Page 16 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Nine

When Lawrence entered his caravan the next morning, the first thing that came into his head was an image of Miss Hartington. He’d watched her yesterday until she was gone from view, admiring her light, dainty step, and enjoying the way her hips swayed as she walked.

Miss Hartington probably thought herself well past the age of being attractive to men. Quite wrongly. If he were prepared to take the risk of seducing her, he was sure she’d make a wonderful lover, sweet and giving and affectionate.

He looked at the place where she’d sat yesterday, so guileless and innocent. What would she have done if she’d known the cushion she sat on was stuffed with silks and lace garnered from foundering ships by his wrecker associates?

She wouldn’t have approved, at all. She’d no doubt have given him up to the authorities. And this time, he wouldn’t have ended up cooling his heels in prison.

He’d have ended up with seven years’ hard labor into the bargain.

He stared moodily at the cushions. He must remove the ribbons and lace to a safer place. If the revenue men took it into their heads to search his wagon, they’d find them in no time.

He’d think of something. If worse came to worst, he could always use Sally Matthews to fence the lace. She was a well-respected tradeswoman with perfectly legal sources of the stuff. He’d defy any revenue man to tell the difference between lace from a legitimate source and lace rescued from a shipwreck.

But could he trust Sally? It would be dangerous to be beholden to her, not knowing what price she might exact from him in return. He had a feeling it would be as bad as prison, if not worse. She’d shown him what she wanted from him last night, but what if secretly she wanted more than just a physical liaison? She might demand he marry her. She was a widow, after all, and a young one at that.

Ugh—marriage to Sally Matthews! Being tied to one home, one set of neighbors, one patch of scenery, for the rest of one’s life—what a hideous thought! He made a sign to ward off the Evil Eye, then stared down at his fingers.

They were stained black. In hopes of dyeing Miss Hartington’s hair back to mousey brown, he’d spent the rest of yesterday morning on the heath, picking blackberry leaves and a few early berries. He was currently brewing up a concoction to darken her hair. He’d mixed some nettle leaf in to give the strands luster, but the brew in the pot now smelled rank.

No woman would want to put something that smelled noxious anywhere on her body. Perhaps a bit of powdered licorice bark would help, and some dried lichen.

In past years, he’d harvested his lichen from the field walls up beyond the fort, but there were too many soldiers up there now. It would be just his luck to stumble across one who asked awkward questions. When his current supply ran out, he’d be forced to scrape lichen off the gravestones in the local churchyards. The inhabitants of East Town and Fortuneswell might consider that somewhat…disrespectful. Of course, they’d object. Common villagers had a distrust of itinerants, even the honest ones, and were liable to pelt the traveling folk with stones and drum them out of town.

He added the lichen and licorice to the pot, stirred it, and put it on top of his chafing dish. A bit of extra heat always sped up the process.

If this mixture worked well, he could sell it to older women to return their fading hair to the dark color of their youth. It might not make as much money as contraband goods, but if it saved his neck until he could take passage to America, it was definitely worth pursuing.

“Dr. Campaign?”

His knife was already in his hand before he realized it was a woman’s voice outside. He hastily tucked the weapon back into his boot and stuck his head out.

“Ah, Miss Hartington. Come in, come in! And remember, call me Lawrence.”

She lowered her eyes shyly at his effusive welcome, and he found himself wishing yet again that she’d just accept her red hair, let it show, and have done with it. She was still strikingly lovely, and it complemented her coloring so well.

As she followed him inside, she let out a ladylike yelp. He spun around to see her bonnet had snagged on something suspended from the wagon’s awning.

“Whatever is that?” she squeaked, as he carefully untangled her.

“I call it a corkindrill. It’s quite dead, so don’t worry.”

“Good heavens. Then why on earth do you have the horrid thing?”

He glanced up at the stuffed baby crocodile where it hung surrounded by bunches of drying herbs, a range of dead animals, and more mundane items, such as onions.

“Its only purpose is to make me seem mysterious and magical,” he said with a grin. “But please don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all be stuffing exotic animals and setting up as medicine peddlers.”

“Oh, but you’re much more than a peddler—you’re a healer,” she said, gingerly moving a small basket of owl pellets before settling herself on the bench.

“Ah, but there is practical healing, and magical healing,” he replied. “The first is known by everyone to work—taking quinine for malaria, for example. But for something less certain to succeed, like powdered mistletoe for cancer, for instance, you might add a special ingredient to increase confidence in the cure. Such as…oh, I don’t know. Ground unicorn’s horn, perhaps.”

She chuckled. “I know you’re bamming me, sir. No one believes in unicorns.”

“But you see what I mean?”

“I think I do. The more exotic the cure sounds, the more people are likely to believe in it. And the more they believe in it—”