The Haunting of Brier Rose (17 page)

The vision of her pretty mother curled up in pain on the floor
gave her fresh resolve. She stuck out her bottom lip.

"If you tell me his name, Roselyn, I will let you in and
have Mrs. Foster make you a nice cup of cocoa. I'll bet you're cold. You're
very cold, aren't you?"

"Yes "

"Well? What is his name?"

"I—I—" She looked at the house behind him,
with its lighted windows and promise of warmth, and then back at the figure
crouched before her in the darkness. She swallowed. "I-I-"

"Come, Roselyn, it's easy. Just tell me his name."

She pinched her lips together. She couldn't betray her mother, no
matter how much she longed for a cup of cocoa. "I told you, I don't know."

"Don't know?" he repeated, slowly rising to his awe-inspiring
height. "Don't know?"

"No."

"Liar!" he bellowed. "Liar! You know his name, and
by God, you'll tell me!"

"I don't know! I swear!"

"Perhaps you don't know the value of cooperation, Roselyn.
Perhaps you don't know the value of a good home."

Rose's heart sank. Whenever he spoke of her lack of appreciation,
he always devised a punishment to fit the crime. She shivered, terrified of
what he might invent.

"Perhaps a night away from home will teach you to count your
blessings, Roselyn Bastyr." He released his hold on the gate and turned
away.

He meant to leave her in the lane. He meant to leave her all
alone in the dark.

Horrified, Rose ran forward and grasped the gate.
"Please!" she cried. "Don't make me stay out here!"

He stopped and turned his head to glare at her over his shoulder.
His eyes glinted in the darkness. "Ungrateful child. Let this be a lesson
to you."

"But I'm scared! I want to come home! Please, open the gate.
Please!"

"You brought this on yourself, Roselyn."

In disbelief, she watched him walk away. He disappeared into a
ground fog that swirled out of the shrubs.

"Please, don't leave me alone!" Her plaintive request
broke off in a sob as she sagged into a crumpled heap at the foot of the gate.
Her clothes were damp, and her knees and shins were bare to the elements.

"Mother!" she cried, but she knew her mother couldn't
hear her. She had probably taken her medicine so she could sleep during the
night and had no idea that Rose was outside all by herself. Rose put a knuckle
to her lips. She couldn't stay out here, not in the dark, alone with the unknown.

She had to tell.

"His name is Will!" she cried, shuddering.

The dark shape of her father appeared out of the fog.

"Will what?"

"I don't know!" She wept, heartsick and distraught.

"What is his last name, Roselyn?"

"I don't know! He lives by the zoo. He has a green
car!"

"What's his last name,
Roselyn.
Think!"

"There's a big A on his screen door."

"A for Andrews? Will Andrews?"

"No. Anderson. His name is Will Anderson!"

Her father opened the gate. "Good girl, Roselyn. You have
done well."

But Rose knew she hadn't done well. Out of fear of the dark, she
had just betrayed her mother.

Rose was still sobbing when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.
Somehow she knew without opening her eyes that she had returned from her memory
and was back at Brierwood.

"Your father was only trying to help you," the dry
voice purred near her ear.

He was cruel.

"Seen through the eyes of a child, perhaps he seemed cruel.
But he only wanted you to be the best that you could be, Roselyn—honest,
brave and strong, like the rest of the Bastyrs."

And
twisted.

"Oh no, Roselyn. Is that what your mother told you, that the
Bastyrs are twisted?"

Yes. And I believe her.

"Why? Did your father ever strike you? Ever lay a hand on
you?"

No, but—

"There, you see? He wasn't really cruel."

Rose stirred uncomfortably, trying to marshal her thoughts while
he reached out and traced the opening between her lips. She turned away from
his hand, but he only drew it across her cheek and down her neck, slipping his
fingers into the top of her nightgown. He fanned his hand just over her left
breast, and Rose sighed, knowing she should pull away, but longing to be
touched all the same.

"He wanted to touch you, Roselyn, to show you his love. But
he couldn't, because your mother had poisoned your mind and turned you against
him. She kept you from him."

I was afraid of him.

"Because you wouldn't give yourself to him—your trust,
your devotion, your obedience. If you had, he would have showered you with all
the love in the world."

It didn't seem like it at
the time.

"Perhaps." He drew the sheet away and eased down the
elastic top of her nightgown to reveal her breasts. Rose felt cool air bathe
her flesh before he leaned over her. His lips paused above her right nipple,
expectation tightening it into a tingling peak. The anticipation of his mouth
upon her sensitive skin made her gasp and arch her back.

Strong hands grasped her breasts while her eyelids twitched. She
had to open her eyes, had to look into his eyes, to see if this was Taylor, to
see if he desired her as much as she desired him at that moment.

"It's not too late, Roselyn," he murmured. She felt his
weight upon the bed as he sat beside her.

"Promise to tell the truth and you will be loved beyond your
wildest dreams."

Her breasts ached; her body was aflame for him. She opened her
mouth but couldn't speak.

"Promise to obey, Roselyn, my beauty, and you will never be
afraid again."

She tried to lift her arms, but they were like lead weights. She
tried to speak but couldn't form a coherent word. Then she felt him ease his
body onto hers, and she thought she would die from the glorious pressure of his
chest against her breasts, the weight of his abdomen against her belly and the
hard length of his thigh as he wedged his leg between hers. He moved his knee,
and she gasped.

"Take the ring off, Roselyn. Give me the ring."

Bea told me to keep it on.

"Bea is making you a prisoner of her own delusions and
fears, Roselyn. But you aren't afraid, are you?"

No.

"What she's been telling you is rather farfetched, isn't
it?"

Yes.

"The ring makes you a prisoner. Take off the ring and you
will be released from all her foolishness."

Somehow she found the wherewithal to slide off the emerald ring
and hold it out to him. His breath swept over her cheek as he bent to her lips.

"You tempt me," he whispered. "Oh, you tempt
me."

He kissed her at the same time as his hips ground against her
thigh, surprising her with the carnal violence of both his body and his hips.
His tongue thrust into her mouth, and even though she was a virgin, she knew
enough of what went on between men and women to recognize his intent. His tongue
wasn't there to pleasure her but to violate her. Even in her groggy state, the
violence shocked her. She struggled backward, pressing herself into the pillow,
but his mouth only followed, his tongue in relentless pursuit, while he
imprisoned her with his hands and the leg he had forced between hers.

What had
begun
as a light caress had
suddenly become an invasion. He hissed her name and clawed the backs of her
arms, raking over the scratches made by the briers. The pain shocked Rose to
reality. This man wasn't showing her love, he was all but raping her, lost in
satisfying his own desires without any regard for her.

No! The word screamed inside her head but never made it to her
lips. She had to get away from him. Had to escape. But he was heavy. Rose
struggled against her hypnotic state, trying in vain to push him away as she
was surrounded by the smell of his heat and lust. She sucked in a breath,
trying to get away, and caught the scent of nightshade. She froze.

Taylor had never smelled of nightshade. His hair had smelled of the
wind and sea. When he had kissed her, he hadn't been rough or violent. She had
known a melting feeling in his arms, not this pummeling sensation of physical
assault. Something was wrong here. Something wasn't as it should be. And if
this wasn't Taylor on top of her, who was it?

She had to wake up.

Rose shut down the physical sensations—the smell of him,
the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on her skin, the sound of his
labored breathing. No matter what spell had been cast upon her, she had to wake
up. She had to call upon the strength of her own mind to free her from the incubus
that had come to her bed. Rose willed herself to think of nothing but waking
from the lethargy of her body, and concentrated on her goal as if it were a
glowing dot that could grow larger from the force of her heart and soul. The
dot increased and flickered to life, but not enough to blot out the curtain of
blackness brought down by the man on top of her.

Rose knew she would be lost if she didn't get help. The man in
her bed would have her, ruin her, and take her soul as surely as he took her
virginity. Fighting the urge to cry, Rose prayed to her mother to help her.
Wherever Deborah was in the great beyond, Rose needed her now more than ever.

Mother!

Immediately a sensation of warmth poured down, as if a golden
light flowed over her, surrounding her. Rose concentrated, using the warmth to
protect her like a shield, and willed herself to rise above the
groggy
sensation that drugged her mind. She must not falter,
must not think for an instant about the man moving on top of her. She must
think only of the light. Slowly the lassitude lifted and her dot of light
flared into a swirling starburst. Rose focused with all her might on the vision
of the starburst burning away the shadows of the dark curtain.

Then, in a twinkling, the darkness was gone.

Rose jerked upright and glanced to the side just in time to catch
sight of a filmy dark figure moving toward her bathroom. Terrified, she lunged
out of bed and bolted in the opposite direction. She flung open her door and
burst into the hall, only to run into Taylor Wolfe.

Taylor!" Rose launched herself into his embrace, threw her
arms around his neck and clung to him. His chest was bare, and he wore only the
bottoms of a pair of cotton pajamas, but she didn't care. His body was warm and
solid and afforded a sense of security she needed more than anything else at
the moment. She was so frightened that she couldn't form another word and
resisted all his attempts to look at her face. Finally he gave up and simply
held her, one hand at the back of her head and the other around her waist,
until she had collected her wits enough to answer his questions.

"Rose?" he asked. "What's happened?"

"A man was—" She broke off, at a loss for how to
explain herself without mentioning the shameful details of her nocturnal
visitations.

"A man was in your room, Rose?" He clutched her
shoulders. "Is that right?"

"Yes!"

"Who?" His fingers squeezed the tops of her arms.

"I don't know!"

Taylor leaned down to peer at her face. "Are you hurt?"

"No, just shaken up."

"What happened? Where'd he go?"

"I don't know. He might still be in there!"

"Bastard!" Taylor let go of her and grabbed his cane
from the floor. He pushed the door open.

"I don't know how he got in. My door was locked."

Taylor made no response. She stumbled after him, afraid to be
left alone in the dark house. He strode around the room, checking the windows,
the closed door and under her bed. Lastly, he inspected her bathroom.

In spite of his limp and scars, he cut a powerful figure, and she
suddenly realized that he might not be as crippled as he appeared.

"You said your door was locked?" he asked.

"Yes. I can't figure out how he could have gotten in."

"And the windows were locked?"

She nodded.

Taylor paused at the foot of her bed, perplexed.

"Did you see anything in the bathroom?" she asked.

"No. Nothing."

"That's where I saw him heading."

"He's not there now. I think he's long gone."

She ventured closer to pick up her robe from the foot of the bed,
knowing that the cotton nightgown she wore would do little to conceal her
nakedness, should she stand in brighter light.

"You okay, Rose?" he asked as she drew on the robe.
"I mean, really all right?"

His solicitude warmed her. "Yes. He didn't—he didn't
hurt me."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know. He was wearing black. That's all I could
tell."

"Do you have any idea who he could be?"

She paused, knowing very well who the intruder might be. Seth
Bastyr. But to admit that to Taylor would involve telling him about her family.
She wasn't ready to think about them, much less discuss them with Taylor.

"No, I haven't the faintest idea."

"Want me to call the police?"

"That isn't necessary. I don't think anything was
taken."

For a long moment he studied her with his head slightly tilted
and his brows drawn together. What must he be thinking? Then he reached out for
her hand, and the sudden contact of his warm skin heated her all the way
to her bare feet.

"Come on. You need a brandy."

"I don't drink."

"A nip will do you good." He pulled her down the hall
to his room. "You should see your face, Rose. You're as white as a ghost."

He shut the door behind them and motioned to the bed, which was
bathed in a pool of light from a lamp on the nightstand and covered with an
assortment of books. "You're as cold as ice, too. Warm up there while I
get the brandy."

He issued orders as if he were certain she would obey his every
command. Yet Rose didn't want to argue. She was cold. She was afraid. And
Taylor's rumpled bed, aglow in the darkness, looked like a haven of warmth and
security.

"Just pile the books on the floor," he said over his
shoulder while he unstopped a decanter at a small cabinet in the sitting area.

Rose set the books on the floor and slipped under the covers,
snuggling against the pillow as his scent wafted around her, warming her even more.

He walked to the bed, carrying two snifters, and offered her one.
She murmured her thanks.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" he asked.

She nodded and watched him walk around to the other side,
wondering if he intended to get in bed with her. She had never been in bed with
a man, and the possibility that he would slide in beside her made her nervous.

Taylor sank onto the bed, and his weight shook the mattress as he
eased against the pillows piled against the headboard. Grateful that he hadn't
slipped beneath the sheets, Rose took a gulp of her brandy.

The liquor burned like fire in her throat, and she choked.

"Easy!" Taylor chuckled, holding her drink steady as
she hunched over in a coughing fit. "You're supposed to sip brandy, not
swig it!"

"I didn't know!" she wheezed. She wiped away the tears
that had sprung to her eyes. "I've never had any before!"

He gave the glass back to her. "Some things in life need to
be taken slowly. Brandy's one."

His glinting eyes told her there were others, and she could guess
what one of them might be. Lovemaking. Flustered, Rose took a careful sip this
time, trying to avoid making eye contact with him.

"What are all the books about?" she asked, searching
for a safer topic of conversation.

"The books? Research."

"About your eyes? Have you found anything?"

"Yeah, but I don't know whether I buy it."

She glanced at him in surprise. "Why?"

"The authors try to pass their work off as scientific theory,
but it seems like farfetched bunk to me."

"For instance?"

"Here, I'll show you." He reached down and retrieved an
old-looking hardback in dark green with gold lettering on the front. He touched
the dog-eared corners and the slightly cracked spine.

"It's funny. I don't remember ordering this particular title,"
he said, "but of all the books that were delivered yesterday, it has the
most information."

"What does it say about your vision?"

"Crazy stuff. That what I'm seeing is normal for some
people."

"Normal?" Rose sipped her brandy, feeling much more at
ease.

"From what it says here, the colored halos I've been seeing
are called auras. They're emissions of energy that most animate and inanimate
objects give off. Some people view auras as a key to personality traits.
Different colors mean different things."

"Like what?"

"Take yours, for instance. You have what is called a crystal
coloration."

"You've seen my aura?"

"Yeah. Yours is like a rainbow. It's the sign of a
healer." He opened the book to a marked paged. "Crystals become the
medium, or the conduit, through which healing passes." He ran his finger
down to another paragraph. "Crystals can have the physical feeling of
being fractured and are jealous of their private space."

He looked at her and grimaced. "The healer part I can
accept. But the rest of it doesn't sound like you, does it?"

"Kind of." She thought of the way her life had splintered
in the last few days as she learned of her past and her parents. Yet she had
always felt somewhat fractured, as if she were not a whole being, with the big
question of her parentage hanging over her like a cloud. "How about you,
Taylor? What's your aura like?"

"I've never seen my own aura."

"How about Mrs. Jacoby's? Have you seen hers?"

"Once in passing. So what?"

"What color was it?"

"Mostly yellow."

"What does yellow mean?" Rose leaned closer, highly
conscious of his bare shoulder inches from her nose.

Taylor flipped through the book. He found the section on yellow
and tilted the book in her direction.

She read the passage out loud. " 'Yellows are like puppies—warm,
lovable, eager to please and loyal.'"

Taylor looked down at Rose and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"That doesn't sound like the Mrs. Jacoby I know."

"You haven't seen her at her best. Bea is usually a
dear."

"See what I mean? You can twist these things just like you
can twist a horoscope to conform to the events of the day." He was about
to pull the book away when a section caught his attention. "Wait a
minute—"

"What is it?" Rose tipped her snifter to her lips. Taylor's
company and the brandy were doing a good job of smoothing the rough edges of
her fright and warming her toes. She felt unusually companionable and had the
strongest urge to snuggle up against his arm.

"It talks about spots in the aura. I've noticed a black spot
in yours. It floats above your right shoulder."

"A black spot? What does that mean?"

"It says here that we can carry images in our auras of
people who have been significant in our lives or figures we have been thinking
strongly about. It could be a family member or a character in a book you've
just read."

"Does my spot have a face?" Certainly an image of a
family member couldn't reside in her aura. Other than Bea and Donald, she
hadn't known any of her family well enough for them to be significant. And no
amount of brandy could take the edge off the pain of that realization. Rose
felt a wave of sadness pass over her and glanced up to find Taylor studying
her.

"I don't know. I'll have to look at you more closely in the
morning and see if I can get a clearer image." He paused, and she looked
away, hoping to hide her melancholy thoughts from him. "Are you all
right?" he asked, reaching backward to set his snifter and the book on the
nightstand.

"Yes." She played with her nearly empty glass, hoping
he wouldn't ask any personal questions. "I'm fine. The brandy is doing the
trick."

He sat back and for a moment was silent. She was aware that he
was gazing at her from the side. Rose tried to relax, but his presence unnerved
her, for she had no idea what he was thinking or what he was going to do next. She
was sure that his bed was a dangerous place for her to be. She should leave.
But where would she go? Not back to
her own
room. Not
yet.

Flustered, she thought of another subject. "What were you
doing standing outside my bedroom door, anyway?"

"I heard that sound again."

"The pipe-organ sound?"

"Yes." He turned toward her. "Do you have any idea
why a man would break into the house?"

Rose looked down. "Yes, but you wouldn't believe me."

"Try me." His voice was low and full of warmth. She
looked up at him from under her lashes and found that he was still gazing at
her, the sardonic slant of his mouth replaced by a grim, straight line.
All the expression in his face was centered in his black eyes, which were on
fire with an emotion she couldn't name. She knew only that her gaze suddenly
felt just as hot and raw as his, and that she couldn't look away.

"Try me, Rose," he repeated, reaching for the side of
her face. His hand slipped between her cheek and her hair to frame her jaw and
ear. His head lowered to hers. "Trust me," he breathed. And then he
kissed her.

The kiss deepened as his tongue swept into her and his fingers
eased into her hair. The kiss made her dizzy, disoriented. She remembered her
mother's warning not to succumb to a man and reached up to put a restraining
palm on his chest. But the touch of his smooth, warm skin sent her over the
edge of restraint and made her ignore the letter and all its mysterious
restrictions. Instead of pushing Taylor away, she ran her palm across the flat
plane of his chest and over the tight muscle of his shoulder, marveling that
his masculine flesh felt so different from hers—hard and uncompromising
where hers was soft and yielding. What would the rest of him feel like?

Then, as if someone had dashed cold water over her, Rose realized
that she must never find out what the rest of Taylor felt like. She should not
be here in his bed, kissing him and touching him. He had told her that his
kisses meant nothing, which implied that his lovemaking would mean nothing, as
well. Besides that, love with a man was forbidden to her—at least for a
few more days. Shocked that she could let down her guard so easily, she pulled
away just as Taylor broke from her lips.

"Hand me your glass," he murmured.

She gave the brandy snifter to him, and he set it aside.

Then he turned back and looked down at her, his eyes smoldering
with desire. "I won't hurt you, Rose," he said softly. "You
should trust me, you know."

"Why should I," she replied, "when you kiss me
like that and then say it means nothing?"

She tried to duck out of the bed, but he grabbed her wrist to
keep her beside him. Rose watched as if hypnotized as his hand slid up her arm
and came to rest at the column of her neck.

"Maybe it does mean something," he admitted.

"Such as?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Oh?" She pulled away from his hand. "And I'm supposed
to let you take advantage of me when you don't even know your own
intentions?"

"There's nothing wrong with exploring each other's
bodies."

"Maybe for you. But not for me."

He smiled slowly, the left side of his mouth rising ever so
slightly. Rose tried to ignore him, but she felt her body respond with a
melting sensation. She saw his gaze drop to the front of her robe, which had
come unfastened, allowing him a view of her breasts beneath the filmy
nightgown.

"I may be inexperienced, Taylor, but I know where such
explorations can lead."

His gaze flickered up to her face. "And where is that,
Rose?"

"To…to bed."

"We're already in bed." He reached out and gently drew
down her robe to display the tops of her ivory shoulders.

Rose fought to keep herself from melting into a spineless mass.
"You know what I mean, Taylor. If I let you, you'd take off all my
clothes."