is Mrs. Jacoby?"
"She has retired for the night." Rose wondered what had happened to his earlier mood when he had told her she was beautiful. Now he was looking at her as if she were an interloper.
"And Mr. Jacoby?"
"He hasn't been here for quite some time."
The Haunting of Brier Rose Page 3