Before Stephen could think up an answer, the door swung open and Hayley rushed into the room.

"Callie!" Dropping to her knees in front of the settee, Hayley hugged the small child to her. "What are you doing in here? I've been looking for you everywhere."

"I was inviting Stephen to a tea party."

Hayley turned toward the bed, a warm smile lighting her face. "How are you feeling this morning, Stephen?"

"Better. Hungry."

Placing a quick kiss on the child's shiny curls, Hayley disentangled herself from Callie's clinging arms and approached the bed. She laid her palm against his forehead and her simile broadened. "Your fever is gone. I'll send this imp on her way and be right up with some breakfast. Come along, Callie," she urged with a gentle tug on the child's hand. "The hens are waiting for you. They miss you dreadfully."

Callie hopped off the settee and skipped the few feet to the bed. She leaned over until her mouth was next to Stephen's ear. "The hens miss me because I don't call them 'bloody stinkin' birds' like Winston does," she whispered. She leaned back and shot him a knowing, conspiratorial nod, then allowed Hayley to lead her to the door.

When he was alone again, Stephen breathed a sigh of relief. Why was the child not in the nursery or with her governess? She talked nonstop, and his head, while no longer pounding, still felt rather fragile. He reached up and touched his forehead. His fingers brushed a bandage. Trailing his fingers down his face, he encountered coarse bristles. How long had he been here? A week? No wonder his face felt so hairy.

His hand traveled downward and came in contact with his taped ribs. One deep breath confirmed that he was far from healed. He experimentally moved his legs and discovered two things-his limbs ached but still worked, and he was naked.

He peeked under the sheets and a frown tugged his brows downward. Someone had removed his clothes and bathed him. For some unfathomable reason a hot tingle skidded through him at the thought of Hayley Albright tending to his naked body.

The bedchamber door opened and Hayley walked in carrying a large tray. Stephen hastily resettled the sheet. An unfamiliar warmth suffused his face.

"Here we are," she said, setting the tray down on the bedside table. She looked at him and frowned. "Oh dear. You look flushed. I hope your fever hasn't returned." She felt his forehead.

Flushed? "I'm fine," Stephen said, his voice gruffer than he intended. "Just hungry."

"Of course. And your skin feels cool." She surveyed him a moment, pursing her lips. "Hmmm. Eating would be much easier if you sat up a bit."

Reaching across him, she grabbed two pillows from the other side of the bed. "Let me help you," she said, gently assisting him to sit halfway up by stuffing the pillows behind his back. "How's that?"

Once an initial wave of dizziness passed, Stephen felt considerably better. But still damn weak. And a deep breath was out of the question. "Fine. Thank you."

She perched herself on the edge of the bed and reached for a bowl and spoon on the tray. She scooped up a small bit of an odd-looking gruel.

"What is that?" Stephen asked, although he didn't really care. He was hungry enough to eat the bedsheets.

She brought the spoon to his lips. "A porridge of sorts."

Although Stephen felt odd being fed, he didn't have the strength to argue. He dutifully opened his mouth and swallowed.

"Do you like it?" she asked, studying his face.

"Yes. It's very good. Very unusual."

"No doubt because we have a very unusual cook."

"Indeed? In what way?" Stephen asked, then opened his mouth for another spoonful.

"Pierre is, er, rather temperamental. His Gallic sensibilities are easily ruffled."

"Then why did you hire him?"

"Oh, we didn't hire him. Pierre was the cook on my father's ship. When Papa died, Pierre moved in and took over the kitchen. Woe to anyone who enters his domain uninvited, and if you are invited, be prepared to 'chop zee onions' and 'peel zee potatoes' until your arms fall off."

A grin tugged at the corners of Stephen's mouth. Pierre might be difficult, but he made damned good porridge. And Stephen could certainly appreciate problems with servants. His own coachman had retired from service last year, and it had taken months to find an adequate replacement.

After emptying the entire bowl, Stephen felt better. When Hayley offered him a slice of toasted bread, he accepted it and took a bite. Chewing silently, he studied the young woman perched on the edge of the bed.

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.