Page 31 of A Potion for Passion

Why was Daisy using all these nautical terms? Had she taken up with a sailor? Lawrence was tempted to fling back the curtain and see. No. What was the point? His days of being hurt by Daisy’s inconstancy were done. If there was a man behind the curtain, it was of no importance to him.

“Only if what?” Flora was making a remarkably good job of maintaining a French accent. His admiration for her grew.

Daisy gave a smug smile. “Only if you choose your company very carefully from now on.”

He rolled his eyes. She meant, of course, him. He should have expected that. Were all women vengeful and jealous like Sally and Daisy? No, they weren’t. The exception was sitting right next to him.

Possibly.

Well, Flora would only be in his company a week or so, and he’d see to it no harm befell her, from himself or anyone else. He meant only to do her good and help her realize her dream. They had no deep feelings for one another, and had made no promises, so Daisy’s blow fell wide of its mark.

“And you, sir,” the fortune teller said, taking his hand and turning it palm upward. “Now the Fates will speak of you.”

Flora leaned forward, apparently eager to hear what Madame Grimoire could scry of his future.

Daisy let her eyes roll up in her head. It always impressed him how she did that, showing almost nothing but the whites. She had first done so during their lovemaking—so long ago now—causing him to miss his stroke, and almost fail in the manly duty she required of him. When Lawrence related this to Tom Caxton, leader of the players he’d joined, the man had almost choked to death with laughing.

“You, sir,” Daisy pronounced so suddenly both he and Flora jumped. “You, sir, have a short lifeline, I’m sorry to say, and the spirits see no escape from the fate of an early death.”

Flora sucked in a horrified breath as Daisy went on mercilessly, “You’ll meet with evil company, and they’ll guide you along a path that leads only to the gallows. Or you may plow one furrow too many, and the cuckolded husband will slay you. Or perhaps, you might race a dark horse into an even darker night, pursued by the hounds of hell and—”

“How long does a man have to wait for his coffee, you poxy hag?”

The intemperate sound of the sleepy male voice, so incongruous in the circumstances, made Lawrence’s heart speed in his chest. Judas! What a spell the woman wove with her words! And now she’d gone and frightened Flora.

Poxy hag, eh? He seconded that opinion.

“My apologies, Madame,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We hadn’t meant to disturb your morning. We thought you must be alone—save for the spirits and the Fates, of course.”

He enjoyed the sight of Daisy’s face twisting in irritation as the velvet drape parted and a tousled head poked through. The man sported a wispy beard and his face was all too familiar.

“Lawrence! Good day to you. Who’s your latest ladybird? I’m not yet dressed, wench, if you need your fancy tickled.”

Flora recoiled, and Lawrence felt a powerful urge to pull that wispy beard until its owner yelped. He might have no tender feelings for Flora, but he’d be damned if any fly-by-night peddler would get his hands on her.

“Ignore him, Julietta,” he told her. “This is Barnabas Todd, the seller of trinkets and ribbons I told you about, who kept an eye on my wagon yesterday.”

“If I had a hat on, I’d salute you, my pretty,” Barnabas said, leering at Flora. If he weren’t careful, Daisy would soon be emptying his coffee over his head.

“We must go,” Lawrence said. “I think the rain’s easing off.”

“Don’t think you are winning our little competition,” said Todd with a sneer.

Flora finally found her voice. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Todd,” she said, the French accent abandoned.

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. “I knew she was no Frenchwoman.”

“And you are no fortune teller,” Flora retorted. “You must think me still in leading strings if you imagine I couldn’t tell you and Lawrence are already acquainted. You’re not the only actress under this particular piece of canvas.”

Lawrence grinned and squeezed Flora’s hand. She turned to him, gave him a level look, and asked, “What little competition is he talking about? No dissembling, now. I’m tired of people pretending to be what they’re not.”

“My scrying’s quite accurate,” Daisy retorted, offended. “I have Irish blood. Mixed with Chaldean.”

Chaldean?Lawrence suppressed a snort.

“I’m no fake, no charlatan,” Daisy was saying. “I may have taken liberties with Lawrence’s reading, but he deserved it.”

“Only fair, as Lawrence has taken liberties with you, too, Daisy,” said Barnabas with a smirk. “He told me you were the first notch on his wagon wheel, as soon as he was able to buy his own rig.”