Page 36 of A Potion for Passion

“Hmm.” Lawrence pulled a face as a small bubble of bloody spittle appeared at the corner of the man’s mouth, and explained, “I usually fortify myself with whiskey before attempting a tooth pulling. Nor do I ever attempt it in the morning, when my stomach’s at its weakest. I just need a moment.”

Lord, this could all go so horribly wrong. What if Lawrence was sick, or their patient made a run for it before the operation was complete?

“Let’s get this thing over with,” Lawrence told her in a stronger voice. “I’ll position the pincers over the tooth, then pull. I won’t look after that—I can’t abide that initial rush of blood.”

She felt their patient squirm and buck beneath her. He was making some very odd sounds, as if he was trying to scream quietly. Her heart went out to him.

After some more delving, Lawrence fixed his instrument where he wanted it, then told her to brace herself. “I’ll yank it out on the count of three,” he explained.

The blood was pumping so loudly in her ears she barely heard him count but she braced her feet, closed her eyes, and pressed down on their patient with all her might.

There was an unpleasant sucking sound, then a snap, followed by an enormous roar of pain. She opened her eyes and saw the man leap up and wrestle for a few moments with Lawrence. Then, his face smeared in gore, he escaped and ran yelling down the steps of the wagon. She hurried after him, followed by Lawrence, and saw him dash past the astonished soldiers, who leaped to their feet.

“Gentlemen!” boomed Lawrence, diverting their attention. “Let’s hear a bold hurrah for Madame Julietta and Lawrence Campaign, the best tooth pullers this side of London. See? It came out with the root intact!”

He raised the hand in which he still grasped the tongs. The bloodied tooth was clamped at the end.

“You won’t find anyone quicker than us,” Lawrence proclaimed, waving the tooth about like a battle trophy. “If either of you gentlemen has any bad teeth that need pulling, get in line now, because we’ll be overrun with requests by noon. Come along! You can’t leave a bad tooth in place. It could poison you.”

The two redcoats gazed at the gory tooth, then at Lawrence’s blood-spattered hand. They made some appreciative noises but declined the doctor’s generous offer of a speedy treatment, even when he promised to reduce the price for “our brave lads keeping us safe from Napoleon.”

“Well, I’m disappointed,” he told Flora as the two men vanished amongst the array of tents. “I thought our country’s fighting men would have more spirit.”

“I didn’t much care for that,” she said with a grimace. “You say you dislike the sight of blood, but I could almost believe you enjoyed depriving that poor man of his tooth.”

“Whatever can you mean?” he asked, a look of injured innocence on his face.

“Lawrence Campaign, you’re a very bad man.”

His guileless expression faded, to be replaced by a more contemplative one. His voice dropped to almost a whisper as he said, “You have no idea how bad, Flora. None at all.”

Although she was sure he was just teasing her, a tingle of uncertainty skittered up her spine. His dark eyes were almost black but gave nothing away.

Suddenly, she realized he wasn’t teasing her.

He was warning her.

But what, precisely, was he warning her about?