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.