Red Roses Mean Love

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 topped 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.