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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