Pamela reached out and grasped Hayley's hands in a hard, comforting squeeze. "Oh, Hayley … this must be so hard for you, but you're doing all you can … all that is humanly possible. Just as you did for Mama and Papa."
"Mama and Papa both died," Hayley whispered, dismayed when she felt a tear slide down her face. She really did not want to cry. She hated crying. Another hot droplet eased down her cheek.
"But not because of you," Pamela said fiercely. "It was God's will and no one's fault."
Hayley fought the wave of grief and almost blind terror threatening to engulf her. "I don't want him to die, Pamela."
Pamela knelt down and gathered Hayley into her arms. "Of course you don't want him to die. We all want him to live. But it's in God's hands, Hayley. Trust His will. And in the meanwhile, you must not make yourself ill. We need you, too. We're hanging on, but we cannot cope without you much longer."
Hayley blinked back her tears and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. When she'd sufficiently mastered her emotions, she pulled back from Pamela's embrace and managed a weak smile. "As soon as he is better…"
"I know." A tender smile touched Pamela's lips. "I believe your stubbornness alone will see this man cured. Heaven knows it keeps the rest of us in line. But we miss you. Callie says her tea parties aren't the same without you, and Andrew and Nathan bicker constantly without you to intervene. And between Grimsley's eyesight, Winston's hollering, Aunt Olivia's poor hearing, and Pierre's grumbling, I fear my sanity is in jeopardy. I don't wish to concern you, but I fear anarchy is just around the corner."
An involuntary chuckle escaped Hayley and she felt immediately better. Her sister's gentle humor always cheered her up. She tapped her fingers to her chin. "Just tell Pierre everything he prepares is divine," she advised Pamela, "and make sure you keep the cat away from him. While I don't believe he'd actually carry out his threat to cook Bertha, we'd best not tempt fate. As for Winston—"
"Ye Gods!" Pamela broke in, slapping her forehead. "I nearly forgot. You won't believe what he did today."
Half alarmed, half amused, Hayley asked, "Do I want to know?"
"Probably not. Grimsley and I were outside helping Aunt Olivia. The dogs had overturned the washtub, the boys and Callie jumped into the fray, and chaos was reigning. Unfortunately the vicar chose that moment to stop by on his weekly rounds."
"Don't tell me Winston answered the door!"
"Answered the door bellowing, 'Who the blimey hell are ya and wot the blimey hell do ya want?' The vicar nearly dropped dead away."
"Oh dear," Hayley gasped, trying her best not to laugh but failing miserably.
"Oh dear indeed. It took two glasses of Papa's best brandy before the poor man regained himself."
"You must keep Winston busy outside," Hayley said, her shoulders still shaking with laughter. She knew she shouldn't find the episode funny, but she did. Winston was such a lovable character. Foulmouthed, to be sure, but underneath his gruff exterior beat the heart of a kitten. "Keep him busy repairing the roof on the chicken coop."
"He cusses at the chickens, Hayley."
"Yes, but they don't seem to mind. We apparently own some very hardy chickens. Or perhaps they are simply deaf. And the picnic is a good idea. The children will run about and tire themselves out."
"That is my fondest hope," Pamela agreed with a laugh.
Hayley paused and thoughtfully studied her sister for a moment. Shiny ebony curls surrounded a face of delicate beauty. Impossibly long lashes surrounded Pamela's dark blue eyes, and her complexion put the roses to shame. She was sweet-natured, kindhearted, and unassuming. In Hayley's opinion, a lovelier girl did not exist in all of Halstead. Several young men were already taking notice of Pamela. One young man in particular. Hayley was determined that Pamela would enjoy the excitement and discovery of courtship, and that she'd be dressed appropriately. No matter what.
She'd been tempted so many times to share the burden of her secret with Pamela, but Hayley knew that if her sister suspected that money was a source of concern she wouldn't permit Hayley to buy new gowns for her.
Hayley smiled. "You're doing a wonderful job with the children, Pamela. Being in charge is good practice for when you have a family of your own."
A bright blush bloomed on her sister's cheeks. Emitting an embarrassed cough, Pamela headed for the door. "Do you need anything else before I retire?"
A miracle. "No thank you. Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning."
Alone again, Hayley laid her hand on the man's forehead. To her profound relief, his skin felt cooler. Perhaps his fever would break after all.
After bathing her patient's skin for another hour, Hayley could no longer hold her weariness at bay. She curled up on the overstuffed settee that had served as her bed for the past week.
In spite of her best efforts to remain alert, it wasn't long before her eyelids drooped closed. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was to wonder if the handsome stranger would ever wake up.
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 t
hat 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 A
unt 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."
RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 3
