The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  "I'm making an omelet for Mr. Wolfe, Rose," Bea put in. "Would you like one?"

  She snapped out of her musings. "No, thanks. I've got to get to work. I've lost too much time as it is."

  "You shouldn't skip breakfast, Rose. It isn't healthy."

  "I'll be all right, Bea. I'll just take some coffee up to the studio."

  She reached for a mug from the cup hook under the cupboard and poured it full of the fragrant, freshly brewed coffee. Taking a sip, she surveyed Bea as she poured the egg mixture into the omelet pan and hovered over the stove, carefully monitoring the cooking process. Was Bea lying to her? She had certainly seemed upset at the mention of the Bastyr family. But Bea wouldn't lie to her. She had known Bea for fifteen years, and in all those years she had never once distrusted anything the elderly woman had told her. No, if anyone was lying to her, it was that awful Mr. Wolfe.

  "Well," Rose said, walking to the door, "I’ll see you later, Bea."

  "Don't stay up there all day," Bea called over her shoulder. "And don't take that ring off when you're working."

  Rose glanced down at the simple emerald ring she had worn since childhood. Bea insisted that she wear it always, and she did keep it on her hand most of the time, just to humor her guardian. In fact, she'd even been wearing it faithfully every night since Donald's collapse in the herb garden. Rose pushed through lie swinging door, still musing over Bea's nervous behavior and the strange unease that had settled over Brierwood.

  Taylor sipped his coffee in the morning room just off the kitchen while Bea Jacoby shuffled to the table and slid a plate of steaming food before him. He breathed in the aroma of the omelet and homemade cinnamon roll, anxious to taste the offerings of the Brierwood kitchen. One thing he appreciated was good cooking, since he possessed only basic culinary skills. He picked up his fork, waiting for Mrs. Jacoby to leave his side, but she just stood there staring at him.

  She studied him, her brown eyes taking in every detail of his face and hair. Taylor was still not accustomed to people staring at his scars and tried not to flush beneath her regard.

  "Is there something you need, Mrs. Jacoby?" he asked, slicing through the omelet with the side of his fork.

  "Yes. I want to know who you really are."

  Taylor paused, a forkful of egg poised in midair. "Pardon me?"

  "I want to know who you really are." Bea Jacoby clasped her hands in front of her ample belly, making it clear that she was not about to move until she got an answer.

  "I'm Taylor Wolfe."

  "I don't think so. None of your relatives have come to Brierwood for twenty years. Then all of a sudden you show up. Why?"

  "Personal reasons, Mrs. Jacoby, which are none of your business." He popped the egg in his mouth, hoping Mrs. Jacoby would see fit to remove herself.

  "Personal reasons?" she persisted. "And might those include Rose Quennel?"

  "I hardly think so. I don't even know her."

  "You told her that you knew all about her."

  Taylor nearly choked on his omelet. What trouble had that hysterical Ms. Quennel been brewing? The next thing he knew, he would be accused of rape, perhaps taken to court and thrown in prison. He might very well have stepped into a plot designed to get a piece of the Wolfe fortune, something he had always guarded against but had never considered a possibility at Brierwood. Once a family had money, they were constantly besieged by people who were after that fortune in one way or another, whether through marriage or crime or a combination of both.

  "I never said that I knew anything about her."

  "Rose is unusually bright, Mr. Wolfe. When she tells me something, I have no reason to doubt her memory or her reason."

  "Then maybe she's just confused." He took a sip of coffee, wishing he could enjoy his breakfast in peace and quiet. As it was, his meal lodged in his chest, bound up by the terse words between himself and the housekeeper, and by the idea that he might be in the process of being framed.

  "Whatever you may think you have found in Rose, Mr. Wolfe, be assured that you are wrong about her. She has no family. Do you understand? None. Just because she has red lair doesn't mean she is connected to any family."

  "I never said she was." Exasperated, Taylor sighed. 'Look, Mrs. Jacoby, I have no interest in Rose Quennel. "None whatsoever. How many ways do I have to say it?"

  She studied him, staring at him from the corner of her eyes as if to judge the veracity of his words. He kept his gaze steady, willing her to believe him, until she turned and left the morning room. Taylor watched her, wondering what in the hell was going on.

  One thing he was sure of, he wasn't about to become a victim of a frame job, no matter how beautiful the bait. The sooner he recovered his normal eyesight, the better. And that meant finding out all he could on the subject of the human eye and related diseases. He finished his breakfast and then limped up to the study on the second floor, where he spent the rest of the morning on the phone ordering books about the human eye, vision and anything else remotely related to his peculiar problem. He was determined to get his normal sight back, no matter what the doctors said. Doctors had misdiagnosed their patients before. They could be wrong in his case, too. Taylor hoped to God they were.

  Rose stayed in the third floor workroom for most of the day. She didn't want to take the chance that she might run into Mr. Wolfe in the parlor or on the stairs, and she certainly wasn't in the mood for waiting on him. But by three o'clock she was suffering from hunger and heat. Her hair was damp, and her dress clung to the backs of her legs. She couldn't bear another minute of the heat. A dip in the pond just outside the grounds would revive her and give her the impetus to continue her work. She had made great strides in finishing the scarf and deserved a break.

  She slipped out of the house and caught a glimpse of Mr. Wolfe walking down the lane. Rose took the opposite direction and headed for the back gardens, toward the pond at the rear of the property. As she got closer to the pond, her anger faded, replaced by the joy she always felt when walking through the canopy of fir trees. Stellar jays squawked as she strolled down the path, alerted by the presence of Edgar, who soared ahead.

  Just as she was about to turn off the path to the pond, she heard a snuffling noise and a growl. Rose stopped at the Y in the path and cocked her head to listen. The growl was closer this time, coming from the curved trail ahead of her. Though she knew it was impossible, she could swear she heard her name—Roselyn, Roselyn, Roselyn—as if some kind of creatures were chanting her name as they ran. The hair or the back of her neck rose, and she turned to flee just as four black-and-orange Rottweilers burst around the bend in the path and thundered toward her, panting and snarling. They had huge blocky heads and powerful jaws frothing with white foam.

  Rose knew enough about dogs not to run or show fear. If she did either, chances were that they would attack her. If she could stand her ground and intimidate them, she might buy enough time to find a way to escape.

  "Back!" Rose shouted, glancing around for a stick with which to defend herself. The dogs tRotted around her, sniffing the ground and growling. They had massive chests, as big a man's, and muscular legs and necks, and she was certain she would be no match for them. She backed toward the berry bushes where the two paths joined and looked down. A rock lay on the ground near her feet. Without taking her attention off the dogs, she crouched down and picked up the rock.

  "Get back!" she shouted again, brandishing the rock. "Get!"

  The dogs showed no fear. Where had they come from? The nearest neighbor was miles away, on the other side of the dense wood. She had never seen Rottweilers in the vicinity and wondered if they were they a pack of wild dogs.

  Roselyn, Roselyn, Roselyn, they growled, pacing in front of her. One padded closer and showed his teeth. The other three tRotted up behind him, barking and snarling.

  Desperate, Rose threw the rock at the leader. It hit the dog's chest and thudded to the ground. He didn't even take notice of the impact and lunged forward.

/>   Rose screamed and scrambled backward, over the soft bank of the path. The earth gave way beneath her weight, and she toppled over, landing in the briers.

  "Oh!" she cried, impaled by hundreds of little thorns tearing at her shoulders, arms and legs. Tears sprang up, but she blinked them back, too worried about the Rottweilers to indulge in crying. The dogs paced at the top of the bank, glaring down at her, their jowls dripping froth on the blackberry leaves. Apparently they knew better than to jump down into the brambles. But how long would they stay there?

  Grimacing in pain, Rose tried to look behind her for an escape route beyond the brambles, only to discover that her braid had come partially undone and her hair was caught in the briers. The more she twisted and turned, the more entangled she became, and she couldn't turn her head far enough to see how to free herself. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, she panicked and nearly pulled her hair out by the roots, until the pain in her scalp and in her arms and palms made her fall back, exhausted and frightened. What would she do? How long would the dogs stand guard over her? How would she ever get loose? Bea was slightly deaf and would never hear her cries for help. The only person who could help her was that awful Mr. Wolfe. And who knew if he was within earshot? And if he did hear her and came to her aid, what would the dogs do to him?

  She glanced at the Rottweilers and noticed they had turned their attention to something on the path. Their ears pricked forward as if they were listening.

  "Ms. Quennel?" a familiar voice called.

  The dogs turned and loped off in the opposite direction. But for the stickers in her back, Rose would have wilted in relief.

  "Mr. Wolfe!" she shouted. "I'm over here!"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Taylor leaned on his cane and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. That was Rose calling him, and she sounded as if she were in trouble. Regardless, he had to pause for a moment and catch his breath. He hadn't realized how tired he would get after such a short walk, or how hot it was outside in the afternoon. Even though the garden and grounds looked cool and inviting from the house, they offered little relief from the close air. His leg throbbed and his breath came hard as he continued to hurry down the trail, following Rose's raven, who soared ahead of him.

  "Help! Mr. Wolfe!"

  "Coming!" He was certain now that the plaintive voice must belong to Rose Quennel. She didn't appear to be the type who would beg for anyone's help, yet who else would be here in this remote place? Taylor limped along the sun-dappled trail until he came to a clearing, where the path forked off toward a small pond.

  "Mr. Wolfe!"

  He caught sight of a white figure lying spread-eagled in a thicket of blackberries at the edge of the trail. He limped closer.

  "Rose?" he gasped in disbelief.

  "Watch out for the dogs, Mr. Wolfe!"

  "What dogs?" He glanced around. "I don't see any dogs."

  "There were four Rottweilers. They attacked me."

  "I don't see them."

  "You don't? Maybe you scared them off."

  He nodded and looked down at her. "You look as if you've gotten yourself in quite a spot there."

  "My hair is caught. And I'm in a great deal of discomfort."

  Taylor surveyed the situation, wincing when he noticed the bright red scratches on her fair skin. Dressed in denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, he didn't relish the idea of wading in after her, but he couldn't leave her and go back for an ax to chop her out. With his slow walk, he wouldn't make it back for half an hour, at least. He couldn't let her suffer that long. And if there were dogs around, they might return.

  Scowling, he stepped down the bank, using his cane to fend off the encroaching brambles. Even so, he received more scratches on his already scarred face and legs. A lusty brier brushed the gash on his leg and ripped off part of the bandage. Taylor felt a warm trickle of blood course down his shin. He ignored it and blocked out the throb of pain as he hacked his way to Rose.

  "How'd you manage to fall into these?" he grumbled, whacking at a stray vine.

  "The dogs lunged at me. Please hurry."

  Taylor bent over her and inspected the intricate tangle of hair and briers. Gingerly he pulled a strand of red hair free, trying not to hurt her. He was accustomed to working with his hands on small difficult details, a talent honed by many hours spent building his models. The practice provided him with unusual patience and concentration, which he could apply with ease to his ships but found nearly impossible to grant to people.

  He pulled on another strand, and she let out a gasp.

  "Easy, Rose," he encouraged. "I’m getting somewhere."

  He put aside his cane and slipped a hand under her head, supporting its weight to take the strain off her neck. She sighed in relief, and he felt her relax somewhat. If this were a ploy to get them together, she had certainly placed herself in considerable pain for the cause. He wondered whose idea it was, Bea Jacoby's or Rose Quennel's, and whether she had become far more entangled than she had planned?

  He worked quickly, freeing tangle after tangle, until the last vine was pulled from her hair. "There," he said, helping her to her feet, one hand on her wrist, the other on her hip, knowing he should step away from her as quickly as possible. She rose gracefully and stood before him, slightly dazed and pale, brushing her tousled hair out of her face. Her actions and expression seemed too genuine to be mere fabrication. Worried that she might collapse back into the thicket, Taylor grabbed her around her slender waist and surveyed her critically.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "I—I think so," she murmured. "Thank you." In wonder, she looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first time. "You saved my life."

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "I might never have gotten away."

  "You'd have managed." His eyes locked with hers, and he wasn't even sure what he was saying. All he knew was that he longed to bend down and kiss her lips, so red against her pale skin. She was lovely, even covered with scratches, and the paleness of her skin accentuated the blue of her eyes, the same periwinkle blue of the forget-me-nots growing at the edge of the briers. Beads of moisture hung in her lashes, adding to their lushness.

  "I just can't understand where those dogs came from," she said. "I've never seen them around here before."

  "And they attacked you?"

  "Yes. And I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come along when you did."

  Suddenly Edgar swooped down at them and landed on the grass nearby, cawing raucously. Rose glanced at the bird, breaking off the tender possibility that had hung between them.

  "And where were you, Edgar?" she admonished. "You could have gone for help."

  "He did. He guided me over this way."

  "He did?" Surprised, Rose looked back at the bird.

  Edgar bobbed his head.

  Taylor came to his senses and realized that he had been considering succumbing to Rose just as they planned for him to do. This was no time to play the fool. Immediately, he released his light hold on her.

  Rose backed away and lowered her lashes, while two patches of crimson blossomed on her cheeks. The shock had worn off, and it was obvious she was embarrassed. Flustered himself, he picked up his cane and gently took her wrist to lead her out of the briers, thankful to occupy his hands with something other than her soft curves. If he touched her again or gazed at her any longer, he would forget his vow to steer clear of her.

  Once they reached the trail, he released her. "There you go, Brier Rose. Safe and sound."

  He heard her suck in a sharp breath.

  "Mr. Wolfe, your leg!"

  He looked down. The slash on his right calf had broken open and painted his leg in blood.

  Rose knelt beside him to inspect his wound and brushed at the trickle of blood with the hem of the slip beneath her dress.

  "How did you hurt your leg, Mr. Wolfe?"

  "In a car accident.''

  "On a piece of glass?"

  "I don't know
how it happened. I was unconscious."

  She dabbed at his leg with the corner of her slip, her touch more gentle than that of any of the doctors or nurses who had attended him at the hospital. Taylor looked down at her, wondering why he was letting her fuss over him.

  "It's quite a deep wound, as if you wore cut with a knife."

  "It's nothing."

  "How long ago were you injured?"

  "About two months."

  "It should be healed by now." Rose straightened and deftly pulled the half-slip down, stepping out of it with her inimitable gracefulness. The slip was a virginal concoction of lace trim and rosebud embroidery, and for a moment Taylor stared at it. He hadn't seen such a feminine piece of clothing for years. "Here," she said, kneeling down again. "Let me stop the bleeding, at least."

  "Wait. You'll ruin your slip."

  "I'd rather soil my slip than have you bleed to death, Mr. Wolfe."

  Before he could back away, she was removing the old bandage in a way that didn't pull at the hairs on his leg. Then she tied torn strips of the slip firmly but comfortably about his leg. Taylor watched her, marveling that she would take such care of a virtual stranger—unless, of course, she was doing it only to ingratiate herself with him.

  When Rose finished, she stood up. "I'd get that taken care of, Mr. Wolfe. It could get infected. It looks like it may be infected now."

  "The doctors did all that could possibly be done."

  "Have you tried plantain?"

  "What?"

  "Plantain. It's a plant, one of the best remedies for cuts and infections. I'm going to gather some for my scratches. I get some for you, too."

  "Forget it." There she went again with her herbal advice. Taylor had no use for quacks, even beautiful ones. He didn't like her staring at his scars, and he didn't want to be her patient. Most of all, however, he hated appearing as a wounded weakling in her presence. "My leg needs time to heal, that's all."