Red Roses Mean Love

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  He was naked.

  To his utter shock, an embarrassed flush crept up his neck. He'd bedded more than his share of women, but here he was, blushing like a schoolboy.

  "Ah, were you able to salvage my clothing?" he asked, bending his knees so she wouldn't notice the way the sheet was tenting on his lap. Just what I need. One more aching body part. How bloody delightful.

  "I'm afraid your garments were ruined beyond repair, but I have a robe and several pairs of riding breeches and shirts that belonged to my father that will surely fit you. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I shall fetch them."

  He breathed a sigh of relief when she left the room. What the hell is wrong with me? I must have hit my head damned hard for a country mouse to arouse me. By the time she returned several minutes later, her arms laden with clothes, he'd regained control of himself.

  "Do you feel able to stand?" she asked. "Perhaps it might be better if you waited-"

  "No. I'd like to move around a bit," Stephen said firmly. "But I believe I need some assistance. Could you send Grimpy to me?"

  "Grimsley. And no, I'm afraid not. He's fishing at the lake with Andrew and Nathan."

  "How about the other fellow your sister mentioned? The one with the hairy arms and tattoos?"

  "Winston. He's also unavailable." She stood next to the bed, her hands planted on her hips, and for the first time Stephen noticed her attire. She wore a plain brown gown that would never be mistaken for fashionable or lust-inspiring. But there was something about her stance that captured his attention. His gaze traveled down the length of her, taking in every curve and hollow the drab gown hinted at-full breasts, slender waist, and what appeared to be amazingly long legs. How the hell had he missed what was clearly such a lush figure? I was too busy staring at her eyes. And her mouth. To his utter annoyance his manhood stirred again.

  "I don't expect Winston or Grimsley to return to the house for several hours," she said. "If you don't wish to wait, I can assist you."

  Much to his chagrin, he was in no condition to stand up. Damn it, didn't she realize he was naked? Had she no sense of propriety? "I can do it myself," he said, his voice tight.

  "Nonsense. After lying flat on your back for a week, you'll feel dizzy until you regain your balance." She leaned over and grasped his forearms. When Stephen continued to resist, she looked at him, her eyes reflecting mild exasperation. "Would you prefer to remain abed, Mr. Barrettson?"

  "Stephen. Call me Stephen. It's ridiculous for you to suddenly start calling me Mr. Barrettson," he all but snapped. "It's just that, well, I am-"

  "You're naked under the sheet. Yes. I'm fully aware of that." Her matter-of-fact tone nettled him further. "But as I've been caring for you for the past week, there's no need to be embarrassed. I nursed my father during his illness. I am quite capable in these matters, I assure you." Her lips twitched. "I promise I won't look."

  Stephen's face grew unaccountably warm. Was she laughing at him? The thought of this woman seeing him naked disturbed him in a way he didn't understand. And the fact that she'd seen to his needs yet seemed utterly unimpressed with his attributes irked him as well. There were scores of women in London who found him most impressive. But this country chit appeared perfectly calm, while he felt downright flustered.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more her composure irritated him, pushing him to needle her out of her complacency. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was how to throw a woman off balance. Looking directly into her eyes, he asked in a soft, flirtatious drawl, "I take it that it was you who disrobed me?"

  Hectic color suffused her face and her amusement disappeared like a snuffed-out candle. She jerked upright, dropping his forearms as if he'd scalded her. "I … I merely assisted Winston and Grimsley. Time of was of the essence."

  Her flustered reaction cheered him considerably, settling his ruffled feathers back into place. He could have stopped, but some inner demon urged him on. How much deeper could her cheeks glow? Curving his mouth into a slow grin, he said, "Well, as there's apparently nothing under this sheet that you haven't already seen, I suggest we … proceed."

  Her cheeks reddened beyond crimson, stopping just short of scarlet. She swallowed visibly. "Proceed?"

  "Yes. Why don't you hand me the robe?"

  She hesitated, but didn't refuse his request. She held the black silk robe behind him and averted her head so quickly, he thought he heard her neck snap.

  Feeling much more in control of himself and his situation, Stephen carefully slid his arms into the sleeves, his ribs groaning with every motion. After he tied the sash around his waist, he slowly brought his legs over the edge of the bed and, by grasping Hayley's arms, eased himself into a sitting position.

  Waves of dizziness washed over him. Nausea cramped his stomach and for an awful moment he feared disgracing himself. He gritted his teeth and took slow breaths, as deep as his protesting ribs would allow. After several minutes, the dizziness and nausea passed.

  Summoning all his strength, he grasped Hayley's hands and rose shakily to his feet. His damn legs felt like water, and he was forced to grab her shoulders for support. She wrapped her arms around his waist and supported him until he felt steady.

  When he stopped wobbling, she asked, "How's that?"

  Stephen looked at her and was almost thrown off balance as he found himself staring directly into her eyes. "Jesus! How tall are you?"

  She raised her brows, her earlier embarrassment seemingly gone. "Exactly six feet in my stockings. How tall are you?"

  "Six feet two." Stephen stared at her, amazed. He'd never seen such a strapping woman. She was a veritable Amazon. The women of the ton he associated with were almost exclusively petite, as were his mistresses. Who the hell ever heard of a six-foot-tall woman? But in spite of her height and drab clothing, she exuded a soft, feminine grace.

  "Well, how utterly delightful that you are taller than me. Not many men are, you know."

  "Yes, I can well imagine."

  With her face only inches from his, Stephen could easily see that instead of being offended, she seemed to find his comments humorous.

  "Believe me, I'm quite accustomed to my ungainly height and you of all people should be happy for it. I couldn't 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 f
igure 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 grumbling something unintelligible, the behemoth stomped from the house, heading toward the gardens.

  Justin took measure of the woman in front of him. She was unfashionably tall, but very attractive. He noted that she regarded him with lively curiosity as well.

  "Please come in, Mr. Mallory," she said, leading him inside the small foyer. "We've been expecting you." Her voice dropped to an undertone. "I hope you'll forgive Winston," she said, indicating the departing man with a nod of her head. "He tends to be a bit overprotective."

  Justin raised his brows. "Indeed? I hadn't noticed."

  Miss Albright cast him a sidelong glance and laughed. "Winston means well, and I assure you his bark is worse than his bite."

  "My relief knows no bounds, Miss Albright."

  She laughed again, a warm, delightful sound, and led him through several spacious yet sparsely furnished rooms, them out a set of French windows to a small terrace. Following behind her, Justin couldn't help but admire the attractive curve of her hips that even her plain brown gown could not hide. He wondered what role the lovely Miss Albright played in Stephen's change of plans.

  "Mr. Barrettson is over there, in the garden," she said, pointing to a figure in the distance. "Just follow this path and you will reach him. When you two are finished talking, please come back and I'll serve refreshments." She turned and reentered the house, and Justin made his way swiftly down the path.

  * * *

  "It certainly took you long enough to get here," Stephen said by way of greeting, several minutes later when Justin came into view. Stephen fought to hide his amusement when a look of utter amazement crossed his brother-in-law's face.

  "Stephen? Is that really you?"

  "In the flesh," Stephen confirmed, "although with my face covered in whiskers and this bandage wrapped about my head, I barely recognize myself. And wait until you see this."

  Stephen stood and suppressed a laugh as Justin's mouth dropped open. Stephen's form appeared shrunken in a huge white billowing shirt with the sleeves hanging well below his wrists. Breeches several sizes too large hung on his frame.

  "Good God, man," Justin said, his voice filled with alarm. "What has happened to you? You've withered away and shriveled to nothingness. Are you ill?"

  "No, at least not anymore." A sheepish grin touched Stephen's lips. "These garments belonged to Hayley's father. You
can see why I asked you to bring me some clothes. Apparently Papa Albright was rather large."

  "What do you mean 'not anymore'? Were you ill?"

  Instead of answering, Stephen indicated the path before them, with a wave of his hand. "Come, let us walk. I have quite a story to tell you."

  "All right," Justin agreed.

  They hadn't gone three paces before Stephen felt himself undergoing a thorough scrutiny.

  "I barely recognized you with the beard, Stephen. I must say, it lends you a rather rakish air. No doubt the ladies in London would find you more irresistible than usual."

  Stephen lifted his fingers to his jaw and rubbed his prickly face. "The only reason I haven't rid myself of this damned facial hair is because I've never shaved myself before and I don't care to bleed to death trying to learn. But these whiskers are going to have to go. They itch like hell."

  After a momentary pause, Justin said, "Surely you realize I'm eaten up with curiosity. Your cryptic note explained nothing. What on earth is going on? Tell me everything down to the last detail."

  While they walked down a tree-lined path through the forest, Stephen related the events of the past week to Justin. When he finished, Justin stared at him with a grim expression.

  "My God, Stephen. That young woman saved your life."

  "Yes."

  "And you believe this was the second attempt to kill you?"

  "It appears that way. I passed off the incident last month as a robbery gone bad, but now I'm not inclined to do so."

  "Why didn't you tell me-"

  "I wasn't hurt, and I didn't think it important."

  "Not important? Good God, Stephen. Who would want to kill you? And why?"