Free The Haunting of Brier Rose by Patricia Simpson Page B

her any
longer, he would forget his vow to steer clear of her.
    Once they reached the trail, he released her. "There you go,
Brier Rose. Safe and sound."
    He heard her suck in a sharp breath.
    "Mr. Wolfe, your leg!"
    He looked down. The slash on his right calf had broken open and
painted his leg in blood.
    Rose knelt beside him to inspect his wound and brushed at the
trickle of blood with the hem of the slip beneath her dress.
    "How did you hurt your leg, Mr. Wolfe?"
    "In a car accident.''
    "On a piece of glass?"
    "I don't know how it happened. I was unconscious."
    She dabbed at his leg with the corner of her slip, her touch more
gentle than that of any of the doctors or nurses who had attended him at the
hospital. Taylor looked down at her, wondering why he was letting her fuss over
him.
    "It's quite a deep wound, as if you wore cut with a
knife."
    "It's nothing."
    "How long ago were you injured?"
    "About two months."
    "It should be healed by now." Rose straightened and
deftly pulled the half-slip down, stepping out of it with her inimitable
gracefulness. The slip was a virginal concoction of lace trim and rosebud embroidery,
and for a moment Taylor stared at it. He hadn't seen such a feminine piece of
clothing for years. "Here," she said, kneeling down again. "Let
me stop the bleeding, at least."
    "Wait. You'll ruin your slip."
    "I'd rather soil my slip than have you bleed to death, Mr.
Wolfe."
    Before he could back away, she was removing the old bandage in a
way that didn't pull at the hairs on his leg. Then she tied torn strips of the
slip firmly but comfortably about his leg. Taylor watched her, marveling that
she would take such care of a virtual stranger—unless, of course, she was
doing it only to ingratiate herself with him.
    When Rose finished, she stood up. "I'd get that taken care
of, Mr. Wolfe. It could get infected. It looks like it may be infected
now."
    "The doctors did all that could possibly be done."
    "Have you tried plantain?"
    "What?"
    "Plantain. It's a plant, one of the best remedies for cuts
and infections. I'm going to gather some for my scratches. I get some for you,
too."
    "Forget it." There she went again with her herbal advice.
Taylor had no use for quacks, even beautiful ones. He didn't like her staring
at his scars, and he didn't want to be her patient. Most of all, however, he
hated appearing as a wounded weakling in her presence. "My leg needs time
to heal, that's all."
    He hobbled away from her. He didn't want her fussing over him and
touching him. And he didn't want some unschooled healer messing around with his
health. He also couldn't bear another moment looking at the vision she
presented as she stood in a pool of sunlight—a luscious, flame-haired
nymph with a crestfallen expression.
    The farther he stayed away from Rose Quennel, the better. All he
had to do was straighten out the question of the missing caretaker and then he
intended to avoid Rose for the rest of his stay at Brierwood. Even now, he knew
he had to get clear of her tantalizing presence before he made a fool of
himself.
    Taylor turned on the path to glance back at her. She hadn't
moved.
    "I want to talk to you later," he said. "In the
study at four o'clock, if you can fit it into your busy schedule."
    Her chin rose at his sarcasm.
    "I'll be there," she replied.
    He turned and limped away, suddenly realizing that he hadn't even
thanked her.

 
    Sitting on the edge of the desk in the study, Taylor looked at
his watch. Ten after four. The woman was late. He should have expected as much.
From all appearances, Rose was one of those flighty, artsy women who didn't
quite fit into the modern world. He had never spent much time with women like
Rose, preferring the type who played hard and loved on the run. Impatiently, he
tapped the cane on the tip of his shoe and mentally counted the minutes, all
the while listening for her step in the hall and wondering why he didn't do
something more productive than sitting there waiting for