Page 50 of A Potion for Passion

Easing himself gradually upward, he peered from his hiding place and scanned the area. Thank goodness! The heath was now peopled with ordinary folk—cockle girls heading down to the beach and old women with empty baskets off in search of driftwood.

They’d get more than they bargained for when they reached the strand, he thought grimly. He brushed himself off and stepped onto the highway, looking as nonchalant as he could. His wagon was now tucked away behind the Admiral Duncan in Fortuneswell, and he made it thither without incident. He climbed wearily up the steps and collapsed onto his bed.

Now he was finally safe, he was aware of the blood pumping around his veins at speed, and the rapidity of his breathing.

Never before had he been in such peril as he had last night. And he wasn’t safe yet—there was his wound to attend to.

He sat up again and eased his jacket from his shoulders. Beneath it, his shirt sleeve and the handkerchief he’d applied to the wound were stiff with blood. He’d have to soak them off with warm water before he could inspect the wound.

As he dragged himself to his feet and set about getting his chafing dish going and put a pot of water on to heat, he asked himself if all this peril was worth it.

Was a passage to America genuinely worth risking his life for? How did he know things would be any better over there? How could he be sure the ship wouldn’t sink in an Atlantic storm? How could he be certain he wouldn’t catch some unknown disease for which he had no cure and perish before he even came within sight of New York City?

Nothing in this life was certain.

Groaning, he looked down at his breeches, snagged and ripped from their encounters with thorn bushes and gorse. He peeled them off and gazed disconsolately at his naked lower body, speckled with dark dots of blood where the thorns had penetrated.

Oh, how pleasant it would be if he’d had a wife to come home to! Someone to ease his hurts, make him a drink, and listen wide-eyed to the rousing tale of his adventure.

Hah, what foolishness! He’d been alone for much of his life. His adoptive parents had made him feel an outcast, mocking his insatiable curiosity. Still, he’d learned much from them, particularly about plants. His folk could not afford to pay for physick when they fell sick, but had to make do with what grew naturally.

He must just be feeling maudlin because he missed Tom Capstone’s Troupe, the only real family he’d ever known. Tom had taught him to read, and so many other things besides. But there was no point dwelling on his loss—he needed to look after himself.

Stiffly, he hobbled over to the pot of water to see if it was sufficiently warmed. As he leaned over it, he was aware of stinging pain at the end of his nose and on his chin. He rubbed the places ruefully. Just grazes, but he’d put some comfrey ointment on them all the same to help them heal faster.

As soon the water was steaming, he dipped a wad of muslin into it and began the tortuous process of soaking his shirtsleeve away from his wound. Finally, it came free. He pulled the shirt over his head and inspected the damage done to his flesh. Hmm. The injury needed cleaning. Would it need stitching, too?

“Lawrence?”

He froze. A woman’s voice, sounding high and unnatural. As he stared dumbstruck, a small female hand came through a gap in the canvas and started unlacing the wagon flap. He’d only ever shown one woman how to do that.

Grasping his shirt to his belly for decency’s sake, he moved toward the front of the wagon.

“Flora? Is that you?”

“Oh, Lawrence!” She got the flap open and tumbled, tearful and shaking, into his arms. “Oh, thank heaven,” she choked against his bare shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you! I heard the dreadful news about a battle on the heath last night. I feared you were dead!”