Red Roses Mean Love

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

Chapter 4

At ten a.m. the following day, Justin Mallory, Earl of Blackmoor, glanced up from the mountain of papers piled on his desk.

'What is that you have, Randall?' he asked his unflappable butler who stood at attention next to the mahogany desk. 'I would hope not more correspondence.'

Randall bowed and presented an ornate silver salver with a sealed letter resting in the center. 'A young man delivered this, my lord, saying it was urgent and he would wait for a reply.'

Justin raised his brows. 'Urgent?'

'Yes, my lord. He said the note was given to him by a Miss Hayley Albright from Halstead, and was to be delivered to a Mr. Justin Mallory.' Randall's offended sniff left no doubt as to his feelings regarding such an unprecedented breach of etiquette.

'Indeed?' Justin glanced down at the note and froze when he read his name on the outside. He immediately recognized the distinctive slope of Stephen's handwriting. Why was Stephen sending him an urgent message through another person? 'Who did you say sent this?'

'A Miss Hayley Albright. From Halstead. I believe that's in Kent, my lord.'

'And where is the messenger?'

Randall pursed his thin lips. 'I left the ill-mannered lout on the doorstep.'

'I see. Leave me now. I'll send for him after I read the note.'

'Yes, my lord.' Randall left the room, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was alone, Justin opened the note and scanned its contents.

Dear Justin,

My plans to spend several days at my hunting lodge have changed. I am fine, but I need you to come to the Albright home in Halstead immediately. Everyone here believes my name is Stephen Barrettson and that I'm a tutor. Please bring me some clothing-not my finest, mind you-something more that a tutor would wear, and dress yourself accordingly. I ask that you identify yourself simply as Justin Mallory. I also request that you not reveal the contents of this letter or my whereabouts to anyone, including Victoria, until we have spoken. I shall expect you later today, tomorrow the latest, and I'll explain all.

Stephen

Justin glanced at a second sheet of paper that listed directions to the Albright home. What the devil sort of mess had Stephen gotten himself into? He reread the note. Whatever the problem, at least Stephen was all right, or he claimed to be. But something was clearly amiss.

Tucking the disturbing missive into his pocket, Justin strode to the foyer and pulled the heavy solid oak doors open. A young man sitting on the stoop looked up at him with an expectant expression.

'Are you Mr. Mallory?' the youth asked, jumping to his

'I am. You may tell Miss Albright to expect me this afternoon.' Without waiting for a reply, he shut the door and headed upstairs. The journey to Kent would probably take about three hours. There was much to do before he left, including finding a plausible excuse for canceling his dinner plans with his wife.

He stopped in midstride.

Just what the hell sort of clothing did tutors wear?

* * *

Justin stood outside Albright Cottage, his curious gaze taking stock of his surroundings. The large home sat in a clearing in the middle of the verdant countryside, surrounded by acres of beech trees. It was a rambling, ivy- covered structure that appeared to have been added on to over the years by several owners who possessed divergent tastes. The cumulative effect was surprisingly pleasing to the eye in a hodgepodge sort of way.

The house itself possessed a well-worn appearance that hovered about one step from shabby. Bare patches dotted the roof where shingles needed replacing, and several shutters hung at drunken angles. In contrast, an obviously well-tended flower garden bloomed with a profusion of colorful flowers, their heady fragrance saturating the summer air. A sparkling stream ran along the edge of the trees before curving into the forest and disappearing from view.

Justin knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a giant of a man wearing workmen's garb. The huge man glared at Justin through narrowed, clearly suspicious eyes.

'Stitch me to the mainsail and flap me in the breeze!' the giant said in a rough, gravelly voice, thrusting his face closer to Justin. 'I've got work to do around 'ere. Can't be spendin' all me time answerin' the bloody door. Who the hell are ya and wot do ya want?'

Justin took two steps back and cleared his throat. 'My name is Justin Mallory. I believe I am expected.'

'Who's at the door, Winston?' asked a feminine voice behind the giant. The door was pulled open wide, and a woman came into view.

'Some bloke from the Dustbin Gallery. Says we're expectin' 'im, but we've got all the dustbins we need.' The giant glared at Justin as if deciding whether to eat him for a snack or just pulverize him into the ground.

Not caring for either scenario, Justin sidestepped around the glaring 'butler,' giving him a wide berth, and held out his hand to the young woman. 'The name is Justin Mallory.'

'Hayley Albright,' she said with a friendly smile. She took Justin's hand and gave it a firm shake. Justin noted with relief that Miss Albright appeared far happier to see him than the giant who answered the door. After