Page 17 of A Potion for Passion

“The more likely they are to be cured.”

“So, do you write ‘tincture of unicorn’s horn’ on your labels?”

It was his turn to laugh. “No. Such special ingredients are for the potions I make to order. No common fishwife or farm laborer is worthy of ground unicorn’s horn.”

“Aren’t you afraid of being proved a fraud?”

“You wound me, ma’am!” He placed a palm over his heart in a dramatic gesture. Then his eyes narrowed. “You haven’t, to date, complained about my less flamboyant remedies. Have you tried my nerve tonic yet?”

“Well, yes, I have.”

“And here you are, sitting in the wagon of a strange man, surrounded by dead animals, poisons, and love philters, yet you’re not particularly nervous.”

“Oh.” She started pulling on her gloved fingers. “Well, I suppose it is a bit brave of me. But I’m sure I’m safe with you. Am I not?”

Oh, this woman was so sweet, like the most sumptuous confectionery. What wouldn’t he give for a taste of that sweetness?

He turned away and moved across to the chafing dish to stir his concoction. The stirring stick came out purple. Damn! He quickly hid it from sight.

“That depends on what you consider ‘safe’,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Her eyes widened, and she looked quickly away. “What if a Doubting Thomas demands to see your unicorn horn, or your ground-up Egyptian mummy, or whatever else you claimed to have used?”

“I would show it to them,” he said simply. “Those owl pellets can be ground up to represent Egyptian mummy, and I can add a perfumed essence to create an exotic smell. As for unicorn’s horn, wait until you see this.” Reaching into a cupboard, he drew out a long package wrapped in a thin piece of leather. After placing it in her hands, he sat back to enjoy the look on her face as she unwound it.

“Goodness me!” she exclaimed. “Is this real?”

“It’s real in the sense that it came from a real animal.”

“But not a unicorn?” She actually looked disappointed.

“No. A narwhal.”

The disappointment vanished. “You mean a sea monster?”

“Call it that if you want. I call it one of God’s creatures, just like you and me. Cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you.”

“How could you ever afford it?” she asked, turning the twisted spike over and over in her hands.

He shifted in his seat. “Oh, I’m very careful. Quite abstemious. No luxuries here,” he said, gesturing at the contents of the wagon, hoping she wouldn’t detect the lie. The roaming players he’d lived with had taught him well—he could dissemble with the best of them.

She handed the narwhal spike back to him, then jiggled about on the bench. “This really is very badly stuffed,” she said, running a finger over the side seam. “And there’s a split here. Are you sure you don’t want me to—”

“No, thank you,” he said quickly. If she poked her finger in any further, he’d have to throw himself at her to stop her discovering his cache.

Which would, admittedly, be a very enjoyable experience.

Pull yourself together, man!“But I’m forgetting your hair dye. See? I’m experimenting as we speak,” he said, getting up and going back to the chafing dish. “Shall we check if it works?”

She got up to look, and stood beside him, their heads almost touching, as he stirred the bubbling mixture. “The stick’s gone purple,” she said anxiously.

He’d forgotten about that. “It’s wooden. Your hair is not.” He dipped in one of the locks he’d shorn the other day, and they both studied it in silence as he pushed and prodded, swilling the mixture around it.

“It smells quite nice,” she said. “But I don’t think—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the wagon flap opened, and a familiar voice called out, “Lawrence?”

Judas!It was Sally. Could she not give him a day’s respite from her pursuit? This really needed to stop.

Dropping the stirrer, he caught Miss Hartington by the waist, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her thoroughly.

It had the desired effect.

Partly.

Sally shot him a killing glare, then left.

Miss Hartington, however, collapsed in his arms in a dead faint.