Red Roses Mean Love

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Grimsley's eyes widened. "Shot?" He glanced quickly about as if expecting pistol-toting highwaymen to materialize.

  Hayley nodded. "Yes. Luckily it appears to be only a flesh wound. Help me pull him out of the water. Be careful. I don't want to hurt him any more than necessary." Grimsley held the lantern while Hayley and Winston grabbed the man under his arms and dragged him from the stream.

  Hayley pulled out a knife from the supply bag and cut his jacket and shirt away from the wound. With Grimsley clutching the lantern, she examined his upper arm. Blood oozed from a nasty gash. Flecks of dirt dotted his skin, as did numerous scratches. Gritting her teeth, she pressed her fingers to the injury and nearly swooned with relief.

  "It's only a flesh wound. Bleeding, but no lead ball evident," she reported after a short, tense silence. Knowing they would need more bandages than the emergency few contained in the bag, she indicated her discarded petticoat with a jerk of her head.

  "Tear that into strips, Grimsley."

  Grimsley squinted at the garment and gasped. "But that's your petticoat, Miss Hayley!"

  Hayley took a deep breath and mentally counted to five. "These are dire circumstances, Grimsley. We cannot stand on ceremony. I am sure Papa would do the same thing were he here."

  Winston's eyes bugged out. "Captain Albright never wore no petticoat! Why 'is crew would have flogged him! Tossed 'im to the sharks!"

  Once again Hayley mentally counted-this time to ten. "I meant Papa would not have stood on ceremony. He would have done whatever was necessary to help this man." God, give me patience. Do not force me to cosh these two dear, infuriating men.

  Without further discussion, Grimsley tore the petticoat into bandages and passed them to Winston. He in turn wet them and handed them to Hayley. She bathed the wound as best she could, then applied pressure to it using clean bandages from her bag. Her eyes constantly flitted back to the man's face. She feared that every breath he drew might well be his last. Don't die on me. Please. Let me save you. When the bleeding finally slowed to a trickle, she bandaged his arm.

  She then turned her attention to the nasty gash on his head. The bleeding had nearly stopped. She bandaged it as well, first bathing the dirt away. After that, she gently touched his body looking for further injuries. A low groan passed his lips when she pressed his torso.

  "Broken or cracked ribs," she remarked. "Just like Papa suffered back in '11 when he fell from the porch railing." Winston and Grimsley nodded in silence. She continued her examination down his long frame, her hands gentle but firm.

  "Anything else, Miss Hayley?" Grimsley asked.

  "I don't believe so, but there's always the chance that he is bleeding inside. If so, he will not live through the night."

  Grimsley surveyed the surrounding desolate area and shook his head. "What are we going to do with him?"

  "Bring him home with us and take care of him," Hayley answered without hesitation.

  Grimsley's wrinkled face paled visibly. "But Miss Hayley! What if he's a lunatic of some sort? What if-"

  "His clothes-what's left of them-are fine quality. He is no doubt a gentleman, or employed by one." When Grimsley opened his mouth to speak again, Hayley held up her hand to silence him. "If he turns out to be a murdering lunatic, we will knock him on the head with a skillet, fling him out the door and send for the magistrate. In the meantime, we are bringing him home. Now. Before he dies as we speak."

  Grimsley sighed and his gaze traveled upward to where the stallion stood. "I somehow knew you were going to say that. But how are we going to get him up the hill?"

  "We're gonna carry 'im, ya wheezin' old fossil," Winston hollered close to Grimsley's ear, causing the older man to wince. "I'm strong as an ox, I am. I could lug this bloke twenty miles if I 'ad to." He turned to Hayley. "You can count on me, Miz Hayley. I'm no wispy bag o' bones-not like some people we know." He shot Grimsley a narrowed-eyed glare.

  "Thank you. Both of you. Grimsley, you lead the way with the lantern."

  "I'll carry his feet, Miss Hayley," Grimsley said with dignity. "You carry the lantern."

  A weary smile tugged at Hayley's lips and her earlier annoyance at the elderly man vanished. "Thank you, Grimsley, but I am already dirty and you are much more skilled at navigation with a lantern than I." Hayley saw that Winston was about to make a remark and she sent him a killing glare. Winston rolled his eyes heavenward and snapped his lips together.

  "Now," Hayley continued, "we must hurry and get him back to the house and into a warm bed as soon as possible."

  Winston grabbed the man under his arms, while Hayley struggled with his feet. Dear God, the man weighed more than Andrew and Nathan combined, and her brothers were no flimsy wisps. She may have spared Grimsley's feelings, but her back would hurt for it tomorrow. For the first time in her life, she gave thanks for her unfeminine height and strength. Perhaps she towered over most men's heads and couldn't dance with any amount of grace, but by God she could lug her share of a heavy man up a hill.

  They slipped twice on their way up, and both times Hayley's heart ached when the man groaned, hating that they were hurting him but unable to avoid it. The ground was treacherous with mud and rocks. Her clothes were beyond ruined, and her knees scraped raw from the sharp stones, but she never considered giving up. In fact, her discomfort only made her more determined. If she was suffering, the man was suffering more.

  "Blimey, this bloke's heavier than 'e looks," Winston panted when they finally reached the top. After resting for a brief moment to catch their breath, they carried the man back to the gig with Grimsley leading the stallion by the reins. The man groaned several more times, and Hayley's heart clenched. The going was slow, but at least Winston and Grimsley had ceased bickering.

  When they arrived at their vehicle, Hayley instructed, "Let's lay him down across the seat. Make him as comfortable as possible." That accomplished, she breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was still alive. "Grimsley, you watch over the man. Winston, drive the gig. I shall ride the stallion."

  The journey home would take another two hours. Sitting astride the huge horse, Hayley pressed her heels to the animal's flanks and offered up a silent, fervent prayer the man would survive that long.

  * * *

  In a dark alley near the London waterfront, a plain hired hack drew to a stop. The sole occupant of the coach watched through a slit in the curtain as two men approached.

  "Is he dead?" the occupant asked in a low whisper.

  Willie, the taller of the two men, curled his lips back. "'Course 'e's dead. We told ye we'd get rid of the toff and we did." His beady eyes flickered with menace.

  "Where is the body?"

  "Facedown in a stream 'bout an hour's ride from Town," Willie said, then gave exact directions to the location.

  "Excellent."

  Willie leaned forward. "The job's done, so we'd be likin' our blunt now."

  A hand swathed in a black leather glove reached out the window and dropped a bag into Willie's outstretched hand. Without another word, the curtain closed. A signal was given to the driver and the carriage disappeared into the night.

  A satisfied smile curved the lips of the occupant of the hack.

  He was dead.

  Stephen Alexander Barrett, eighth Marquess of Glenfield, was finally, finally dead.

  SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT

  Chapter 2

  Stephen was dreaming.

  Hands, many hands, were carrying him, buoying him as a boat bobs along a sparkling stream. He felt weightless, like a cloud floating in a bright blue summer sky, drifting in a warm breeze. Something deliciously cool touched his brow. The scent of roses filled his nostrils. Voices surrounded him… soft, comforting voices. And then suddenly all was quiet.

  With an effort he dragged his eyes open. He saw a woman. A beautiful woman with shiny chestnut-colored hair. She smiled at him.

  "You're safe now," she said, gently squeezing his hand, "but you are seriously ill. You must try very hard to get
better. I'll stay right beside you until you are healed. I promise."

  Stephen stared at her, transfixed by her lovely face, her gentle touch, her soft voice. The look of deep concern in her eyes confused him. Where was he? And who was she? And why the hell did he feel so bloody awful? His head throbbed. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire and it seemed a huge boulder sat on his chest. He tried to move his arm and gave up when a blinding flash of pain sizzled through him.

  The woman pressed something wonderfully cool to his forehead. The soothing sensation felt like heaven against his burning skin.

  Heaven.

  Of course. He must be in heaven. She must be an angel.

  The welcome coolness touched his brow once more and his eyes drifted closed. He was dead, but what did it matter?

  He'd been touched by an angel.

  * * *

  "Has his condition improved, Hayley?" Pamela's soft, feminine voice asked from the doorway.

  Hayley turned toward her sister and read the concern in her eyes. "I'm afraid not," she reported to the pretty eighteen year old. "His fever hasn't broken, and he keeps drifting in and out of delirium."

  Pamela crossed the room and laid a comforting hand on Hayley's shoulder. Hayley squeezed her sister's hand and summoned up a smile, hoping to erase the worried expression from Pamela's face.

  "Is there anything I can do?" Pamela asked, her brow furrowed. "Shall I take over for you? It's been a week, and you've hardly rested."

  "Perhaps later, but I would dearly love a cup of tea. Would you bring me one?"

  "Of course. I'll also bring a dinner tray for you. You must remember to keep up your own strength."

  "I'm as strong as a horse," Hayley reassured her. In truth, she felt decidedly weak at the moment, but she would never admit it to Pamela. Her sister would only worry more, and that was the last thing Hayley wanted. Pamela had only recently recovered from a stomach ailment herself. She looked much too pale and fragile for Hayley's peace of mind.

  "You'll fall over if you keep this up," Pamela warned. "I'm going to get your dinner, and you'll eat every bit. Or else."

  "Or else what?"

  Pamela leaned closer. "Or else I'll tell Pierre you didn't like the meal he prepared."

  A genuine smile touched Hayley's face for the first time in days. "Good heavens, not that! Such an insult to our esteemed French cook would bode very badly for me."

  "Indeed. So when I return, you shall eat. Or suffer 'zee consequences.'" After casting a warning frown in Hayley's direction, Pamela left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Alone with her patient, Hayley gently bathed his face again and again with a cool cloth. His wounds were no longer life-threatening, but the fever he'd contracted was. His body felt like an inferno beneath her fingers. For the past week she had ached for him, watching him drift in and out of delirium, groaning, thrashing helplessly in the huge bed, his skin so hot, his face so pale. The doctor had paid a visit the morning after they brought him home and had left the room shaking his head.

  "There's nothing you can do, Miss Hayley," Dr. Wentbridge said, his expression grave. "Just keep him as comfortable as possible and pray the end comes quickly. Only a miracle could save him."

  And so Hayley prayed for a miracle.

  Six years ago, her mother had died in this bed giving birth to Callie. Her father had died here too. She would not allow anyone else to die.

  Hayley continued her ministrations, reflecting on how much her circumstances had changed since her beloved Papa's demise three years ago. Sea captain Tripp Albright died a slow, agonizing death that almost killed Hayley to watch, and left her at the age of three and twenty completely responsible for her two younger brothers and two younger sisters. She was mother, father, sister, nursemaid, housekeeper, and wage earner-responsibilities she would never consider abandoning, but that often left her physically exhausted and emotionally drained.

  Upon Tripp Albright's death, his sister Olivia moved in with the family to help with the children. Hayley also inherited her father's former crew-Winston, Grimsley, and Pierre-three heartbroken sailors whose love of sea adventures died along with their captain. They'd vowed that if they could no longer care for Captain Albright, they would honor their deathbed promise to him to care for his family. The men refused to be paid as servants, each insisting they had adequate savings to live on.

  That turned out to be a blessing. To Hayley's dismay, she discovered she'd also inherited a veritable mountain of debts incurred by her lovable but financially inept father. Convinced she could handle the situation, Hayley kept the news to herself, unwilling to burden her grieving family with further problems.

  Handling things on her own, however, proved a daunting task, and Hayley recalled how in those early months she'd often cried herself to sleep. In a heartbeat her youth was gone, replaced by an impenetrable wall of responsibility. She desperately missed her parents, their love, guidance, and support. She was left with a houseload of hungry people counting on her, and less than one hundred pounds in currency. Ninety-eight pounds, ten shillings, to be exact.

  And she felt so alone. The one person she thought she could confide in had abandoned her when she needed him most. Jeremy Popplemore, her fiancé, cried off rather than burden himself with her family. He'd treated himself to an extended trip to the Continent and she hadn't seen him since.

  She remembered her rage at Jeremy's desertion. She'd been sorely tempted to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until his lips turned blue. But after wallowing in self-pity for two days, Hayley dried her eyes, stiffened her spine, and rolled up her sleeves, wading waist-deep into the tasks facing her. She loved her family. They were the most important thing to her. They needed her and she would do right by them.

  A smile tugged at her lips when she recalled how her fury in those early days had worked in her favor. She likened herself to a general, passing out orders, delegating chores, issuing commands. It was hard work, but everyone rose to the occasion, and within a year she'd managed to shovel her way through part of the wreckage.

  Unfortunately money was a constant source of concern. There were few moneymaking options available to young ladies, so her desperate situation called for equally desperate measures. Swallowing her guilt along with her pride, she did what she had to do to bring in funds, but she was forced to conduct her activities in strict privacy. The deception ate at her soul. She valued honesty above all else, but her circumstances left her without options.

  The man who employed her insisted on secrecy, and she reluctantly honored his wishes. The money she made was too substantial and too necessary to risk. If she had to deceive her family to keep food in their stomachs and a roof over their heads, so be it. After Pamela married and the boys and Cassie were properly educated, she would stop. Until then, she couldn't risk jeopardizing her income by telling them the truth. As far as everyone knew, Tripp Albright had left them sufficient funds to live on.

  Frowning at the direction her thoughts had taken, she resolutely shook off her sadness. I have more to be thankful for than most people, she reminded herself. The Albrights might not have much, but they had each other. Her gaze wandered down to the sick man. I have more than you at this moment, you poor man.

  She replaced the warmed cloth on her patient's forehead with a fresh cool one. He looked so helpless and pale-just as her mother and father had before succumbing-and a wave of grim determination replaced her weariness. This time she would not fail.

  "You are going to live," she vowed in a fierce whisper. "Whoever you are, I swear you will get up and walk out of this room and return to your family."

  She pressed the damp cloth to his hot skin and allowed her gaze to drift over him. The thick white bandage wrapped around his forehead provided a startling contrast to his raven hair. The scrapes and bruises on his face were healing nicely, though even at their worst they did not hide his incredibly handsome features.

  A week's growth of beard shaded his strong jaw, casting his
countenance in a series of intriguing shadows. High cheekbones accentuated his straight nose, and she imagined he'd be quite spectacular with his firm, full lips curved upward in a smile. She wondered for the hundredth time what color eyes were concealed by the fan of dark eyelashes lying against his pale skin. Even in her wildest dreams she could not have conjured up such a devastatingly attractive man.

  She remoistened her cloth and ran it gently down his neck onto his left shoulder. His ribs were tightly taped, but the upper portion of his chest and shoulders remained bare, the white sheet tucked under his arms. The thick mat of dark hair covering his broad chest tickled Hayley's fingertips as she ran the cloth over him. Glancing down the length of him, her face grew warm, recalling the sight of the body she knew lay bare under the sheet.

  Aided by Grimsley and Winston, she'd removed the remainder of the man's filthy, torn clothing the night they brought him home. Hayley wasn't unfamiliar with the male anatomy. She'd all but raised her two younger brothers-impish rascals who until several years ago were quite fond of shucking their clothes and swimming in the lake without a stitch on.

  But there was a vast difference between her brother's adolescent boyishness and the man who lay in her father's big bed. After that first night Grimsley or Winston had taken over the intimacies of sponge-bathing the man, but the vision of him was permanently blazed in Hayley's memory. Even covered with scratches and bruises, he was beautiful-like a Greek God carved in marble. Sculpted, muscular, and perfectly formed.

  Forcing her thoughts away from such disturbing images, she changed the bandage covering the wound on his upper arm. There was no sense in finding this stranger attractive. He belonged elsewhere. His family was no doubt frantic with worry for him. He might even have a wife, although he wore no ring.

  Hayley mentally shook herself. Three years had passed since she'd felt the slightest stirring for a man. But she could not afford to indulge in useless daydreams, having learned long ago the futility of wanting things she could not have.