Red Roses Mean Love

Chapter 3

Stephen came awake slowly.

He gradually became aware of various parts of his body and immediately wished he had not.

They all hurt like the devil.

Someone had obviously set fire to his shoulder, and a legion of demons squeezed his ribs to the breaking point. And who in God's name was hammering on his head? Probably the same beast stabbing his legs. Damn the bastard to hell. Twice.

With great effort, he dragged his eyelids open. He tried to turn his head, but quickly thought better of that plan when the slight movement set his temples throbbing with an unholy rhythm. Christ. How much did I drink? What a bloody awful hangover. Instead of moving, he gingerly shifted his gaze around, taking in his immediate surroundings.

They were totally unfamiliar to him.

A blinding wave of dizziness hit him and he snapped his eyes shut, swearing lifelong avoidance of whatever liquor had brought him so low. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he pried his eyes open again and surveyed the room. Confusion joined the orchestra of drums hammering in his head. He'd never seen this bedchamber before. Where the hell am I? And how did I get here?

A low-burning fire in the grate bathed the otherwise darkened room with a soft glow. He saw a cherrywood desk and a huge mahogany armoire. Faded striped wallcoverings. Heavy burgundy drapes. A pair of matching wing chairs, a set of crystal decanters.

A woman asleep on a settee.

His gaze halted, riveting on the woman. In a room filled with unrecognizable things, she seemed somehow familiar. A halo of shiny chestnut curls framed a fine-boned, exquisite face. Long, dark eyelashes brushed her cheeks, casting crescent shadows on her creamy, porcelain-like skin. He wondered what color eyes lay hidden beneath those lashes. His gaze dipped to her lips and stayed there for a long moment. She had the most beautiful mouth he'd ever seen. Full, lush pink lips. Incredible and eminently kissable. Had he ever kissed those lips? No, he decided. He couldn't recall ever tasting them, and he knew he'd never forget the feel of such a remarkable mouth. But then why did she seem so familiar?

Before he had a chance to ponder further, another wave of dizziness struck him, setting up a devilish pounding in his head. An involuntary groan escaped him.

The sound, though barely audible, apparently penetrated the woman's sleep. Her eyes opened slowly, her long lashes fluttering. Stephen watched her sleepy gaze settle on him. For several seconds they stared at each other. Blue. Her eyes are blue. Like aquamarines.

The woman's eyes popped wide open. She gasped, bolted to her feet and approached the bed.

"You're awake!" Perching one hip on the edge of the mattress, she reached out and touched his forehead. "The fever has broken. Thank God." She smiled at him.

Stephen watched her, trying to gather his wits. Her touch was gentle and comforting. And familiar. Who was she?

And where on earth was he?

"Would you like some water?" she asked in a soft, husky voice that reminded Stephen of fine brandy-smooth, soothing, and warm.

His lips were parched, and his throat felt as though Napoleon's entire army had stomped through his mouth with their stockings on. He managed a tiny affirmative nod.

She reached for a pitcher on the bedside table and poured water into a goblet. Lifting his head with one arm, she held the glass to his lips and helped him drink. The cool water slid down his throat, soothing the harsh dryness. When the glass was empty, she gently laid him back down.

"Who…?" He croaked the word in a hoarse rasp.

"My name is Hayley. Hayley Albright." A gentle smile graced her full lips. "Can you tell me your name? It would be so nice to refer to you as something other than 'the sick man.'"

"Ste-Stephen." The word was barely audible, but she apparently heard him.

"Stephen?" He gave a tiny nod and her smile deepened. "Well, Stephen, welcome back to the land of the living. We've been very worried about you. How do you feel?"

He wanted to reply he'd had better days, but a fierce pain suddenly shot up his arm and he winced. The wince set up a drumming in his temples. He closed his eyes and groaned.

"Don't try to move or speak, Stephen," she urged quietly. "Just lie still. You've been very ill for a week now."

"Ill?" Stephen repeated, forcing his eyes back open. Well, that made sense. God knows he felt miserable enough.

"Yes. We discovered you lying in a stream in the woods about an hour outside London. You'd been shot in the arm and suffered a severe head wound, not to mention bruised ribs and an endless assortment of cuts, scrapes, and bruises. We managed to get you back to our home, and we've been caring for you ever since." Her eyes scanned his face, her expression reflecting anxious concern. "Do you remember anything?"

Stephen listened to her, his mind drifting back, trying to assimilate her words. At first he had no idea what she was talking about, but suddenly he remembered. Darkness. Danger. Someone following him. A shot fired. Scorching, white-hot pain burning in his arm. Racing on Pericles through the woods. A second shot. Falling.

Bits and pieces fell rapidly into place. Someone had tried to kill him. Again. This was the second attempt on his life in a month. But who would want him dead? And why? His stomach clenched. Whoever his enemy was, they would no doubt try again once they discovered their failure to kill him. He had to find out where he was.

"Where … am…?" Damn, his throat felt like it had been scraped with a rusty razor.

"In my home, Albright Cottage, just outside the village of Halstead, in Kent. About three hours southeast of London."

Good. Hopefully he'd be safe in a small village so far from Town. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead found himself staring at her, struck by her expression. She had the kindest eyes he'd ever seen. Warmth, compassion, and concern flowed from her gaze like a coating of honey. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that? Never.

A full minute passed before he rasped out, "My horse?"

A smile touched her lips. "Your horse is doing well. He's the finest animal I've ever seen. And one of the smartest-he led us to you. He suffered a cut on his foreleg and some minor scratches, but they're nearly healed. He is being very well taken care of, I promise you." She reached out and took his hand, gently squeezing it between her palms. "You must not worry about anything. Just concentrate on getting better and regaining your strength."

"Hurts." He swallowed. "Tired."

"I know, but the worst is over. What you need now is food and sleep. Are you hungry?"

"No." He watched her add several drops of medicine to a fresh glass of water. She lifted his head so he could drink, then settled him back on the pillow.

"I've given you some laudanum for the pain. It will also help you sleep." She laid a hand on his forehead.

Stephen felt her gentle touch and suddenly remembered why she seemed so familiar. "Angel," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "Angel."

Several hours later Hayley joined the family at breakfast.

"I have good news, everyone," she reported to the group, her face beaming a smile. "It appears our patient is going to recover. He awoke earlier for a short spell and we spoke. I checked on him just before I came down. He's sleeping and shows no signs of fever." And his eyes are green. A beautiful mossy green. Like a forest at twilight.

"That's wonderful news, Miss Hayley," Grimsley said, placing a huge platter of scrambled eggs and kippers on the table.

"Yes indeed," piped in fourteen-year-old Andrew. "Do you suppose the bloke knows how to play chess? Nathan's an awful player." Andrew shot his younger brother a withering glance.

"The man's name is Stephen, not 'the bloke,'" Hayley informed her brother with a warning glance. She supposed she should be grateful Andrew didn't call him the scurvy, bloody bloke.

"Do you think he likes tea parties, Hayley?" six-year-old Callie asked, her blue eyes shining bright with hope.

"Of course he doesn't like tea parties," cut in Nathan. He rolled his eyes with all the masculine disgust an eleven year old could muster. "He's a man, not a-"

"That's enough, Nathan," Hayley admonished in a tone that immediately halted the boy's words. She turned to Callie and rumpled the child's dark curls. "I'm sure he loves tea."

Nathan and Andrew grunted. Callie beamed.

Winston entered the room dressed in workman's pants and shirt. At Hayley's insistence, he and Grimsley took their meals in the dining room. No one stood on ceremony at Albright Cottage, and the two men were like members of the family.

She greeted the ex-sailor with a fond smile, forcing herself not to laugh outright at his expression. He looked grumpy. Just like a bear awakened before his hibernation was complete.

"Good morning, Winston. I have good news. The man is awake and his fever is gone."

Winston shook his head and pointed a beefy finger at Hayley. "Chain me to the gunwale and slap me with the sextant! I hope 'e ain't no murderer. We dragged 'im in here, saved 'is miserable life, and now we got to pray he ain't some criminal who'll kill us while we sleep. Looks like a cutthroat to me, he does. I traveled enough voyages with your pa, God rest his soul, to know a blackguard when I sees one. I'll kill 'im with me bare hands. I'll-"

"I'm certain that won't be necessary," Hayley broke in, barely suppressing her urge to laugh. "He looks like a very nice man."

"He looks like a scurvy bum," Winston grumbled.

"Did the man say anything, Hayley?" Pamela asked in an obvious attempt to change the direction of the conversation.

"He only spoke a few words. He was in pain, so I gave him a bit of laudanum. Perhaps he'll feel better later this morning."

Aunt Olivia looked up, her face a study of confusion. "Mourning? Why are we in mourning? Has someone died?"

Hayley bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a giggle. Aunt Olivia, who bore a striking resemblance to Hayley's father, always had her nose buried in a book or her needlework. With her attention fixed on her latest novel or sewing project and being partly deaf, she rarely heard an entire conversation.

"No one is dead and we're not in mourning, Aunt Olivia," Pamela answered for her sister in a loud voice. "We are hoping the man is better this morning."

Aunt Olivia nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Well, I should hope so. Poor Hayley has worked herself to exhaustion caring for that man. A full recovery is the very least he can do. And what a relief that no one is dead. I do so hate funerals. So morbid and depressing." A shudder shook her ample frame.

After breakfast the group cleared the table then set about their chores. Everyone pitched in and helped around the house. With funds tight, they did not employ servants other than a village woman who came once a week to help with the laundry.

Ignoring Andrew's and Nathan's grumbles, Hayley herded her charges about. The boys had to beat the bedroom rugs, a job they hated, declaring it woman's work. Unimpressed, Hayley shooed them outside. It was Pamela's turn to feather-dust, and Aunt Olivia's turn to do the mending. Callie was to gather the eggs from the henhouse while Winston repaired the roof. Hayley would work in the gardens with Grimsley as soon as she checked on Stephen.

She picked up Callie's egg basket. "Have you seen Callie?" she asked Pamela.

"Not for the last few minutes. She's probably already on her way to the henhouse."

"She forgot her basket," Hayley said with a sigh. She headed out the door and struck off across the lawn. When she reached the henhouse, she poked her head inside.

"Callie? Where are you? You forgot your basket." Silence greeted Hayley. She looked all around, but saw no sign of her sister.

Now where in the world can that child be?

Stephen dragged his eyes open, blinking against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. He took a silent inventory of his body parts and discovered to his vast relief that he felt better than the last time he'd awakened. His head still hurt and his arm still ached, but the bone-numbing pain that had suffused his entire body was gone.

He turned his head and found himself staring at a small dark-haired girl perched on the settee. He vividly remembered the young woman he'd seen there the last time he awoke, and this child was a miniature duplicate of her. The same shiny curls, the same startling light-blue eyes. They were obviously mother and daughter.

The child clutched a well-worn doll in her chubby arms and studied him, her face alight with avid curiosity. "Hello," she said with a smile. "You're finally awake."

Stephen wet his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "Hello," he answered in a rasp.

"My name is Callie," the child said, swinging her legs to and fro like a pendulum. "You're Stephen."

Stephen nodded and was relieved that the movement caused only a slight pounding in his head.

She thrust her doll forward. "This is Miss Josephine Chilton-Jones. You may call her Miss Josephine, but you must never call her Josie. She doesn't like that, and we mustn't do things other people don't like."

Stephen, unsure if an answer was expected, merely nodded again. Apparently his response satisfied the child because she once again hugged the doll and continued speaking.

"You were very ill. The grown-ups took turns taking care of you, but I wasn't allowed. Everyone says I'm too young, but that's not true at all." She leaned forward. "I'm six, you know. In fact, I'm very nearly seven." After imparting that bit of news, she leaned back and resumed her leg-swinging.

Based on the child's expectant look, Stephen concluded that she wanted him to respond. He racked his brain for something to say and came up blank. The last time he'd engaged in a conversation with a child, he'd been a child himself.

"Where is your mother?" he finally asked.

"Mama is dead."

"Dead? But I just saw her last night," Stephen whispered, utterly confused.

"That was Hayley. She's my sister, but she takes care of me like a mama. She takes care of all of us. Me, Pamela, Andrew, Nathan, Aunt Olivia, Grimsley, Winston, and even Pierre. Oh, and our dogs and cat too. Mama is dead."

"Where's your father?"

"Papa's dead, too, but we have Hayley. I love Hayley. Everybody loves Hayley. You'll love her too," the child predicted with a solemn nod.

"I see," said Stephen, who didn't see at all. That young woman took care of all those people? The only adult? But no, the child had mentioned an aunt, had she not? "You have an aunt?"

Callie nodded, her bright sable curls bouncing. "Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia. She's Papa's sister who came to live with us after Papa died. She looks like Papa except she doesn't have a beard. Only a very small mustache. You have to sit on her lap to see it. She's quite deaf you know, but she smells like flowers and tells me funny stories."

Without pausing for breath, the child continued, "And then there's my sister Pamela. She's very pretty and comes to almost all of my tea parties. Andrew and Nathan are my brothers." A grimace puckered her face. "I suppose they're nice, but they tease me and I don't like that."

"And who are the others… Winslow? Grimsdale and Pierre?"

She giggled. "Winston Grimsley, and Pierre. They all used to be sailors with Papa but now they live with us. Pierre is our cook. He grumbles a lot, but he bakes yummy sweets. Winston mostly likes things around the house." She leaned closer to Stephen in a distinctly conspiratorial manner. "He has tattoos and very hairy arms and says the naughtiest words. He said 'bloody hell' yesterday and he calls Grimsley a 'pain in the arse.'"

Stephen wasn't quite sure how to reply to that newsy bit of family folklore. Good God, were all children this precocious? He looked at the perfect tiny bow-shaped lips that had just said "bloody hell" and "arse" and felt his own lips twitch. "Who is Grimsley?"

"He's our butler. His knees make creaky noises whenever he moves and he's forever losing his spectacles. He and Winston were with Hayley when she rescued you. They brought you home and Hayley's been taking care of you ever since. You were very ill," she imparted in a voice that sounding distinctively scolding. "I'm glad you're better so now Hayley can rest. She's very tired and she hasn't been able to come to any of my tea parties." She eyed Stephen with a speculative gaze. "Would you like to come to my tea party? Miss Josephine and I serve the best scones."

Before Stephen could think up an answer, the door swung open and Hayley rushed into the room.

"Callie!" Dropping to her knees in front of the settee, Hayley hugged the small child to her. "What are you doing in here? I've been looking for you everywhere."

"I was inviting Stephen to a tea party."

Hayley turned toward the bed, a warm smile lighting her face. "How are you feeling this morning, Stephen?"

"Better. Hungry."

Placing a quick kiss on the child's shiny curls, Hayley disentangled herself from Callie's clinging arms and approached the bed. She laid her palm against his forehead and her simile broadened. "Your fever is gone. I'll send this imp on her way and be right up with some breakfast. Come along, Callie," she urged with a gentle tug on the child's hand. "The hens are waiting for you. They miss you dreadfully."

Callie hopped off the settee and skipped the few feet to the bed. She leaned over until her mouth was next to Stephen's ear. "The hens miss me because I don't call them 'bloody stinkin' birds' like Winston does," she whispered. She leaned back and shot him a knowing, conspiratorial nod, then allowed Hayley to lead her to the door.

When he was alone again, Stephen breathed a sigh of relief. Why was the child not in the nursery or with her governess? She talked nonstop, and his head, while no longer pounding, still felt rather fragile. He reached up and touched his forehead. His fingers brushed a bandage. Trailing his fingers down his face, he encountered coarse bristles. How long had he been here? A week? No wonder his face felt so hairy.

His hand traveled downward and came in contact with his taped ribs. One deep breath confirmed that he was far from healed. He experimentally moved his legs and discovered two things-his limbs ached but still worked, and he was naked.

He peeked under the sheets and a frown tugged his brows downward. Someone had removed his clothes and bathed him. For some unfathomable reason a hot tingle skidded through him at the thought of Hayley Albright tending to his naked body.

The bedchamber door opened and Hayley walked in carrying a large tray. Stephen hastily resettled the sheet. An unfamiliar warmth suffused his face.

"Here we are," she said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. She looked at him and frowned. "Oh dear. You look flushed. I hope your fever hasn't returned." She felt his forehead.

Flushed? "I'm fine," Stephen said, his voice gruffer than he intended. "Just hungry."

"Of course. And your skin feels cool." She surveyed him a moment, pursing her lips. "Hmmm. Eating would be much easier if you sat up a bit."

Reaching across him, she grabbed two pillows from the other side of the bed. "Let me help you," she said, gently assisting him to sit halfway up by stuffing the pillows behind his back. "How's that?"

Once an initial wave of dizziness passed, Stephen felt considerably better. But still damn weak. And a deep breath was out of the question. "Fine. Thank you."

She perched herself on the edge of the bed and reached for a bowl and spoon on the tray. She scooped up a small bit of an odd-looking gruel.

"What is that?" Stephen asked, although he didn't really care. He was hungry enough to eat the bedsheets.

She brought the spoon to his lips. "A porridge of sorts."

Although Stephen felt odd being fed, he didn't have the strength to argue. He dutifully opened his mouth and swallowed.

"Do you like it?" she asked, studying his face.

"Yes. It's very good. Very unusual."

"No doubt because we have a very unusual cook."

"Indeed? In what way?" Stephen asked, then opened his mouth for another spoonful.

"Pierre is, er, rather temperamental. His Gallic sensibilities are easily ruffled."

"Then why did you hire him?"

"Oh, we didn't hire him. Pierre was the cook on my father's ship. When Papa died, Pierre moved in and took over the kitchen. Woe to anyone who enters his domain uninvited, and if you are invited, be prepared to 'chop zee onions' and 'peel zee potatoes' until your arms fall off."

A grin tugged at the corners of Stephen's mouth. Pierre might be difficult, but he made damned good porridge. And Stephen could certainly appreciate problems with servants. His own coachman had retired from service last year, and it had taken months to find an adequate replacement.

After emptying the entire bowl, Stephen felt better. When Hayley offered him a slice of toasted bread, he accepted it and took a bite. Chewing silently, he studied the young woman perched on the edge of the bed.

She was very pretty. Beautiful, in fact. With her perfect oval face so near, Stephen couldn't help but notice the parade of pale freckles that marched across her pert nose, or the creamy smooth texture of her skin. Her eyes were truly extraordinary-expressive, crystal clear and topped with delicate winged brows. Those aqua eyes peered at him with open curiosity and concern.

His gaze wandered down to her lips. They were just as he remembered them. Pink, lush, full, incredibly kissable. It was, in fact, the most carnal mouth he'd ever seen. He swallowed and cleared his throat.

"You and your footmen rescued me," he said, forcing his gaze from her mouth.

"Yes. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was followed by two men. I recall racing through the trees. They shot at me and I tried to escape into the woods." He gingerly touched the bandage on his forehead, his face twisting into a rueful grimace. "Apparently I wasn't successful."

Her eyes widened with obvious alarm and she pressed a hand to her stomach. "Good heavens. Highwaymen?"

Stephen immediately realized it wouldn't be in his best interests if she suspected someone was trying to kill him. She'd no doubt shoo him right back to London if she believed there was a chance a murderer might show up on her doorstep, and he sure as hell didn't feel up to the journey. And he also had no wish to alarm her. Surely whoever wanted him dead wouldn't find him here.

"Highwaymen, of course," he answered, "intent upon relieving me of my purse. Did they … er …succeed?" He hadn't had a purse with him as he kept a small cache of funds at his hunting lodge, but he couldn't very well tell her that.

"I'm afraid they indeed robbed you as there was no purse evident when we found you. We discovered you at the bottom of a ravine, lying half in, half out of the water. You were unconscious and bleeding."

He clearly read the sympathy in her earnest gaze. "How did you find me?"

"We saw your horse on the road. He was scratched, saddled, and riderless. It didn't take a genius to deduce something was amiss. I mounted him, and he led me directly to you."

Stephen arrested his hand midway to his mouth and stared at her. "You mounted Pericles?" He couldn't believe it. Pericles didn't allow anyone to ride him except Stephen. No one else could manage the huge animal.

"Is that his name? Pericles?" After Stephen nodded she said, "I knew he would bear a regal name. He's a wonderful animal. So sweet-natured and loving."

Stephen stared at her, nonplussed. Surely they were speaking of two different horses.

Clearly oblivious to his surprised silence, she continued, "When Papa was alive, we owned several fine mounts, but now we only have Samson. He's a piebald gelding, gentle as a lamb, but strong and energetic."

"Pericles didn't throw you? He normally doesn't allow anyone to ride him except me."

She shook her head. "I get along very well with horses. We seem to have an affinity for each other. Your Pericles is very intelligent. He obviously knew you were in trouble, and he recognized I could help."

"How did you manage without a sidesaddle?"

Color bloomed in her cheeks and she bit her lower lip. "I… ah… rode him astride."

"Astride?" Surely he'd misheard her.

Her color deepened. "It has been my experience that dire circumstances often call for unusual actions."

"I see." Actually, Stephen didn't see at all. Hayley Albright was obviously a woman capable of unusual actions-a fact he should be grateful for, as they had saved his life.

"Do you have any family or friends we can notify of your whereabouts? I'm sure they must be sick with worry."

Stephen had to force back the bitter laugh her words produced. Sick with worry? Not bloody likely. His parents, the Duke and Duchess of Moreland, wouldn't note his absence unless it interfered with their endless social engagements or adulterous affairs. His brother, Gregory, was too selfish, too often drunk, and too involved in his own life to care about Stephen's whereabouts. Gregory's mousy wife, Melissa, appeared to be terrified of Stephen and would hardly mourn his absence.

Only his younger sister, Victoria, might wonder about him, and even that was unlikely as he and Victoria had had no plans to meet this past week.

But whoever was trying to kill him was no doubt wondering about him. Did they think they had succeeded? Or had they realized their failure and were now searching for him?

Without knowing who wanted him dead, or why, Stephen decided it might be best if he didn't give away his identity. No one knew "the sick man" was the Marquess of Glenfield, the heir to a dukedom. Right now he was safe in this out-of-the-way village-a quiet haven where he could recuperate and decide what to do next. He'd be a fool not to take advantage of his situation. A plan formed in his mind.

"I have no family," he said, and felt a twinge of guilt when Hayley's eyes immediately filled with sympathy.

"How terribly sad for you," she whispered, taking his hand and gently squeezing it.

Stephen glanced down at their hands. Hers looked capable and sturdy, yet soft, lying on his. Warmth spread through him, and he wondered why. No doubt because such familiar gestures were foreign to him.

"Surely there is someone you wish to contact?" she asked. "Another gentleman? A friend? Or perhaps an employer?"

An employer? She clearly believed it possible he was from the working class. Under normal circumstances, Stephen might have been amused at the very thought. His valet would have bristled like a spitting cat. But these were not normal circumstances.

He quickly weighed his options. While he didn't want anyone to know his whereabouts, he needed to trust someone, and only one person had his complete trust. His best friend and brother-in-law, Justin Mallory, the Earl of Blackmoor.

"Actually, I would like to contact someone."

"Excellent. A friend?"

"Yes. Someone I used to work with."

"Where are you employed?" she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

"I am, ah, a tutor," he improvised swiftly. "For a family in London."

"A tutor? That's grand! What subjects do you teach?"

"Ah, all the usual ones. The classics."

"Mathematics? Latin?"

"Of course."

A broad smile lit her face. "Lingua Latina? Vero?"

Stephen barely suppressed a groan. Damn it all, the woman spoke Latin. He'd studied the language, of course, but he'd never excelled at it and hadn't attempted to speak it in years. He desperately conjugated a few verbs and hoped for the best. "Caput tuum saxum immane mittam."

Her smile faded into a puzzled frown. "Why would you want to throw an enormous rock at my head?"

He forced himself not to wince. Apparently he hadn't said "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance." "You misunderstood me, I'm sure." To divert her attention, he cleared this throat several times. "May I have some water?"

"Of course." She handed him a goblet.

He took several swallows and gave it back to her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Stephen." A blush colored her cheeks. "I really shouldn't call you Stephen. What is your surname?"

Without thinking Stephen answered "Barrett," and wished he was physically able to kick his own ass. So much for protecting my anonymity. He coughed several times then added, "Son. Barrettson."

"Stephen Barrettson …hmmm… the name Stephen means 'victorious' and Barrettson loosely translates to 'brave as a bear.'" She flashed him a crooked smile. "Studying the origins and meanings, of names is a hobby of mine. Yours is a very noble name indeed."

"For a commoner," Stephen added quickly.

"Oh, but there's nothing common about you at all, Mr. Barrettson. One need not be a peer of the realm to be a noble man."

"Indeed," Stephen said softly, wondering if he imagined the sudden bitterness he detected in her tone when she said "peer of the realm." If she harbors a low opinion of the nobility, I'm doubly glad I didn't tell her who I am. "Hayley is an unusual name. What does it mean?" To his surprise, a bright blush suffused her cheeks.

"It means 'from the hay meadow.'"

For the life of him Stephen couldn't imagine why "from the hay meadow" would cause the hectic color suffusing her face. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen a grown woman blush and realized he never had. Until now. All the women he knew were sophisticated, worldly, and more likely to set fire to themselves than to blush.

Unable to squelch his curiosity he asked, "Why are you blushing?"

Her color grew even more pronounced and she bit her lower lip, the corners of her mouth tilting up in a smile. "Am I blushing?"

"Profusely. And you look amused as well. Believe me, I could use a good jest. Why does 'hay meadow' cause you to bloom like a rose?"

"Perhaps I'll tell you when you're feeling stronger. I'd hate to shock you and have you suffer a relapse," she said, her amusement evident. "Besides, it's a story I couldn't possibly share until we know each other better."

Before he could question her intriguing words, she picked up a linen napkin from the tray and leaned forward.

"You missed a toast crumb," she said, brushing the cloth against his lower lip.

Stephen stared at her as she touched his mouth with the napkin and all thoughts of names promptly fled his mind. Her face was only inches from his, her magnificent eyes trained on his mouth. The tips of her full breasts lightly grazed his bandaged torso. The contact only lasted a few seconds, but it sent a jolt right to his loins. He felt himself stirring against the sheets and suddenly remembered.

He was naked.

To his utter shock, an embarrassed flush crept up his neck. He'd bedded more than his share of women, but here he was, blushing like a schoolboy.

"Ah, were you able to salvage my clothing?" he asked, bending his knees so she wouldn't notice the way the sheet was tenting on his lap. Just what I need. One more aching body part. How bloody delightful.

"I'm afraid your garments were ruined beyond repair, but I have a robe and several pairs of riding breeches and shirts that belonged to my father that will surely fit you. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I shall fetch them."

He breathed a sigh of relief when she left the room. What the hell is wrong with me? I must have hit my head damned hard for a country mouse to arouse me. By the time she returned several minutes later, her arms laden with clothes, he'd regained control of himself.

"Do you feel able to stand?" she asked. "Perhaps it might be better if you waited-"

"No. I'd like to move around a bit," Stephen said firmly. "But I believe I need some assistance. Could you send Grimpy to me?"

"Grimsley. And no, I'm afraid not. He's fishing at the lake with Andrew and Nathan."

"How about the other fellow your sister mentioned? The one with the hairy arms and tattoos?"

"Winston. He's also unavailable." She stood next to the bed, her hands planted on her hips, and for the first time Stephen noticed her attire. She wore a plain brown gown that would never be mistaken for fashionable or lust-inspiring. But there was something about her stance that captured his attention. His gaze traveled down the length of her, taking in every curve and hollow the drab gown hinted at-full breasts, slender waist, and what appeared to be amazingly long legs. How the hell had he missed what was clearly such a lush figure? I was too busy staring at her eyes. And her mouth. To his utter annoyance his manhood stirred again.

"I don't expect Winston or Grimsley to return to the house for several hours," she said. "If you don't wish to wait, I can assist you."

Much to his chagrin, he was in no condition to stand up. Damn it, didn't she realize he was naked? Had she no sense of propriety? "I can do it myself," he said, his voice tight.

"Nonsense. After lying flat on your back for a week, you'll feel dizzy until you regain your balance." She leaned over and grasped his forearms. When Stephen continued to resist, she looked at him, her eyes reflecting mild exasperation. "Would you prefer to remain abed, Mr. Barrettson?"

"Stephen. Call me Stephen. It's ridiculous for you to suddenly start calling me Mr. Barrettson," he all but snapped. "It's just that, well, I am-"

"You're naked under the sheet. Yes. I'm fully aware of that." Her matter-of-fact tone nettled him further. "But as I've been caring for you for the past week, there's no need to be embarrassed. I nursed my father during his illness. I am quite capable in these matters, I assure you." Her lips twitched. "I promise I won't look."

Stephen's face grew unaccountably warm. Was she laughing at him? The thought of this woman seeing him naked disturbed him in a way he didn't understand. And the fact that she'd seen to his needs yet seemed utterly unimpressed with his attributes irked him as well. There were scores of women in London who found him most impressive. But this country chit appeared perfectly calm, while he felt downright flustered.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more her composure irritated him, pushing him to needle her out of her complacency. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to throw a woman off balance. Looking directly into her eyes, he asked in a soft, flirtatious drawl, "I take it that it was you who disrobed me?"

Hectic color suffused her face and her amusement disappeared like a snuffed-out candle. She jerked upright, dropping his forearms as if he'd scalded her. "I … I merely assisted Winston and Grimsley. Time of was of the essence."

Her flustered reaction cheered him considerably, settling his ruffled feathers back into place. He could have stopped, but some inner demon urged him on. How much deeper could her cheeks glow? Curving his mouth into a slow grin, he said, "Well, as there's apparently nothing under this sheet that you haven't already seen, I suggest we … proceed."

Her cheeks reddened beyond crimson, stopping just short of scarlet. She swallowed visibly. "Proceed?"

"Yes. Why don't you hand me the robe?"

She hesitated, but didn't refuse his request. She held the black silk robe behind him and averted her head so quickly, he thought he heard her neck snap.

Feeling much more in control of himself and his situation, Stephen carefully slid his arms into the sleeves, his ribs groaning with every motion. After he tied the sash around his waist, he slowly brought his legs over the edge of the bed and, by grasping Hayley's arms, eased himself into a sitting position.

Waves of dizziness washed over him. Nausea cramped his stomach and for an awful moment he feared disgracing himself. He gritted his teeth and took slow breaths, as deep as his protesting ribs would allow. After several minutes, the dizziness and nausea passed.

Summoning all his strength, he grasped Hayley's hands and rose shakily to his feet. His damn legs felt like water, and he was forced to grab her shoulders for support. She wrapped her arms around his waist and supported him until he felt steady.

When he stopped wobbling, she asked, "How's that?"

Stephen looked at her and was almost thrown off balance as he found himself staring directly into her eyes. "Jesus! How tall are you?"

She raised her brows, her earlier embarrassment seemingly gone. "Exactly six feet in my stockings. How tall are you?"

"Six feet two." Stephen stared at her, amazed. He'd never seen such a strapping woman. She was a veritable Amazon. The women of the ton he associated with were almost exclusively petite, as were his mistresses. Who the hell ever heard of a six-foot-tall woman? But in spite of her height and drab clothing, she exuded a soft, feminine grace.

"Well, how utterly delightful that you are taller than me. Not many men are, you know."

"Yes, I can well imagine."

With her face only inches from his, Stephen could easily see that instead of being offended, she seemed to find his comments humorous.

"Believe me, I'm quite accustomed to my ungainly height and you of all people should be happy for it. I couldn't have dragged a large man such as yourself from that ravine had I been a tiny petite miss. In truth, my height is only a disadvantage on the dance floor, as I generally tower over all my partners' heads. Since I seldom attend dances and am rarely asked to dance when I do, I don't have too much to worry about."

Stephen listened to her words with half an ear, his efforts concentrated on not swaying on his feet. He grasped her shoulders, and her hands rested lightly on his waist, supporting him. The warmth of her palms touched him through the thin silk robe. With those incredibly full lips right in front of him and her beguiling aqua eyes looking into his, a sudden rush of blood flooded his loins. He let go of her so quickly, he nearly stumbled.

"Careful," she warned, wrapping her arm more snugly about his waist. "Lean your weight on me and perhaps we can take a few steps."

Gritting his teeth, Stephen placed his arm around her shoulder and took a tentative step. It was slow going, but they eventually made it around the room. She then helped him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I feel so damn weak," he muttered, disgusted that the short walk had exhausted him so.

"You've been very ill. Give yourself time to regain your strength. The doctor recommends that you not travel for several weeks to allow your ribs to heal. You are welcome to remain here with us for as long as you need." Crossing the room, she stood by the door. "Try to rest and I'll check on you in several hours." She turned to leave.

"Hayley."

She looked back, her gaze questioning.

"Thank you. For all you've done. You saved my life."

She smiled. An angel's smile. "You're very welcome." And then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her.

In London, a lone figure stared with narrowed eyes out the window of the Park Lane town house. Restless fingers clenched into fists and a spurt of hot, hate-filled anger ripped through the figure's veins. Where the hell are you, Stephen? If you're dead, why isn't your body where it's supposed to be? And if you're alive, why haven't you returned home? The figure took several deliberate, deep breaths in an effort to calm down. It matters not. If you're dead, your body will turn up eventually. And if you're alive … well, you won't be for long.

SHAPE \* MERGEFORMAT