Red Roses Mean Love

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.