Red Roses Mean Love Read online

  A knot lodged in Stephen's throat. A knot that became nearly unbearable when Callie threw herself against him, wrapping her small arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. He hesitated, then hugged the child to him, his heart expanding at her show of gratitude. What a unique feeling, being hugged by a child. Unique, incredible, and heart-stoppingly wonderful.

  "I love you, too, Mr. Barrettson," Callie whispered into his neck. She planted a damp kiss on his cheek with pursed lips, then leaned back and smiled at him, her eyes glowing.

  Bloody hell, the child was going to completely unman him. Stephen cleared his throat, and somehow managed to smile at the child. "I believe it's time for you and Miss Josephine to get into bed," he said, his voice husky with emotion.

  Callie clambered into her bed, and Stephen tucked the covers around her and Miss Josephine. He wasn't sure he'd done it correctly, but Callie immediately yawned and closed her eyes. Within moments her breathing grew deep and regular with sleep.

  Stephen stood at the edge of the bed for several moments watching her. Shiny dark hair surrounded her small face in a halo of curls. Her lashes created dark crescents on her chubby cheeks, and her little bow mouth looked as if it had been stolen from a cherub.

  I love you, Mr. Barrettson. God help him.

  Stephen left the room, quietly closing the door after him.

  * * *

  When he entered his bedchamber, Steven made a beeline for the brandy decanter. Damnation, the people of this household were going to rob him of his wits. He didn't know how it had happened, but each one of them had somehow managed to sneak with the stealth of a master thief into his jaded heart and steal a piece.

  And none more completely than Hayley. Dear God, he hadn't even realized he possessed a soul until she touched it with her warmth and loving, courageous compassion. She was an angel who tempted him beyond reason and made him feel things he'd never felt before-things he couldn't begin to describe-that squeezed his insides together and made his chest feel queer.

  Feeling decidedly unsettled, he tossed back his brandy and quickly poured another one. It was indeed a good thing he was leaving Albright Cottage. He was entirely too involved with these people-with their lives and their problems. He couldn't allow himself to care for them.

  He dropped his head into his hands.

  It was too late.

  Damn it, he already cared. About all of them.

  He tried to force his thoughts away from the time he'd just spent with Callie, and failed. He knew absolutely nothing about little girls, but when he found her crying over her beloved doll, he thought his heart would break. He would have slayed dragons to make her smile again.

  And he'd succeeded. He looked down at his sore fingers and a rueful smile touched his lips. At least he didn't have a tattoo on his fingertips. God in heaven, what a beautiful child. So open and honest and innocent. I love you, too, Mr. Barrettson.

  No one had ever said those words to him before. Not his mother, his father, his sister, or any of his numerous paramours. No one. In truth, he'd never given those three little words a moment's thought until he heard them from a six-year-old child who looked at him with shining, worshipful eyes, eyes that were exact duplicates of her older sister's. How extraordinary that a child has experienced love, when I, a person who supposedly has everything, have not.

  Stephen drank deeply, the potent liquor burning a fiery path to his belly. He groaned as his thoughts switched from Callie to Hayley. Damn it all, he had to stop thinking about Hayley. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not force his thoughts away from her. He recalled their time together the night before; Hayley soft and trembling in his arms, experiencing her first taste of passion. The silky, rose-scented texture of her skin, the velvety warmth of her femininity clutching his fingers, her sighs of wonder, the caress of her lips against his mouth.

  Within forty-eight hours he would be back in London, out of her life. His gut clenched with an ache he dared not try to put a name to. Damn it, the woman was under his skin and he didn't know how to get her out. He had to get her out, for both their sakes.

  Muttering a heartfelt obscenity, he grabbed the decanter, poured himself another brandy, and sunk into the wing chair next to the fire, with a loud sigh.

  It was nearly four in the morning. He tossed back his drink and poured another.

  Would this night never end?

  * * *

  Hayley lay on her side in bed, her eyes wide-open, staring at the gown hanging in her opened wardrobe, thinking of the man who gave it to her.

  Stephen.

  Breathing a rapturous sigh, she closed her eyes, picturing his handsome face. She could almost smell his clean-woodsy scent, feel his hands on her body, the caress of his lips against hers.

  Never had she suspected that at this late point in her life she would fall madly, desperately in love. The only question was what, if anything, she should do about it?

  Stephen had a life, a job, far away from Halstead. Her family was her primary concern.

  Would he consider seeking employment in Halstead? Did she dare ask? If she didn't ask, wouldn't she spend the rest of her life regretting it, wondering what his answer might have been? But what if she dared ask and he refused?

  My heart would break.

  But what if he stayed?

  Hayley squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, afraid even to dream he might remain, terrified to hope he might fall in love with her. That they could have a future together. Would he be willing to take on her entire family?

  So much to risk, so much to lose.

  So very much to gain.

  Hayley tossed her options around in her mind over and over again, not reaching a decision until nearly dawn.

  As the sun broke over the horizon, casting a pale orange glow in the sky, she finally drifted off to sleep, her decision made.

  She was going to tell Stephen how she felt about him and ask him to settle in Halstead. Then she was going to pray he said yes.

  So much to risk, so very much to gain.

  SHAPE * MERGEFORMAT

  Chapter 19

  Stephen awoke the next morning-actually, early the next afternoon-with one of the worst hangovers he'd had in years. His head ached with an unrelenting throb that made thinking nearly impossible. He arose from bed and gingerly made his way to the windows, carefully drawing back the heavy curtains.

  Big mistake.

  The bright sunshine hit his eyes, and he staggered backward away from the offending light with a heartfelt groan. Abstinence was definitely not good for him. His stomach lurched and he groaned again. Come to think of it, brandy wasn't good for him either.

  Swearing to drink nothing but tea for the rest of his natural days, he dressed slowly, every movement sending shafts of pain through his aching head. Dear God, he desperately needed one of those hateful concoctions Sigfried mixed up for him on the rare occasions he overimbibed.

  When he was finally clothed, Stephen made his way down the stairs in desperate search of coffee. After peering into the dining room and finding it deserted, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found Pierre in the process of cleaning fish. The briny odor nearly buckled his knees.

  "You look like you suffer from mal de mer, Monsieur Barrettson," Pierre said.

  "I feel even worse, I assure you," Stephen replied, carefully sitting down on a straight-backed chair in front of a large wooden table. He dropped his aching head into his hands. "Could I trouble you for some coffee?"

  Pierre put down his knife and wiped his hands on a towel. "Too much of zee captain's French brandy?" he asked with a knowing smile.

  Stephen nodded, then wished he hadn't. And someone needed to tell the damn cat to stop stomping around.

  "Pierre know just how to fix monsieur up. You'll feel better in no time."

  Stephen didn't reply, he merely sat cradling his pounding head in his hands, and groaned.

  Five minutes later Pierre placed a goblet in front of Stephen. Stephen raised hi
s head and looked at it with bleary eyes.

  "What is that?" he asked, not caring.

  "Just drink," Pierre commanded in an imperious tone.

  Stephen sniffed at the contents. "Phew! What the hell is this?"

  "Secret recipe. Drink."

  What the hell. If it doesn't cure me, perhaps it will kill me. Either way, I'll feel better. He tossed back the concoction and swallowed. It was easily the vilest tasting thing he'd ever drunk. He wondered if perhaps Pierre's plan really was to make him feel better by killing him off.

  Pierre took the empty goblet and went back to his fish. "You will feel better very soon. Pierre is zee master."

  Stephen sat perfectly still in the straight-backed chair, his eyes closed, his head resting on his palms. He hadn't drunk so much brandy since he'd been a callow youth. The Albrights were indeed going to be the very death of him. He felt like death right now.

  But after a few minutes, he didn't feel quite so deathlike anymore. In fact, he felt better with each passing moment. After ten minutes, he actually felt quite human. He lifted his head, moving his neck experimentally. The throbbing ache was gone. He looked at Pierre in amazement.

  "Feeling better, Monsieur Barrettson?" Pierre asked, never looking up from his fish-cleaning task.

  "I feel quite the thing," Stephen said, amazed. Even Sigfried's elixir was inferior to Pierre's. "What on earth did you give me?"

  "Secret family recipe. It is zee best, yes?"

  "Zee best," Stephen agreed.

  "I think you're hungry now," Pierre predicted with a sage nod.

  "Starving, actually," Stephen said, surprised. Ten minutes ago, he'd thought he'd never eat again.

  Without a word, Pierre prepared a light meal while Stephen sipped at a cup of strong coffee. He looked around the kitchen with interest, his eyes noting the huge fireplace and the dozens of pots, pans, and utensils hanging above Pierre's work area. It suddenly occurred to Stephen that this room was very warm, cozy and friendly. It also occurred to him that it was the first time in his life he'd ever been in a kitchen.

  "Voilà!" Pierre said, placing a tray in front of Stephen. "You eat and you'll feel très bien for party tonight."

  "Thank you," Stephen said, digging into the eggs with unaccustomed gusto. He ate every bite, then leaned back in his chair, feeling sated and better than he thought possible. He enjoyed another cup of coffee while watching Pierre clean fish after fish.

  "I take it Andrew and Nathan went fishing this morning," Stephen remarked after a while.

  "Oui. Whole family go. Bring home piles of fish. Pierrevery busy."

  "Where are they now?"

  Pierre shrugged. "I think at lake with zee dogs." A fierce frown settled on his face. "Those dogs! Quelle horreur! Make a big mess. Make a big stink. Pierre no like them in his kitchen."

  "Perfectly understandable," Stephen murmured, shuddering to imagine the havoc those beasts could wreak in the kitchen. He rose and approached Pierre, watching with fascination how the small man cleaned the fish.

  Pierre's blade swished back and forth with an economy of movement, and the pile of cleaned fish grew ever higher. After watching for several minutes, Stephen felt a sudden urge to try his hand at it.

  "Mind if I help?" he asked casually.

  Pierre stopped and eyed him for a moment before speaking. "You ever clean fish before?"

  "No."

  "Pierre teach." He handed Stephen a knife and a small fish. "First you cut off head," Pierre said, and proceeded to demonstrate. Stephen held the fish by the tail and copied Pierre's actions.

  "Then you cut down here and get rid of zee insides."

  Stephen mimicked Pierre, slicing down the fish's belly and scraping out the insides.

  "Then hold here and scrape."

  Stephen watched Pierre hold the fish by the tail and scale it by running the flat edge of the knife along the body.

  "You cut off here and voilà, you are done." Pierre whacked off the tail and added the small fish to the pile of cleaned ones. "You do this and Pierre get his other work done."

  Stephen handled the knife awkwardly at first and nearly cut his finger off once, but he eventually got the hang of it, although he could never match Pierre's speed and proficiency.

  At first Stephen couldn't imagine what had possessed him to volunteer to help Pierre, other than some insane curiosity to learn an activity completely foreign to him. But he found, much to his surprise, he actually enjoyed cleaning the fish. He felt quite proud of himself when he finished and laid his knife aside.

  Pierre examined his work and grunted. "You do good job. Now I show you how to cook."

  Stephen spent the next hour in the kitchen with his mentor, learning the intricacies of preparing a midday meal for a family of hungry people. Side by side they fried the mound of fish, steamed a huge pot of vegetables, and baked several loaves of bread while Pierre entertained him with stories of his years serving as cook on Captain Albright's ship.

  Listening to the amusing tales, a sense of belonging stole over Stephen-something he'd never experienced in his own home. It was accompanied by a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. Such simple tasks, cleaning fish and chopping vegetables, but they inspired a camaraderie he'd never known. Is this what his servants did? Chatted and laughed? Were they friends with each other? He shook his head. He had absolutely no idea, and the realization that he knew so little about the people who worked for him shamed him. They had lives and families, yet he'd never taken the time to know them. Of course, if the Marquess of Glenfield had ever offered to assist in his own kitchens, his staff would have fainted dead away.

  Just before they carried the food into the dining room, Pierre set a plate of fish skins on the floor for Bertha the cat.

  "I thought you hated that cat," Stephen remarked with a smile as he watched the cook fondly pat the feline's head as she wound herself in between his legs.

  "Bertha is good. Keep mice away." He flashed a quick grin. "But don't tell Mademoiselle Hayley. It is our secret, oui?"

  Stephen nodded his agreement, then helped Pierre bring the steaming platters of food into the dining room. They arrived just as the Albrights entered the room.

  Hayley looked at Stephen in surprise when she saw his arms laden with a heavy platter, which he set in the center of the table.

  Stephen caught her look and smiled. "I'll have you know I helped prepare our lunch," he stated, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

  "You did?" Hayley looked at Pierre, who confirmed Stephen's words with a solemn nod.

  "He good cook. Not très magnifique like Pierre, but good." He graced a beaming smile on Stephen. "You're welcome in Pierre's kitchen anytime."

  Hayley gaped at the cook. "You don't allow anyone to help you in the kitchen."

  Pierre frowned at Hayley, then turned to Stephen. "She cannot even heat zee water," he imparted to Stephen in a loud whisper.

  Hayley frowned at Pierre, but Stephen saw her lips twitch. "I admit that I'm not a very good cook."

  Pierre rolled his eyes. "Sacrebleu! She is very bad cook. When she cook, run from zee house."

  Stephen laughed, imagining the Albrights dashing from the house en masse. He moved around the table and took his place at Hayley's right, with Callie on his other side. When they sat down, Stephen leaned over to Callie.

  "How is Miss Josephine this morning?" he whispered.

  Callie flashed him a wide, dimpling smile. "She feels quite well, thank you. She's resting now."

  "I quite understand," he said solemnly. "She suffered a horrifying experience."

  "But she's all right now. Thanks to you." Callie looked up at him with wide, worshipful eyes. "You're a hero, Mr. Barrettson."

  Stephen's hands stilled in the process of lifting his fork to his mouth. A hero. If his throat hadn't tightened so, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of such a notion. Ah, the sweet things innocent children said.

  If only they were true.

  * * *<
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  Hayley watched Stephen all through the midday meal, amazed by what she saw. He laughed openly at Nathan's and Andrew's antics, charmed Aunt Olivia until the woman was reduced to a stammering, blushing state of near incoherence, and even drew Grimsley and Winston into conversation about the merits of fishing. He conversed with Pamela about music, and quite often bent his head toward Callie, smiling at whatever the child said in his ear.

  In fact, he spoke to, and utterly charmed, every member of the Albright family.

  Except her.

  At first Hayley thought she was imagining that Stephen was ignoring her, but when she touched his sleeve to gain his attention, he jerked his arm away, answered her question with a monosyllable, then turned his focus back to Andrew and Nathan.

  He might as well have slapped her. Hot embarrassment suffused her, only to be pushed aside by a flush of anger. What on earth had she done to merit such dismissive behavior on his part? Good heavens, the man was utterly impossible. One minute he kissed her as if he never wanted to stop, and the next he avoided her as if she carried a deadly disease. He gave her expensive gifts, only to turn around and ignore her the next day. Was it because she was H. Tripp? He'd assured her that their conversation on that subject was forgotten. Had he lied?

  The more Hayley thought about it, the angrier and more offended she became. She'd been hurt by a man once before, and she wasn't going to let it happen again. By the time the meal was finished, she was in a fine rage, her blood all but boiling. How on earth could she have imagined herself in love with such a man? Kind one minute, cold the next. He clearly couldn't make up his mind about anything.

  "Are you going to sit there all day?"

  Stephen's amused voice broke through her reverie. Glancing around, she noticed everyone had left the dining room.

  "You've been sitting there for quite some time, staring off into space with a ferocious frown on your face," he remarked from the doorway.