The Haunting of Brier Rose (18 page)

"You're right." He circled her breast with his
fingertip and then cupped it. "I'd love to see what you really look like,
Brier Rose."

Rose sighed and closed her eyes. "But I can't allow you to
do that, because you—"

"Shh," he replied, his voice gravelly, before he cut
off her protests with a kiss. Rose tasted the brandy on his tongue and felt the
press of his thumb beneath her cheekbone while the release of doubt burst
inside her. Yes. She would trust him. She longed to trust somebody. And somehow
she knew she should have trusted Taylor all along. The violence she had felt
with the other man faded to nothingness under Taylor's firm but gentle hand as
he urged her back onto the pillows, his mouth still angled over hers.

Then he lowered his head and took the tip of her breast in his
mouth. She could feel the damp heat of him through the thin cotton fabric.
Slowly he drew away, tightening his lips around the hard peak and using his
teeth at the last moment. Rose gasped and arched toward him, hoping he would do
it again, even though she knew she was courting danger with every moment she
lingered in his bed. He took the other breast in his mouth. She reached up for
him, running her hands along his straining neck and shoulders, reveling in the
pure masculine power she felt beneath her fingers.

His hands slipped the robe off. A ragged sigh flowed from her as
she let her arms slide from him and lay back to allow him to disrobe her, at
least to the waist. He eased down the gathered neckline of her nightgown,
baring both breasts.

"Look at you," he declared. Rose looked down and saw
his hands pass over the rounded curves of her upraised breasts while his thumbs
stroked her nipples. His skin was much darker than hers, and his long, blunt
fingers belonged to the hands of a man, a sight she had never seen before on
her breasts. He caressed her, sighing heavily. She sighed, too, and thought she
would die of pleasure. He kissed her breasts, her throat, her chin, and her
mouth.

Then he lowered his bare chest to hers and she realized that the
pleasure had only just begun. His skin was aflame, and the
pressure
of his weight
on her made her ache with sharp desire deep inside.
Together they sank into the pillows, locked in an embrace of searching hands
and searing lips, of tumbling hair and writhing limbs. Taylor ripped away the
barrier of the sheet and blanket that separated them, then came back down upon
her, nudging aside one of her legs with his knee and angling himself along the
length of her thigh. Rose felt the hard maleness of him and blossomed with
heat and dew in the part of her that longed to know him as a woman knows a man.
She trembled, well aware that she should stop him, but even so she held him,
one of her hands splayed across the expanse of his wide back, the other buried
in his shiny black hair. She knew this moment was as inevitable as the rise of
the sun, the circle of the moon. This man was meant to he with her, on her, inside
her, and she was meant to take him in.

She felt the muscles of his back tense as he reached for her nightgown
and pushed it upward. His warm palm trailed up her thigh, ever closer to the
most private part of her. The thrill of the movement brought her back to her
senses.

"Taylor!"

"Don't worry, Rose." His voice was thick and breathless.

"We can't," she whispered. And yet she knew she should
open herself to him, give
herself
over to his desire
and take what he had to offer. She should open her heart to Taylor and form a
bond that would never break, the kind of bond she had instinctively felt the
first time she had seen him.

"Just relax," he said, his mouth near her ear, and the
rush of his warm breath made her skin tingle with a thousand pricks of delight.
"I won't hurt you."

Rose felt his hand near her belly and knew he was untying the
drawstring of his pajamas. Could she allow herself to see him that way—touch
him and know him that way?

She closed her eyes while every sense screamed at her to break
down and accept him.

"Taylor, I can't," she whispered in anguish, pushing
against his chest. “I want to, but I can’t.”

Taylor rose up on his elbows. "What do you mean, you
can't?"

"I—I just can't. Don't ask me."

"You afraid of what Mrs. Jacoby will say?"

"No, I just can't."

He pulled away. "It's my scars, isn't it? I don't turn you
on, do I?" he asked bitterly.

"No, it's not that at all."

He sat up, taking his weight and warmth with him. "Don't
lie
, Rose. Just level with me."

"It's not you, Taylor. It's me!" She sat up and put her
legs over the side of the bed. "I should go."

"No." Taylor rose from the bed and crossed his arms.
"I don't want you going anywhere, Rose. If that intruder comes
back—"

"I'll be fine." She got to her feet, adjusted her nightgown
and drew on her robe.

"No. Stay here tonight. I won't touch you."

She paused. The last place on earth she wanted to be tonight was
in her own bedroom.

"I'll sleep on the couch." Taylor motioned to the
settee in front of the fireplace. "I just don't want you sleeping alone,
Rose. Okay?"

She gazed at him, amazed that he could still take her welfare
into consideration after she had refused his advances.

"I insist," he added. “You could be in danger.”

"All right." Slowly she sank back down to the mattress.
"Thank you, Taylor," she said, relieved. He hobbled to the cedar
chest at the foot of the bed and took out a spare blanket, which he carried to
the small sofa. Rose doubted he would be comfortable on the damask-covered
cushions, but she had no recourse other than sharing the bed with him, and that
was far too dangerous to consider.

She watched him shake out the blanket and then lower himself to
the settee. "Good night," he declared with a sigh.

She watched his head disappear from view. "Good night."

With more sighs and a great deal of rustling, he settled himself
down for the night. Rose removed her robe and climbed into his bed. She turned
off the light and listened to his breathing. With every intake of Taylor's
breath, she could feel her heart burgeoning. She had considered Taylor’s
arrival at Brierwood the worst thing that could have happened to her and Bea.
But ever since she had fallen into the briers patch, he had shown himself to be
a good man who had her best interests at heart. Rose slid her hands under her
cheek and listened as he fell asleep, and knew at that moment that she was
falling in love with him.

A tear slid from the corner of her eye and ran over the edge of
her hand. If what her mother had said was true- that the Bastyrs would feed on
her love for a man—she must never reveal her feelings to Taylor. In fact,
if she really loved him, she should do everything in her power to push him
away.

Rose fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of running through a
dense forest of oaks, her progress hampered by the long dress she wore.
Surprised, she glanced down and saw she was attired in a strange long skirt
made of dull coarsely woven cloth. A green shawl flapped around her shoulders
and she carried a satchel in her left hand.

Up ahead in a clearing, she caught a glimpse of a large
table-like object, which materialized into a huge sundial made of granite, much
like the sundial in the back garden of Brierwood.

But somehow she knew this landscape of her dream did not
represent Brierwood, and her clothes did not reflect modern fashion. In fact,
her homespun dress looked as if it belonged to the Puritan era of New England.

Just as she gained the sundial at the center of the raised
clearing and dropped the satchel at her feet, she heard someone call her name.

"Constance!"

She turned to see Taylor running up the path to her. He was
dressed in breeches, a long vest, and a white shirt with billowing sleeves. Her
heart skipped a beat as she watched him sprint across the grass, both legs
straight and strong. He was sleek and handsome and full of life, and she wanted
more than anything to take him in her arms and kiss him, well aware that she
had never felt his touch. Either she had forgotten what it was like to kiss
him, or she had never really tasted his lips before.

But a sudden fear pressed upon her, blocking out her joy at the
sight of him. What if Seth Bastyr should find them, here in the darkness?

"Hurry!" she urged. "We haven't much time!"

"They didn't see you go?" he asked.

"I don't think so. But they'll soon miss me and come
looking. We've only a few minutes, Nathaniel."

Why had she called him that name? As a matter of fact, why had he
called her Constance? Before she could ask, he pulled her into his arms and
kissed her, backing her against the sundial. She returned the embrace and
pressed into his body, forgetting everything but the feeling of his mouth on
hers and her breasts thrust against his chest. She loved him. Ah, how she loved
him. In a moment she would tell him, say the words, make him understand what he
had come to mean to her.

"Seducer!" a strange voice rang out.

With a start, Rose jerked awake. She looked around
warily,
sure that Seth Bastyr had come to haunt her again.
Perspiration beaded on ho forehead and her heart thumped with terror as she
visually checked each shadowed corner of the room. No one was there. Slowly she
sank back onto the pillow and calmed herself by listening to the steady rhythm
of Taylor's breathing at the sofa nearby.

The dream had been so real, just like the visions of her past that
Seth conjured by hypnotizing ho. But where had the dream of the sundial
come from?
Why had Taylor called her by another name? What
did it all mean? Shaken and disoriented, she tried to close her eyes and relax,
but sleep didn't come for many hours.

Just before dawn, Taylor heard the pipe-organ noise again. He
jerked awake and sat up, blinking in the dim light that filtered through the
windows of his bedroom. For a moment he forgot where he was and thought he was
back again on the
Jamaican Lady
. But
then he remembered that he was sleeping on a cold, cramped settee in his
bedroom at Brierwood, and that Rose Quennel was snuggled in his bed.

He threw off the blanket and looked at the bed where Rose slept.

For a moment he thought he was still dreaming, because he thought
he saw a dark figure standing at the side of the bed, looking down at Rose. He
blinked,
sure that he was imagining things. But the figure
was still there.

"Hey!" Taylor shouted, jumping to his feet.

The figure turned. In the dark, Taylor couldn't make out the
features of the man's face or the details of his clothing, but he was acutely
aware of a feeling of malevolence. Taylor paused, unsure of what to do. As a
last resort he let his eyes go out of focus as he had done in the workroom with
Rose. He saw the figure bounded by an aura of undulating black. As if in a
trance, he watched as the aura of the figure pulsed and surged in an enormous
murky cloud, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Taylor was sure that Rose’s
intruder had returned and was standing beside her. But what kind of person had
a black aura? For the first time in his life, Taylor felt utter and complete
terror. He knew without consulting the tattered green book that the aura of the
man before him represented evil—pure, quintessential evil.

Taylor froze, unable to utter another word. He knew he should do
something to protect Rose or at the very least warn her of the intruder's
presence. But he was so frightened he couldn't move. The wound on his leg
seemed to throb in time with the undulating aura, shooting spikes of pain up
his shin and thigh. All he could do was watch in horror and agony as the figure
dissolved into muddy-colored smoke. Then the murky cloud funneled into a
swirling mass that poured into the pure colors of Rose's rainbow aura,
condensing to conform to the confines of the black spot above her right
shoulder.

"My God!" Taylor gasped.

Shaken, Taylor limped to the bed, his leg throbbing with each
step. As he reached Rose’s side, he was startled when she turned and mumbled in
her sleep. For a moment he thought she would wake up and see him staring at
her. He hung back, thinking twice about the impulse to wake her and tell her
what had just happened, because he would have to explain his own inability to
act at the same time. That impotence would not endear him to her. More than
anything, he wanted Rose to see him as a capable man, heroic even, and not the
hesitant, injured man he had become.

Since the time he was a teenager, he had climbed mountains and
sailed oceans, braving hardship and personal injury. He had spent his entire
life facing danger and the possibility of death, as if he had been in training.
Training for what, though?
For Brierwood?
How could he
hope to help Rose when he could barely walk? Still, the desire to save her from
evil burned like a wildfire inside him.

Taylor turned away and limped to the balcony. He pulled aside the
curtain and looked out the window as the first rays of light glowed behind the
trees. The pain in his calf gradually subsided as he watched the sun come up.
He scowled as he tried to figure out what was happening at Brierwood and what
was happening to him. At any other time he would have found it easy to walk
away from a woman and her problems. He would board the
Jamaican Lady
, set out to sea and soon forget any and all entanglements.
But his boat was moored hundreds of miles away in San Francisco, and he was
here at Brierwood, caught in an ever-increasing web of questions. He couldn't
leave, not physically, and certainly not emotionally, when Rose was in danger
with only old Bea Jacoby to protect her.