The Haunting of Brier Rose by Patricia Simpson Read Free Book Online

second bag with the same hand, leaving a
hand free for his cane. He limped toward the staircase. Rose watched him out of
the corner of her eye, expecting him to collapse at any minute. But he
continued up the stairs without incident.
    She waited until the sound of his uneven gait died out. Then Rose
padded to the kitchen. Mr. Wolfe might have boorish manners. But Bea had taught
her how to treat strangers. She would do her best to make the master of the
house feel welcome, even if he pushed her away. Bea always made the effort to
be civil, even to rude people. Rose would do the same.

 
    Upstairs, Taylor quickly unpacked his clothes and took his
shaving kit to the bathroom. As he walked around the master suite, he eyed the
room appreciatively. Something about the dark greens and burgundy of the
wallpaper and bedcovering made him feel at home. The pile of pillows on the bed
looked soft and cozy, and the old-fashioned frame of the painting above the
fireplace spoke of a grand and opulent era, a far cry from the minimalist decor
of his mother's home in San Francisco. His gaze roamed over the plants near the
window and caught the green of the Boston fern hanging in the bath. They were
real plants, not cheap imitations, and someone had cared for them so well that
they looked as perfect as their silk counterparts. The genuine article pleased
him, just as much as a well-maintained wood boat did over a flashy fiberglass
craft. He sighed and pulled his shirttails out of his jeans. Idly, he unbuttoned
his cotton shirt as he continued to look around.
    He had never felt comfortable sleeping in a house since taking up
residence on his ship, the Jamaican Lady .
A house didn't rock a person to sleep. A house wasn't full of the sounds Taylor
loved so much—the cry of a gull, the thwank thwank of rigging in the
wind, the sigh of water running across a beach. Yet for some reason, this
chamber in his aunt's house set his spirit at ease. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad
here at Brierwood.
    As Taylor unfastened the last button on his shirt, he heard a rap
on his door. He limped across the floor to find Rose Quennel standing in the
hallway holding a tray of cookies and a tea service. Two cups sat near the pot,
as if she expected to sit and talk. He had no patience for chatty women or
teacups, especially when he was so tired.
    "I thought you might be hungry after your trip." She
held up the tray and smiled at him. Taylor quickly looked away from her face,
struck by the lack of guile in her expression. Most of the women he had met in
his travels were college girls looking for adventure funded by daddy's
bankcard, tavern veterans full of beer and bitterness, dockside hookers or
stuffy debutantes his mother lined up for him during his rare visits to San
Francisco. But Ms. Quennel had an open face and a steady gaze bright with
honesty, much like that of a child. She was a far cry from any of the women that
had crossed his path.
    "Mr. Wolfe?"
    Taylor briefly inspected the tray, not in the least interested in
the food. "I usually don't eat at this time of night, Ms. Quennel."
    "They're homemade cookies. Bea and I made them this
afternoon."
    He glanced at her again. She looked like a Rembrandt
painting—all red-browns and ivory—as she stood framed by the
darkness of the hall, her deep red hair tumbling around her shoulders and her
white skin glowing in the lamplight. He had the strongest urge to cup her cheek
in his palm and see if she felt as smooth and soft as she looked. He hadn't
been with a woman for months and felt the ache of repressed desire. He’d have
to get used to it and start seeing himself as the rest of the world did now: a
scarred, half-crippled, half-blind man.
    "Mr. Wolfe?"
    He must have been staring at her—as thoroughly as she had
gawked at him down at the front door. Angry at his lack of self-control, he
motioned toward the sitting area near the fireplace. "Put the tray over
there if you like. And no more Mr. Wolfe. Just call