Red Roses Mean Love

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.

SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT

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