The Haunting of Brier Rose (16 page)

"It's the strangest stuff," Rose continued.
"Rather gooey and insoluble. I had to experiment for a while, trying to
come up with the proper amount of washing soda and water in order to get it to
spread. I finally managed to get it to work, but it took up a lot of my
time." She put the jar back down on the table.

"It reminds me of the trails left by slugs and snails."

She stared at him, then glanced down at the scarf and back again,
incredulous.

"I realize the comparison isn't very flattering—"

"No, you're right," she replied, her eyes shadowed with
disbelief. "You are absolutely right, Mr. Wolfe. I should have recognized
the similarity long ago." She walked around the table, lightly touching
the silver patches. "Strange, isn't it?"

"It's still quite beautiful." He limped behind her,
hoping he hadn't offended her. "Are you nearly finished?"

"Yes, except for setting the dye and hemming the cloth. I'll
meet my Friday deadline, though. That's when my client is coming for the
piece."

Taylor looked down at the scarf. He knew women who would kill to
possess such a work of art. Rose Quennel should be living in New York, not in
Brierwood. She could be making hundreds of thousands of dollars with her
scarves, given the proper exposure. All she needed was some encouragement and
protection, both of which he could give her. His mother had hundreds of
contacts in New York, not only in fashion, but also in real estate. And Taylor
had met quite a few artists over the years. He could find her an apartment, a
studio, and introduce her to the right people.

Suddenly Taylor caught himself in mid-thought. What did he think
be was doing? He had never considered taking a woman under his wing before,
especially when the process would include cooperating with his mother. That he
could even consider the concept made him break out in a cold sweat.

Flustered, Taylor leaned his hip on the edge of the table.
"How's your back?" he ventured.

"Fine." She averted her gaze. "Thanks to
you."

"That Mrs. Jacoby has you on a tight leash, doesn't
she?"

"She’d just trying to protect me."

Taylor crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you think you
need protection from me?"

Rose glanced at him, from his hair to his belt buckle. Amused, he
noticed that her gaze didn't stray any lower. Then she looked back at his face.

"Do I?" she asked, reaching for a screwdriver.

"You tell me."

She blinked twice, regarding him from the corner of her eyes as
she began to remove staples from the long edge of the table. "I'm not
sure."

"Does Mrs. Jacoby hound you like this with every man, or is
it just me?"

Rose paused at the question and then resumed her task.
"Actually, there hasn't been anyone else."

"No boyfriend?" He straightened and ambled up behind
her. "No senior prom date? No college beau?"

"No."

"I find that hard to believe."

She rose up and turned to face him. "I've led a rather secluded
life, Mr. Wolfe."

Taylor could tell that she was surprised to find him standing so
near to her. Her eyes grew wider as he stepped even closer, trapping her
between the edge of the table and his body. He reached out and tilted her chin
up with his forefinger. "When are you going to drop the Mr. Wolfe
business?" he asked lowly, staring at her full red lips. "I told you,
I'm not one to stand on formalities."

"It's just that I don't know you very well."

He felt something brush his shirt and looked down. She was
holding the screwdriver between than. For her, the screwdriver probably
represented a weapon. For him, it was a blatant sexual image that spoke of a
bridge between them, connecting their bodies. A vision of her holding him in
her graceful white hand swept through his mind. Taylor's body responded immediately
with a sharp surge of desire. He shifted uncomfortably, chiding himself for his
lack of control in the presence of this woman. He longed to press her against
the table and kiss her into surrender. But by all appearances she intended to
run him through if he so much as laid a finger on her. He released her chin.

"I take it you don't trust me," he said at last.
"Do you?"

"No, Mr. Wolfe, I don't."

"Why?"

"Bea thinks you are connected to my past."

"Why would she think that?"

"Because you knew about my family, the Bastyrs."

"Who?"

"The Bastyrs. Don't you remember? When you first arrived,
you stood in the study and told me I was the spitting image of the Bastyr
women."

"I didn't talk to you in the study that night."

"Yes, you did." She frowned, and her nose wrinkled
pertly. "You arrived early. I heard you shut the door, and I came down to
the study. That's when you told me I could stay at Brierwood. And that's why I
thought it was so peculiar when you acted as if you didn't know who I was later
that night."

"Wait a minute." Taylor backed
up,
knowing his chance to kiss her had vanished. "I didn't get here
early."

"You got here at about nine o'clock, as I recall."

"No, I didn't." Taylor paced to the desk. "It was
more like half past ten."

He turned and frowned at her. She returned the puzzled frown with
one of her own.

"You're lying," she declared.

"I'm not, Rose." He never
lied
—only
that once so long ago when he had let his father make his decisions for him.
Ever since then he had told the truth with a vengeance, as if to compensate for
the pain he had caused.

For a long moment she studied his face, her eyes dark with
questions and distrust. He withstood her scrutiny, hoping she would see that he
really was telling the truth.

"Then
who
did I talk to?"

"I haven’t the faintest idea."

She brushed a stray hair off her forehead and glanced around the
workroom, distracted, as if she thought she might find the answer to the
mystery written in the wallpaper or scratched on the glass of the high windows.

"Could there be someone else here at Brierwood?" she
asked, her voice quavering. "Someone who is hiding from everyone but
me?"

That night Rose lay awake, worried that a stranger walked the
halls of Brierwood. She had confided her fears to Bea and promised to leave
first thing in the morning. But she would not, under any circumstances, venture
out in the night, especially when the dogs might still be around. She also
hadn't mentioned the nocturnal visitor to anyone, because she was too ashamed
to admit that she had let the man touch her.

Soon Rose fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be awakened by a
silken voice calling her name and a hand caressing her hair. Try as she might,
however, she could not open her eyes.

"Roselyn, my beauty. It is time again."

Time?
Time
for what?

"To look back and tell me what you see."

No. Leave me alone.

"You must do what I ask. And this time, dear Roselyn, you
mustn't scream. You must face the visions and face the truth, so that you will
quit living a lie."

I'm not living a lie.

"Roselyn, you know so little of the truth that you wouldn't
recognize it without my help. Your mother told you nothing but lies."

That's not true. My mother
never lied to me.

"Has she told you of your family? Of the father who has
tried to find you all these years?"

She said I didn't belong to
them.

"A lie, Roselyn. Deborah told you that so you wouldn't try
to find your kin. She didn't want to take the chance that you might discover
what kind of woman she really was. Or what kind of man your father was. It
wasn't right of her to rob you of your heritage.''

Rose felt him lift her hand and kiss the palm with lips that were
moist and hot. She murmured in protest, but the effect of the kiss trickled all
the way up her arm like hot summer rain on a windowpane.

"Roselyn, let me help you see what you have missed—the
closeness, the love, the devotion of your father."

She had missed that. What
would it be like to have a mother? A father?

"Let me help you fill the void that has always darkened your
heart, Roselyn."

It was true. She had always
felt empty inside, never having known her family and her father.

"But you did know him at one time."

No,
never
.

"Yes, you did. Before you were kidnapped by your
mother." He held her hand palm upward and slowly circled her flesh with
his fingertip, until she could barely keep her mind on her own thoughts. The
movement created a sensual whirlpool that drew her farther and farther from her
room at Brierwood to a place of darkness and fear.

Please, no—

"You must remember, Roselyn. You must relive it and see your
father. Allow him to speak with you. Allow the truth to come out and make you
whole again. Then we can go on."

Round and round went his fingertip on her palm. Deeper and deeper
she spun, until complete darkness enclosed her, and the musky smell of
nightshade and damp earth overwhelmed her senses.

Rose found herself standing at the wrought-iron gate outside the
Bastyr house.

"Roselyn!"

"Let me in!" Rose glanced over her shoulder in fear
that some night creature would pounce on her from the bushes. If she could just
get through the gate to the safety of the yard, she would feel safer.
"Please let me in. I'm scared."

"As well you should be, running away."

"Open the gate, please!"

"You are a bad girl, Roselyn. You have violated the
rules."

"But I couldn't help it." She grabbed the cold metal
bars. "Please don't make me stand out here."

"You were supposed to stay in your room."

Sweat broke out beneath her knee-length coat. "I couldn't
stay there anymore! Uncle Enoch kept—"

"Your excuses are useless. I know what kind of girl you are.
A bad girl, just like your mother."

"She isn't bad!"

"Yes, she is. She lies and cheats. And no daughter of mine
will lie and cheat, so help me God."

"You're not my father—"

"That's a lie!" The tall figure rattled the gate so
hard that Roselyn fell backward onto the ground. "And don't you ever
repeat what you just said!"

Stunned, she stared up at him, unable to see his face in the
darkness. Her view of him was always the same, never quite in focus, never in
the light, so she couldn't quite discern the features of the man who doled out
punishment in the name of fatherly concern. He always stood in the shadows of a
room,
his back to the light of the doorway, always
came down from his room after the evening meal and slept during the day. Never
once had he shown his face to her, kissed her or held her on his knee. Rose
wouldn't have wanted such attentions, anyway. She lived in terror of him and
feared the sound of his measured step on the stair and in the hall.

She shuddered. He couldn't be her father. He just couldn't! How
could her kind, soft-spoken mother be married to such a stern, unyielding man?

Rose could see him seething, his narrow shoulders heaving as he
glared at her. Rose knew his rages well, his sudden bursts of cruelty that
could flare up unexpectedly. Once he had kicked a dog so viciously that he had
killed it. Rose sat on the ground, too frightened to move, while the damp earth
soaked through her dress and her underwear.

Finally he seemed to gain control of himself. His voice, more
evenly modulated now, sliced through the night air.

"I'm only trying to save you from yourself, Roselyn, by
teaching you what it means to be honest. You will thank me one day for being
harsh with you, for only through harshness will the mind of a child
remember."

His voice rumbled on as Roselyn hugged her knees, her panic
overriding the words he was saying. His lectures were always the same and
always followed by a punishment.

What would he do this time? Make her drink and drink and drink
until she vomited, to cleanse her of evil? Make her pace for hours in the
freezing cold in only her panties to rid her of the sin of vanity? Make her
stand for an entire night with a book on her head because she had been caught
reading past her bedtime?

"You can make it easy on yourself, Roselyn. You know why you
were sent to your room. Tell me why, Roselyn."

"For lying." She scrambled to her feet. "But I
wasn't—"

"Not telling the whole truth is just the same as lying, my
girl."

"But I don't even know—"

"Do you take me for a fool?" he thundered, rattling the
gate again.

Roselyn faltered backward, her knuckle to her hips.

"Speak up, child!"

"N-n-no."

"No one takes me for a fool. Not even your mother. She
thinks she is getting away with her little affair, but I am wise to her. She's
being very bad, Roselyn, and we must stop her before she brings disgrace to the
family."

He
crouched,
sliding his hands down the
bars until he was at eye level with her. "You can help me, Roselyn. You
can help save the honor of our family. Just tell me the name of the man your
mother has been seeing. That's all you have to do. I don't know why you're
being so stubborn."

"What will you do to him if I tell?"

"Why, nothing, child. I'll ask him to stay away, that's all.
And then we'll talk to your mother and tell her to try to be better in the
future, to quit telling lies to us."

Rose studied him, distrustful of his sudden personable tone. He
would punish her mother. He would probably make her stand out in the cold in
her underwear, too. He might even hurt her mother. If he got really angry, he
might kick her mother just as he had kicked poor old Buster.