Читать книгу Behind The Veil - Joanna Wayne - Страница 14

David let the last of the roses slip from his hands and onto the potting table as he watched Rebecca Smith walk down the cobbled path, her hips swaying in a full cotton skirt that swished around her calves. Hair the color of cornsilk bounced along the collar of a tailored white blouse, and a soft heather cardigan was tied around her narrow shoulders. Feminine, with an understated sexuality that clung like an invisible but intoxicating aura.

Old feelings stirred inside him, and his hands grew clammy. He took one step backward, suddenly painfully aware of his limp and the jagged edges of the scar that ran its freakish path down his face. Picking up a clay pot half filled with dirt, he added water and splattered the muddy concoction over the one window, all but blocking the sunlight from the back of the small, angular structure.

He’d been a fool to seek Becca out and invite her into his world—a fool to bring any woman into his life. Had he not been outwardly disfigured, he’d still have nothing to offer. The unseen scars that cut a barbed swath clear across his heart and soul had proved to be the most destructive wounds of all.

She paused at the door, staring tentatively inside.

He stayed in the back shadows but turned to the right in an attempt to shield her as much as possible from the disgusting sight of the damaged side of his face. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Smith?”

“Please, call me Becca. Everyone does. And, yes, there is something you can do.”

“If it’s about the house, Richard has the authority to make any decisions necessary based on what you tell him. I trust your judgment.”

“To be quite honest with you, Dr. Bryson, I’m not certain my judgment is worth much in this situation.”

“I’m sure you underestimate your ability.”

“No. If you want a party dress, I’m your woman. I’ve even made drapes and slipcovers before, but I’ve always done it according to the wishes of the owner or a professional decorator. I’ve never taken on an entire remodeling job on my own.”

Her manner of speaking caught him off guard. He’d expected her to be softer, more reticent. A big mistake on his part. She was forthright and spunky as hell. “Are you refusing my offer, Becca?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Then I don’t see a problem. I trust you, and Richard is authorized to handle this project. I will meet with you from time to time, but in the future, I will choose the time and the place.” He was coming on too strong. If he wasn’t careful, he’d frighten her away, and now that he was so close to her, he wanted her here at the Bluffs even more than he’d wanted her before.

And knowing that filled him with a choking wave of guilt that defied all reason. Guilt and the knowledge that having her on the premises was a dreadful mistake. And still he wanted her.

ANGER SURFACED, SWELLED, shook Becca to the core. The man had some nerve, but she would not be treated like a second-rate servant of his, dismissed with a nod of his head. “I haven’t agreed to take this job yet, but I won’t even consider tackling it without your full cooperation.”

He turned the left side of his face toward her and met her gaze. His eyes were dark, piercing, totally unnerving. “Exactly what do you mean by my cooperation?”

“I’d like for you to walk with me through the rooms that you’d like updated. You can tell me what colors you like, what style you prefer, the function of each room in your everyday life.”

“You want me to walk with you?” He made it sound like an incredible request, as if she’d asked him to sleep with her or father her unborn children.

“Walk and talk, Dr. Bryson. It’s really not all that difficult. I’m an intelligent and quite charming woman, once you get to know me.”

“Your intelligence was never in question.”

“If this is because of your face, I can assure you that your staying in the shadows is not necessary.”

His eyes grew hard, the muscles in his face rigid. “How I handle my deformity is actually none of your concern.”

Poor guy. Had Moriah’s Landing done that to him, made him think of himself as a monster? Or did the feeling come from something far deeper than his physical wounds? When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper. “A man is more than the way he looks.”

“True. And you must trust me the way I trust you. I want you to do the work at the Bluffs, but I can only deal with you on my terms. You will be safe here, and I will pay you whatever you ask.”

“Even if the amount is unreasonable?”

“It won’t be.”

“How do you know?

“Because I know you, Becca.”

His voice crawled inside her, then spread through her like fingers of fire. She could turn and walk away right now, never come to this place again, never see David again. But even if she did, she knew she’d still hear his voice at night. He’d still stalk the corners of her consciousness. The only way she would ever get over him would be to get to know him, to realize he was just a man and that he held no paranormal powers over her.

Besides, the job would pay well, help her start saving money so that she could eventually buy Threads. It would also keep her busy over the long winter months when other work would be scarce. Once the Fall Extravaganza and the Christmas ball were over, life in Moriah’s Landing would settle back into the routine of daily living, and the need for party dresses would come to an abrupt end.

The decision-making was over. She would take the job. David Bryson was not your average citizen of Moriah’s Landing, but then neither was she.

“I’ll take the job,” she said.

“I’m glad.”

And that was it. A few seconds later, she turned, left the stone gardening building and started back to the house. Alone.

THE BEACHWAY DINER WAS noisy and filled with the odors of grease, onions and fishermen in nubby, worn sweaters and rubber boots. Not the classiest spot in town, but the food was always good. Shamus McManus sat at a back table, only half listening to the ranting of Marley Glasglow and Kevin Pinelle. His cod sandwich and bowl of chowder would have gone down a lot easier in better company than either one of them, but when the diner was this crowded, a man had to share with whoever needed a seat.

Marley had lived in Moriah’s Landing all his life—probably close to thirty-five years. He didn’t do any kind of work too regularly, but he hired on with a boat captain often enough to keep his beer belly and his sour disposition. Shamus was sixty-eight, and he’d seen Marley grow more surly and disagreeable with every passing year. This one was no exception.

Kevin was a young fly-by-night, who was working the boats for the summer, signing up with first one fisherman and then another. He was way too sociable for Shamus’s taste, hung out in the wharf bars every night he wasn’t out on a boat, usually with some sweet, young looker on his arm. Obviously, the women went for his physique and boyish charm. Of course, if one of them showed up pregnant and claiming he was the father, he’d probably be out of town before the sun set.

“I think we should march up to the Bluffs and tell that murderer to keep his hands off our women,” Marley said, talking with his mouth full—a thoroughly disgusting sight.

“I didn’t know you had any women,” Kevin joked. “The way you complain about the fairer sex, I’m surprised you’re not glad to let Bryson or the ghost of Leary have his pick.”

Marley sneered and stuffed a few more French fries into his mouth. “I like them fine. Wouldn’t trust one as far as I can spit, but they’re all right in their place.”

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “I feel the same way, except I’ll take them in their place or mine.”

“I just don’t get it,” Marley continued, this time swallowing first. “Why would a good-looking woman like that seamstress go up to the Bluffs to see a dangerous lunatic? Unless she’s a descendant of one of the Moriah’s Landing witches and is going up there to consort with her own kind.”

Shamus shook his head and pushed his plate away. He’d had his fill of the sandwich and Marley. “Becca Smith’s no witch and you damned well know it. And if it was any of your business what she was doing at the Bluffs, she’d have told you.”

Kevin propped his elbows on the table. “Yeah, but as much as I hate to admit it, Marley might actually have a valid point this time. Bryson is weird, acts like some freaking vampire, never coming out except at night. And I saw him talking to Becca outside Wheels last night.”

“A freaking vampire. That’s him, all right. So why would a beautiful woman let herself get picked up in the man’s own car and driven to his godforsaken castle?”

“Do you know for a fact that she did?” Shamus asked.

Marley leaned forward. “I saw her with my own eyes. I was just leaving the liquor store when I saw her get in the car with Bryson’s butler. I followed them all the way to the road for the Bluffs.”

“Maybe Bryson’s trying to get to Claire Cavendish through Becca,” Kevin offered. “That would make sense if he’s the one who kidnapped Claire in the first place, and a lot of folks think he is.”

Shamus plucked his fishing hat from the back of his chair. “That’s hogwash.”

“Yeah, but if he did kidnap Claire, he might be afraid she’s going to remember enough to get him arrested now that she’s out of the hospital,” Kevin argued. “Becca does live in the Cavendish house, you know. And the two of them are friends. I’ve seen them out together.”

“It would be just like the guy,” Marley said, his face growing red and his voice lowering to a husky whisper. “The dirty, murdering son of a bitch. We’ve had enough of David Bryson in this town. It’s time somebody around here gets rid of him once and for all.”

Shamus stared him down. “Someone might one day, but it won’t be you. You’re a dirty coward to the bone, Marley Glasglow. All bark and not enough teeth left in your ugly mouth to bite.”

“Go to hell.”

“I probably will. I’m just hoping it’s not today.” Shamus pulled a few wrinkled bills from his front pocket and dropped enough money on the table to cover his tab and a small tip.

A few seconds later, he stepped out the door, the news about Becca Smith visiting David Bryson hitting him like a bottle of cheap wine. But unlike Kevin and Marley, he had enough sense to keep his opinions to himself.

IT WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES past three o’clock when Becca thanked Richard for the ride home and climbed out of David’s black sedan. The partial tour of the house had lasted until one-thirty. After that, she had eaten the lunch Richard had served, a cream-based soup, a green salad and a chicken-pasta dish as good as any she’d ever eaten. He’d said the accolades belonged to the cook, who was off today.

Richard had joined her for lunch, and they’d talked at length about possibilities for the house. Once she’d taken the tour, ideas had leapt into her mind at the speed of light, and she’d worried that she sounded more like a kid with a new toy than a professional with a new challenge. It seemed that money would not be an object and that both David and Richard trusted her judgment implicitly. The only restriction was that she limit her work to the bottom floor of the east wing of the house.

Reaching into the deep pockets of her skirt, she pulled out the key and fit it into the lock. A white envelope was taped to the door just above the knob. Apparently one of her customers had dropped by while she was out, though she always encouraged them to call first. She pulled the note from the door and stuffed it into the canvas tote.

The familiarity of the shop wrapped around her as she stepped inside and switched on the light. Although she only managed Threads, the owner seldom took any interest in the place anymore. That worked out well for Becca. In a lot of ways the shop was more home to her than her room in the Cavendish house. At work, her mind stayed busy, found creative outlets for the restlessness and waves of undefinable anxiety that never fully deserted her. But alone at night, there was no escaping the fact that no matter how hard she pretended otherwise, Becca Smith was a total fraud.

She started a pot of fresh coffee, then retrieved the envelope that had been taped to her door. Fitting the tip of a silver letter opener beneath the seal, she ripped the envelope and slipped the note out and into the light. It was written on lined notebook paper, with black magic marker, the print crude and uneven.

Stay away from David Bryson or risk meeting the same fate as Natasha Pierce.

The print was childlike. The message was not. She read the note out loud, then shook her head as the initial wave of anxiety settled into disgust. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny. But more likely it was a genuine warning from one of the locals who had been exposed to the tales of witchcraft and murderous mad scientists for so long, they actually believed them.

She kept busy as the coffee finished perking, putting away her samples, straightening a stack of fabrics, watering her potted ivy. When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup and dropped to her sewing chair.

Images of the Bluffs crowded her mind. The place was magnificent. It was difficult to believe that someone in the seventeenth century had the vision or the money to build such an incredible structure.

For the first time in—in as long as she could remember—she had found a project she could sink her teeth into. She would bring the Bluffs back to life, and just maybe she’d bring its strange owner back to life, as well. If she did, some woman would thank her for it.

Unless…She picked up the note and stared at it again. Unless David Bryson really wasn’t the man he seemed. Unless he really was the man who had killed those women twenty years ago. Unless he was the man who had kidnapped and tortured poor Claire Cavendish until he’d driven her out of her mind.

She tried to picture him in that role. The image didn’t jell. Still, she’d make better decisions if she relied on facts instead of rumors and groundless superstitions. She usually kept the shop open on Saturday for the benefit of customers who worked during the week, but she’d already been out of the shop for hours so a couple more wouldn’t matter.

And right now sitting at the sewing machine didn’t seem nearly as urgent as going to the library to peruse the microfilm file of newspapers from twenty years ago. She knew they were there—just one more of the famous tourist draws to a town that made a lucrative business out of fear and superstition. But Moriah’s Landing didn’t have the monopoly on that. Everyone believed what they wanted.

In the end, she probably would, too.

FOURTH YOUNG WOMAN This Year Found Murdered.

Becca shivered and crossed her arms over her chest as she read the sketchy but chilling account of the murder. Apparently, few facts had been released to the paper, but she’d heard bizarre tales about the gruesome side of the killings from several of her customers. The events had occurred twenty years ago, but sitting alone in the library, immersed in the newspaper articles, she had the eerie feeling that the bodies were still as fresh as the one that had just been found on Old Mountain Road, not far from the Bluffs.

The first murder had been solved. The last three had not. The fourth victim had been Joyce Telatia, of the Boston Telatias, one of the wealthiest families in the Northeast. The killer could have probably made millions in ransom if he’d only kidnapped her and not killed her. But apparently it was death and not money that drove the monster. And his lust for murder might well have been fueled by publicity surrounding the vicious murder of Leslie Ridgemont, Kat’s mother. In that case the motive had been jealousy and lust, but with the three later victims, there appeared to be no motive, just random killings of innocent victims.

Becca blinked and tried to clear her eyes, but a couple of salty tears mingled with her fatigue, and she pushed away from the viewer. She’d had all she could take for one day. She glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she’d have enough time to locate and check out a couple of books that had been written on the history of witchcraft in Moriah’s Landing before she met Claire for dinner.

Bedtime reading sure to produce nightmares. So much for sleep.

THE AFTERNOON IN THE LAB had been totally unproductive, and David had given up on his current experiment after a couple of hours. He’d taken the secret passage that led from the library to an ancient world of darkness, always wondering when he did why he frequently found that world of black chambers studded with skulls and bones more welcoming than the one he lived in.

He’d stayed there the rest of the afternoon, perusing the mountain of meticulously kept notes that had once belonged to Dr. Leland Manning. Dr. Manning had been the major influencing factor in David’s decision to go into medical research. Now the man was in prison for conducting illegal and unethical experiments in genetic engineering. It seemed there was no explaining how far a man could go once he passed the line from reason to madness.

David exited the secret door and closed it behind him, leaving only a wall of bookcases where the opening had been. He crossed the library and started down the long hallway, the echoes of his footsteps a lonesome sound that always reminded him how different it would have been in the Bluffs had Tasha lived. He stopped at the door to the bedroom they would have shared.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out the key ring and fit the key into the lock, then hesitated as thoughts of Becca haunted his mind. So different from Tasha. Far less innocent. Spunky, instead. Determined. Direct. Full, rounded breasts. Sensuous, swaying hips.

His throat constricted, and he dropped his hand from the door. The room belonged to the past, to a love as pure as the white roses he scattered on the cliffs every week, and he wouldn’t defile it with the thoughts running roughshod through his mind now.

He hurried down the hall and descended the steps, not stopping until he reached the back door. Pushing through it, he breathed deeply, letting a rush of brisk, damp air penetrate to the deepest cells of his lungs.

“Is something the matter, sir?”

He turned at the sound of Richard’s voice behind him. “No. Should there be?”

“No, sir.”

David read the doubt in his butler’s eyes. It was uncanny the way the man read his moods—uncanny and at times extremely disconcerting. Not that David had ever considered himself a complex person. He simply did what he had to do in order to survive, a skill he’d been forced to learn at a very young age.

Reaching into his pocket, Richard retrieved a white handkerchief and dusted the seats of a couple of wrought-iron garden chairs. “Why don’t you have a seat, sir? Let me fix you a martini.”

“Not yet. I just want to watch the sun set.”

Richard settled in one of the chairs and undid the top button of his shirt. After five, he tended to be slightly more relaxed, though David had never requested or understood his need to be more formal during the day. It wasn’t as if they ever had unexpected guests drop by for tea.

“I thought the day went well,” Richard said. “I like Becca Smith. What do you think of her?”

The question caught him off guard. Not because he hadn’t considered it, but because he had considered it so frequently since the first night he’d spotted her leaving her shop, head high, unafraid even when she’d noticed him in the shadows. She’d looked him in the eye and met his gaze.

The moment lasted briefly, yet something strange and incomprehensible had passed between them. He’d felt it in every part of his body, and the unfamiliar feelings had left him so shaken, he’d missed his turn on the way home. Driving as if in a trance, he’d wound up five miles past the winding road to the Bluffs.

Now, weeks later, he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. In five years, no woman had elicited any interest for him. But with one look, Becca had cast a spell on him that he seemed powerless to break.

“She’s open and direct and she has lots of ideas for the Bluffs,” Richard said. “I think she’ll do an excellent job.”

“I don’t see any reason why she wouldn’t.” David stared at the horizon, at the sprays of orange-and-gold bands that painted the undersides of the puffy clouds. “I hope the two of you will be able to work together agreeably on this project.”

“I think she’d prefer working with you.”

“I doubt that very seriously,” David said, finally turning back to face his butler. “Besides, I don’t deal well with people anymore.”

“You deal well with me.” Richard crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. “I think you’d do fine with her. You’ll never know unless you give yourself a chance.”

David touched his fingers to the side of his face, bitterly aware of the effect it had had on the nurses in the hospital when they’d been forced to change the dressings on his wounds and deal with the countless skin grafts. And his face, as disfigured as it was, was no match for the blotchy red patches of skin that covered his stomach like some infectious disease. “My chances ran out five years ago, Richard. I’ve learned to live with the fact.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.” At least his mind had accepted the truth. Until Becca came along, his heart and body had, as well. Surely, in time, it would be that way again.

The wind picked up, tearing dry leaves from the branches of the trees and sending them flying in an avalanche of golds, reds and browns. “Fall has definitely arrived,” David said, past ready to change the subject.

“Yes. Time for McFarland Leary to rise from the grave.”

“The guy has been buried since the late 1600s. He’s probably already come back—as a handful of dust.”

Richard rubbed his right hand along his jaw. “Not if the locals are right. They say he was consort to a witch. When she caught him cheating on her with a mortal woman, she damned him to an eternity of torment. Not only that, but he still seeks revenge on Moriah’s Landing for claiming he was a warlock and sentencing him to death.”

“I know. I’ve heard it all since I was a child. He supposedly comes back every five years and kills a young woman or two, to exact revenge on the town and in hopes the sacrifice will appease the witch so that she’ll set him free. Mostly it’s a tale for the tourists, but I’m sure there are some poor superstitious folk in the town who actually believe that nonsense, even though the facts don’t bear it out. There have been no unsolved murders in town in twenty years.”

“There’s already talk in town that it was Leary who killed the woman whose body was found on Old Mountain Road last night.”

“How did you hear that?”

“I stopped at the grocers when I took Becca back to Threads.”

“And while they’re worried about a ghost, some dangerous lunatic is running around free.”

“So is the man who abducted and tortured Claire Cavendish five years ago.”

“Surely you haven’t succumbed to ghost tales.”

“No. I don’t believe Leary’s responsible for any of those horrors, but there’s something evil and angry in Moriah’s Landing. I can never put my finger on it, but it’s always present, as if the heart of the town is beating inside a madman.”

David had no argument for that. The evil was in the black heart of a killer who’d destroyed his world. The anger and the madness lived inside him. He took one last look as the rays from the setting sun glanced off the rocks along the cliff. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said, standing and stretching his weak leg.

“Would you like dinner at seven?”

“Let’s make it eight tonight.”

“Whatever you say.”

Would that all of his life were that easy. If it were, he’d be with Becca Smith tonight. His body came alive at the thought, the need inside him so strong it rocked through him with the force of a tidal wave, making it difficult for him to keep walking.

He shouldn’t want her this way. He had no right. Even if he wasn’t still in love with Tasha, he had nothing at all to give Becca Smith. He was forty. She was surely no more than in her early twenties. He was scarred and hideous. She was young and beautiful, with her whole life in front of her. He was the Beast. She was Beauty.

And he’d given up believing there would ever be a happy ending for him five years ago.

But he wouldn’t give up on having her near him. He couldn’t. Not yet.