The Haunting of Brier Rose (7 page)

"You will be worth waiting for, Roselyn Bastyr. But the
waiting will be hard indeed."

Rose shifted, disturbed by the intimate touch and his cryptic
words. Her mother had loved her? Her father was alive? It couldn't be true. She
had simply experienced an odd dream.

I don't believe you.

"The truth, Roselyn," said the voice near her
ear,
"is sometimes hard to accept. But in time you will
realize how many lies you have been told. Now sleep."

Rose woke up late the next morning and jumped out of bed. It was
nine o'clock, very late for her. She usually rose at six and was at work by
seven, especially during the hot summer months, when the workroom got
unbearably stuffy in the afternoons. As she dressed and arranged her hair into
a loose braid, she had a fleeting glimpse of her dream during the night. How odd
to recall a vision from so far back in her childhood. She usually had a hard
time remembering any incidents before she was five, when she had arrived at
Brierwood. Frowning, Rose glanced at her white face in the mirror and gazed at
her bare shoulder. Another memory came back in a rush, and she drew her hand
over the skin where two kisses had been pressed. Those kisses had been real.
She was certain a real man had caressed her. And the only man at Brierwood was
Taylor Wolfe.

He might seem familiar to her, but that didn't permit him to take
such liberties.

She would have to set him straight about what she would allow him
to do. Coming into her bedroom at night was simply unacceptable behavior. She
didn't know why she hadn't put up a protest last night. But she would make her
objections plain first thing this morning. She would also lock her bedroom door
from now on.

Anxious to confront Mr. Wolfe, Rose hurried down the hall, her
anger mounting with every step. Perhaps he hadn't even gotten up yet.
Too bad.
She would interrupt his sleep just as he had
interrupted hers.

Rose rapped on his door and waited impatiently as she heard the
sound of his uneven gait approaching. He opened the door, his jaw covered with
shaving cream and his neck and shoulders draped in a towel. He wore a pair of
faded jeans belted loosely around his trim hips and no shoes or socks. Last
night she had assumed the expert tailoring of his jacket had enhanced his
figure. But she had been wrong. Mr. Wolfe's bare, well-developed shoulders and
arms needed no enhancement whatsoever.

Flushing at the sight of his naked torso, she raised her eyes and
forced herself to remember why she had marched down to his room.

"Yes, Rose?"

"I want to talk to you about last night."

"Do you mind? I'm in the middle of shaving."

"What I want to say will only take a moment."

He looked at her expectantly, as if he wasn't the least bit
ashamed of his behavior. Rose felt her anger flare and crossed her arms over
her chest.

"Your family may own this house, Mr. Wolfe, but that doesn't
give you the right to behave in such a fashion."

"What fashion?" He grabbed both ends of the towel with
his hands. "What are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well."

"Don't tell me you're still angry about the tea and cookies?
Good God, woman!" He turned and limped toward the bathroom. Rose followed
close behind, fuming.

"Wait a minute!" she demanded. "I'm talking to
you."

"You're ranting, that's what you're doing." He picked
up his razor and leaned over the sink. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as
he swallowed.

Rose watched him scrape the blade down his lean face, enraged
that he wouldn't even stop to listen to her.

"I am not ranting. And I'm not talking about the tea tray,
either."

"What, then?" He glanced at her in the mirror as he
rinsed the razor in the basin. "My lack of faith in your so-called herbal
remedies?"

"No. And I don't like to be toyed with, Mr. Wolfe."

"Neither do I. So quit talking in circles." He concentrated
on his shaving while she took a deep breath to keep from attacking him with
both fists.

"Okay. You may be accustomed to slipping into the bedrooms
of young women, but I am not accustomed to entertaining men in mine."

His shaving stopped in mid-stroke. "What?"

"Don't you ever, ever, come into my bedroom again, Mr.
Wolfe. Is that clear?"

He half turned, his razor submerged in the sink, a look of
surprise on his face. "Perfectly. But I—"

"I'm not the kind of woman you're probably used to. And if
you take one step into my room again, I'll call the police."

"I have no intention of stepping into your room."

"Then what were you doing last
night—sleepwalking?"

"I was working on my model." He indicated the table
nearby, where his schooner stood partially built. "I didn't come to your
bedroom. Hell, I don't even know where it is."

"How can you stand there and lie to me? You were there. You
talked to me. You hypnotized me. You kissed my shoulder, touched
my—" She broke off, too embarrassed to go into the particulars.

He tilted his head and gave her that narrow-eyed look.

"Don't try to deny it, Mr. Wolfe."

"Fine," he replied, dabbing his face with the towel,
his movements sharp with anger. "You seem sure it was me, anyway."

"Why can't you just admit it?"

"This conversation is going nowhere. You aren't hearing a
word I'm saying."

"And you're not hearing me!"

"The hell I'm not. I've met women like you, victims of their
own hysterical imaginations."

"Hysterical imaginations!"

"Yeah." He slapped the towel over his shoulder and
faced her. "And the women I've seen who are worried about men taking
advantage of them are usually the type that I wouldn't look at twice."

"And what is that supposed to mean? That I'm hysterical
and
unattractive?"

"Sister—" he put his fists to his hips
"—you can take it to mean anything you want."

She glared at him, so enraged that she couldn't speak. She was
not the hysterical type. Besides that, he wouldn't even admit that he had come
into her room. He had blamed it on her imagination. Her imagination! She turned
on her heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Rose fumed to the end of the hall and all the way down the
stairs. Before she entered the kitchen, however, she took three deep breaths to
calm herself and then smoothed back her hair and the skirt of her dress. She
didn't want to disturb Bea needlessly or have to explain what Taylor Wolfe had
done to her while she slept. But she was curious to find out about the Bastyr
family and wondered if Bea knew anything about them.

Bea looked up from the cutting board, where she was mincing bacon
and green onions for an omelet. "Good morning, dear," she greeted
Rose with a smile.

Rose walked across the tile floor and gave her a hug. "How
are you feeling, Bea?"

"Much better. But you should have awakened me when Mr. Wolfe
arrived last night."

"I thought you could use the rest."

"That was thoughtful of you, Rose, but I was worried what
Mr. Wolfe might think, seeing you."

"He was full of questions, but at least he didn't tell me to
leave."

"That's a relief." Bea scooped up the bacon and dropped
it in a skillet. "But I suppose he'll want to know all the details from
me."

"Don't worry. The worst he can do is
send
us packing. I can handle that."

"But not until you sell your scarf, Rose." Bea turned
to glance at her as she stirred the sizzling bacon. "We must convince him
to let us stay that long."

"I'm almost done. Don't worry."

"You're a good girl, Rose." Bea gave her a warm but
troubled smile. Rose shrugged it off, knowing in her heart that she probably wasn't
all that good. Good children didn't get banished from their families. She must
have done something that she had buried in her memory.

Rose stepped closer to the stove, but far enough away so the
bacon grease wouldn't splatter her. "Bea, I have a question."

"Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of a family called the Bastyrs?"

Bea lost her grip on the fork, which slid into the hot pan and sank
into the bacon grease. "Oh, there, look what I've done!" she
exclaimed, reaching for a sharp knife with which to fish out the fork.

Rose noted Bea's fluttering movements, so unlike the calm,
reserved woman Rose knew her to be, and realized the mere mention of the Bastyr
name had sent Bea into a flurry of nervousness. Why?

"Ouch, that fork's hot!" Bea cried, dropping the
utensil on the counter. "I'm just Miss Fumble Fingers this morning, aren't
I?"

"Bea, you didn't answer my question."

"I'm sorry, dear." Bea walked to the sink to strain off
the grease. "What was it again?"

"The Bastyrs. Have you ever heard of them?"

Bea pushed up her wire-framed glasses and turned from the sink,
still holding the pan and spatula. "The Bastyrs?"

"Yes. Mr. Wolfe said I bear a marked resemblance to the
Bastyr women."

Bea's grip tightened on the spatula. Rose could see the knuckles
of her pudgy hand turning white. "Mr. Wolfe said that?"

"Yes. He said my red hair gave me away."

"Your red hair? Lots of people have red hair." Bea set
the pan on the counter and quickly turned to the refrigerator. "I wouldn't
take him seriously. He was probably just trying to break the ice with
you." She rose up, holding a carton of eggs. "It's a typical male
ploy when meeting a pretty girl to say she reminds him of someone."

"He said he knew all about me, though."

"How could he? He didn't know you were here until last
night." Bea cracked the eggs into a bowl. Her hands shook. “At least as
far as I know.”

"What aren't you telling me, Bea?" Rose demanded,
gripping the edge of the counter. "You're hiding something from me. I can
tell."

"Now, why would I hide anything from you, dear?" Bea
retorted, whisking the eggs. The loose flesh on her forearms jiggled. She
looked up at Rose and smiled, but Rose could see the tarnish of fear and
insecurity dulling the sparkle in her eyes.

Bea picked up the bowl of eggs. "Perhaps you misunderstood
him, Rose. I know you must be tired, driving yourself as you do. You haven't
been getting enough sleep lately."

"I didn't misunderstand him." Rose frowned again, remembering
how Mr. Wolfe had acted upon meeting her the second time, as if he had never
talked to her before. He hadn't known her name and wasn't aware of her presence
at Brierwood. What was going on? Was he deliberately trying to confuse her? And
if so, why?

"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.