The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  Rose crossed her arms. His request sounded suspiciously like a ploy. Yet she could not deny a plea for help—or her own heart's desire to spend the last few hours at Brierwood with the man she loved.

  "I'll have to go down to the kitchen and prepare a poultice."

  "Will it take long?"

  "Fifteen minutes or so."

  "Do you have time to do it?"

  "Well, yes...." She stared at him, wondering why he had suddenly changed his mind about herbal remedies, and all the while hopelessly awash in the glint of his pirate's eyes.

  "Good. Can I watch you make it? See how you do it?"

  "If you want to."

  "Are you finished packing?"

  "Yes. We could go down now, if you'd like."

  "I'll change into some shorts so it will be easier for you."

  "All right."

  Taylor brushed past her into the hall. She followed him and closed the door, wondering how she would ever keep from confiding her fears to him. If he so much as touched her, she knew she would crack and spill everything in a flood of aching need.

  They walked in silence to his room. While Rose lingered in the doorway, Taylor slipped into a pair of black shorts and transferred his keys, lighter and Swiss army knife to its pockets. Years of sailing alone had trained him to carry those three items at all times. He stood near his closet, wishing he had something to give her in appreciation and also in celebration of her sale. Without the chilled champagne on the deck of the Jamaican Lady, he didn't know how to make a woman feel special, other than making love to her. He had never been the type to give flowers or candy, and he would feel like an idiot if he tried to write a poem or letter to convey his love. Yet he longed to do something to make the evening special.

  Still feeling at a loss, he walked with Rose down the hall to the stairs in companionable silence. In the kitchen they were met by Bea, who was cleaning up the dinner dishes. Taylor made a pretense of watching Rose prepare the plantain leaves, all the while thinking of something he could give her in return. He decided to brave the danger of the wild dogs and look around in the garden for a perfect flower, a blossom that reminded him of Rose's own perfection.

  Surely she would be safe while she bustled around the kitchen in Bea's company. Excusing himself for a moment, ostensibly to use the bathroom, he slipped out the rear door, hoping the two women couldn't hear him from the kitchen. Before he left the safety of the house, he surveyed the gardens ahead, paying close attention to the rhododendrons where he had spotted the black shapes earlier that evening. The garden appeared peaceful and deserted. He limped across the flagstones and past the sundial to an overgrown patch of roses and forsythia. Taking out the lighter, he flicked it on and held it close to the roses. One stood out among all the others—a beautiful peach-colored bud just on the verge of unfurling its magnificent center—much like Rose herself. Taylor flicked off the lighter and carefully plucked the flower. He sniffed it and closed his eyes. The scent was even lovelier than the color, if that were possible.

  Just as he was rising to return to the house, he heard a strange noise, like the sounds of a string quartet warming up with none of the instruments playing the same note. Alarmed, Taylor glanced in the direction of the sound, near the sundial. He could see nothing but the fronds of poppies moving slightly in the breeze. He whirled around, searching for the dogs Rose had seen, wondering if they were surrounding him. Still he saw nothing. A sheen of sweat broke out on his skin as he let his vision shift to search for hidden shapes and colors. Sure enough, when he turned back to the sundial, he saw four black writhing shapes moving around the stone, as if in a slow dance. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t make the shapes take focus. They were indistinguishable—neither human nor canine. What were they? And what kind of beings had auras, but no physical shapes?

  Taylor didn't know what to do He had to pass by the sundial to get back to the house. Would the shapes attack him if they saw him go by? But how could they attack if they didn't possess physical forms? He took a step forward and then paused as another thought struck him. What if they could funnel into his aura, just as the evil man had entered Rose's? Taylor's heart hammered in his chest as he stood in the garden holding the rose in one hand, his cane in the other, and damning more than ever the fact that he had a lame leg. He could never hope to outrun anyone or anything.

  Suddenly the back door opened and Bea's ample figure appeared in silhouette. "Who's out there?" she demanded.

  The black shapes around the sundial vanished.

  Taylor had never been so happy to see Bea.

  "It's me. Taylor!" He stumbled forward, skipping on his good leg and hardly touching the ground with his bad one.

  She backed up as he burst into the pool of light from the house.

  "Mr. Wolfe! What are you doing outside?"

  "Just getting some air." He tried to hide the flower, embarrassed to be caught holding it.

  "I saw a strange light out in the garden and thought someone was poking around where they shouldn't be."

  "That was my lighter you saw."

  She shut the door after him. "You shouldn't be outside, Mr. Wolfe. What if those dogs happen to come back?"

  "It seemed safe enough." He kept close to the wall, holding the rose between his thigh and the wainscoting.

  Rose appeared at the end of the hall. "What's going on?" she called.

  "Mr. Wolfe was outside. I thought he was an intruder."

  Rose came closer. Taylor tried to move the flower behind him but stopped when he realized Bea would spy it then. One way or another, he was going to be found out. He could see the romantic moment he had envisioned—presenting the flower to Rose—fizzling before his eyes. He should have known better than to step out of his element. Frustrated, he let his arm drop to his side.

  The slight movement caught Rose's attention.

  "What's that you have in your hand, Taylor?"

  "A flower." He wrenched his arm up. "A damn flower."

  She stared at him in shock as he pushed it toward her. "For me?"

  "For finishing your scarf. Congratulations." He shoved it into her hands and hobbled up the hall so she couldn't see his flaming face. He knew he was blushing. Even his ears were hot. He could hear complete quiet behind him, as if both women had been shocked into silence. He had never felt more like an idiot in his entire life. What had come over him?

  Though he had asked Rose to tend to his leg, Taylor stormed up the stairs to his bedroom instead, too chagrined to face her. He’d be safe from prying eyes here. He was sure she wouldn't come to his room, not after the way he had come on to her the night before. He flung off his clothes, not bothering to put on his pajama bottoms, and crawled into bed. Why stay up all night to protect Rose? Who was he kidding? He couldn't even pick a damn flower for her without botching it.

  A few minutes later, he heard a light rap on his door.

  "Go away," he croaked.

  "Taylor, I just want to come in for one minute."

  "I'm tired."

  "I'm coming in."

  Taylor heard the door swing open and peered over his shoulder as Rose entered his room, carrying a tray. The rose was perched in a slender vase, a delicate flag to remind him of his folly. Taylor grimaced at the sight and sat up.

  Rose put the tray on the nightstand and straightened. He saw her gaze flit across his bare chest, then land on his face. "Thanks for the flower," she began. "I've never received flowers from anyone before."

  "It's just a rose from the garden."

  "But it's about the prettiest rose I've ever seen. Thank you." She reached down and placed her delicate hand on his rough cheek. Then, before he could pull away, she leaned over and pressed her warm lips to his. Her hair tumbled forward in a silken wave that lapped at the side of his face and shoulder, tempting him beyond endurance. With a groan, he opened his mouth to take her in and raised his hands to grip the tops of her fragile white arms, but she immediately pulled away, defeating his efforts. H
e sank back to the pillows, realizing that she had offered only a chaste kiss and wanted nothing more from him. Choking back his disappointment, he willed his senses into submission and hoped she didn't notice the telltale sign of his reaction to her beneath the thin blanket and sheet draped across his midriff and legs.

  "I thought you wanted me to see about your leg," she remarked.

  "I changed my mind."

  "You're wasting a poultice, Taylor, not to mention my time. I could apply it right now. I brought it with me."

  Taylor glanced at the bowl of steaming green leaves, the pads of gauze and the metal teapot crowded around the rose. He had asked her to make the poultice. Only a scumbag would make her go to all that trouble for nothing. Even he wasn’t that big of a jerk.

  "Well, all right."

  "You'll have to turn down the bedclothes."

  "I'm buck naked." He glanced up, challenging her.

  She flushed, which increased her allure. He could barely keep from pulling her down on him and forcing her to make love with him. He could still feel the touch of her hair on his skin, and the memory made him swell tighter with desire.

  "Well, then..." She blinked rapidly. "Why don't you just expose your injured leg?"

  "I'd like to expose more."

  "Taylor, don't."

  Her blue eyes swam with a pleading emotion and something that looked very much like hurt. He felt ashamed for teasing her.

  "All right." He slid his leg to the side until it was free of the covers.

  His leg was well formed, with a strong calf, and his foot was slender, his toes long and straight. Except for his wounded leg, Taylor was a perfect male specimen, whose attributes were not lost on Rose. She had to force herself to work and not think about what other attributes lay beneath the covers.

  Gently Rose removed the clumsy bandage he had applied earlier that day. All the while she was highly conscious of his gaze on her profile. She carefully pulled back the dressing.

  Rose stepped aside to allow the light from the lamp on the nightstand to illuminate Taylor's wound. The gash was still red and inflamed, as if it had been recently inflicted. Fresh blood spotted the bandage.

  "How's it look, Doc?" he asked.

  She glanced at him, avoiding the sight of his naked torso. "It doesn't seem to be healing. That’s so strange to me."

  "I know. And it has been throbbing a lot more lately."

  "That isn't a good sign." She leaned closer. "It doesn't smell as if it's festering, though." She stood up and gazed at his leg. "This is the strangest thing I've ever seen."

  Taylor shifted onto his elbows and raised himself up. "Put on the poultice, then, and see if it helps."

  Rose reached for the warm plantain leaves. "This might smart for a minute," she warned.

  "I can take it."

  Gingerly, so as not to touch the wound with her fingers, she layered the plantain over his leg. He grimaced and narrowed his eyes, but he didn't make a sound, much to her admiration. Hot poultices on open wounds could be excruciatingly painful. After she finished applying the leaves, she soaked gauze in hot water from the teapot and draped it over the leaves.

  "How are you doing?" she asked, glancing at his face.

  "Fine." The terseness of his words spoke of the pain he was enduring.

  "It will feel better soon, Taylor."

  She touched his hand in a gesture of reassurance and smiled at him. He closed his eyes and lay back upon the pillows.

  "You know a lot for someone so young," he remarked. "How old are you, anyway?"

  "Twenty. I'm going to be twenty-one tomorrow."

  "It's your birthday tomorrow?"

  "Yes." She looked away, toward the shadows of his bathroom, wondering what the day would bring.

  "You're trembling," he said. "What's wrong?"

  "I'm tired, that's all."

  He didn't press her further, and she was thankful that he accepted her explanation.

  "How is your leg doing now?"

  "It's tingling. Feels okay."

  Rose lingered at his bedside, unwilling to cut short their conversation. She was also reluctant to climb into her own bed, afraid that the nightmares of the past three evenings would return. But if she stayed with Taylor, she knew she would weaken and end up in his arms, giving him the fatal gift of her virginity. She inspected the sharp lines of his profile, wishing she could afford the luxury of kissing his lips again. But the temptation to do more would be too great.

  "Rose," Taylor began, slipping his hand over hers. She allowed her palm to remain trapped beneath his. "We need to talk."

  "About what?" Instantly she was on her guard and tried to pull away, but he held her fingers. She glanced up to find his black eyes boring into her.

  "Don't pull away from me, Rose. Just listen for once."

  She glared at him.

  "Listen to me, for God's sake."

  Slowly she acquiesced and made her hand relax beneath his.

  "Now, I know you don't put much stock in the aura stuff I've been telling you. I know you think you can escape the danger here by running away. But listen to me, Rose." He squeezed her hand. "You can't run away from this thing in your aura. He's there. And he'll be there wherever you go."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I think he's like a leech clinging to a host. I believe he's what is called a vampire. An auric vampire."

  ''What's an auric vampire?"

  "A creature that feeds off the energy force of another human being."

  "I still have my energy. Plenty of energy."

  "But for how long?"

  "That's ridiculous!"

  "Do you think I'd tell you something ridiculous? I'm a no-nonsense guy, Rose. I always have been and always will be. And when it comes right down to it, you've got to make a decision. Whom do you trust—a straightforward man like me, or that namby-pamby guy with gloves on who kisses your hand and wears an overcoat in the middle of summer? That's what it comes down to. Who do you trust?"

  "You think my client is a vampire?"

  "Yes. You've talked about a man coming to you at night. That was him—your client. He's even kissed you, hasn't he?"

  Rose looked down, ashamed to admit what she'd let him do to her.

  "He's already started to put his spell on you, just like old Count Dracula, by coming to you at night. Little by little he'll take you over to the dark side."

  A chill passed over her. Taylor's words sounded preposterous, but they did offer an explanation for her nocturnal visitor and the supposed dark spot in her aura.

  "I can't let him do that to you, Rose."

  She felt the tug of his hand as he drew her down against his chest. Confused and frightened, she let herself collapse on top of him as his arms came around her. Rose clung to him tightly, nestling her cheek against the side of his neck.

  "Don't you understand, Taylor?" she whispered. "He'll kill you just because you're involved with me."

  "How do you know?" He ran his hand up and down her back, giving her a wonderful sense of security.

  "It's part of the family tradition."

  Taylor stopped caressing her. "This guy's part of your family?"

  "Yes."

  Taylor held her back so he could see her face. "Who is he? What's his name?"

  "Seth Bastyr. He's my—" She averted her gaze and sat up. She couldn't tell him the truth—that Seth was both grandfather and great-grandfather, that he might even have been her father had her mother not raised above the charmed state of the ritual bride. What would he think of her once he found out about her family?

  "Tell me, Rose!"

  "I can't!" She pulled away, but he grabbed her wrist.

  "I deserve to know. I need to know."

  She looked down at her wrist and didn't struggle. Taylor's grip was too strong, and her will to resist was quickly eroding. Taylor seemed to sense the change in her, and his hand loosened to slide down to her fingers.

  "Rose, why can't you trust me?" His low, w
arm tone nearly broke her heart.

  Rose lifted her gaze to his face. His black eyes glistened, full of care and concern. She swallowed and looked back down. "I do trust you, Taylor."

  "Then why can't you tell me about your family?"

  "Because I'm too ashamed!"

  "Why? What’s wrong with them?"

  "They're strange." She raised her chin and shut her eyes, forcing back the urge to break into tears. "Please, I can't tell you any more."

  He let go of her hand and sighed. "You don't have the corner on strange families, Rose. We all have our burdens of shame," he commented. "Every one of us."

  "You do?" She didn't step away from the bed.

  "Yeah." He lay back on the pillows, wove his fingers behind his head and smiled grimly, looking up at the high ceiling where the light couldn't reach. "But I guess I've never wanted to tell anyone, either, now that I think of it."

  The way his arms angled outward made his chest look incredibly wide. Rose crossed her arms, as if to fend off the male magnetism of his exposed chest and the possibility that he would divulge his secret and expect her to do the same. Yet such a trade would not be fair, for she doubted the magnitude of his shame could ever approach hers.

  "If you never tell anyone, it just eats you up inside, Rose. Kind of sets you apart from everyone."

  "You don't appear to be eaten up inside."

  "No?" He switched his attention from the ceiling to her face. "Maybe you just don't know me well enough. I've been called everything from a heartless bastard to an ungrateful cad."

  "You don't seem that way to me."

  "That's because—well, with you it's different. I'm different." He quickly looked away. She studied him, wondering what he was trying to say. She thought of the rose he had thrust at her, almost as if he were ashamed of being gentle and giving. Perhaps Taylor didn't know how to behave in that way. She wondered what had made him become hard-hearted and gruff, but she wouldn't dare ask in case he demanded the truth from her in return.

  "That's one of the reasons why I want to help you," he said. "If I could keep that bastard from dragging you down, I just might be able to find some peace with myself."

  "Atonement?"