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 to
pped 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. Unt
il 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—"
RED ROSES MEAN LOVE Page 4
