Page 59 of A Potion for Passion

“That’s neither here nor there,” she replied. “I need to dress this wound again, and then decide what to do with you.”

When he sobered up, or when the fever left him and his judgment returned, she must get him to cast his expert eye over the stitching job she’d done on Will. He’d said they mustn’t be seen together, but what would be the harm of a few minutes?

“I’ll sort out your dressing,” she said, “and bring you some feverfew and willow bark as soon as I can, but I want you to stay here and rest for now. Speak to no one and hide under the potting bench if anyone comes out here. Hopefully you’ll be sober in a few hours. Then you must come inside and look at the major, make sure I’ve done everything right.”

Lawrence’s brown eyes lost their glint, and his expression tightened. “You’re going away?”

“Not immediately. Hold out your arm.”

Using the gardening shears, she made slits in one of the old aprons, then tore it into strips and bound his wound up again.

“I don’t know why you have a fever,” she told him as he sank his head back against the windowsill. “Your wound’s clean and a healthy color. Perhaps it’s the brandy. Or too much exertion in bringing the major here. Tell me, why can’t you be seen with him? Surely, you want to take credit for his rescue?”

Ignoring her question, he looked at her admiringly, saying, “My sweet Flora. You’re the best pupil a man could have. There’s so much more I’d like to teach you. And not just about medicine.” His eyes twinkled seductively.

“You’re not too unwell to be slapped,” she said stoutly, though her cheeks warmed at his compliment. “Now, I’d better go and make the tisane I promised you.”

It took considerable effort to drag her gaze away from his well-muscled torso. His skin looked fine as silk in the yellow light of the lantern, each bulge and dip accentuated by shadow, each sinew burgeoning with strength.

She’d have to fetch a blanket to cover him with while his clothes dried on the potting bench. The tempting male chest, the padded stomach muscles, and the broad shoulders were just too distracting.

As a temporary measure, she tucked the spare apron over him, handed him some water, and bade him drink as much as he could until she returned.

She hurried back into the house, praying that the cooling rain on her face would remove all trace of the heat which the sight of Lawrence’s bared torso had ignited in her body.

As she stepped inside, she brushed drops of water from her sleeves and shook out her skirts. She untied her cap and walked into the kitchen to squeeze the water out of it over the sink.

And, suddenly, became aware that she was not alone.

Mrs. Daniell was standing in front of the lighted stove, staring at her in absolute horror.

“Great heaven, Flora,” she croaked. “What have you done to your hair? Your family will be disgusted with you, making yourself look like the Whore of Babylon!”

The heat rushed into Flora’s face, along with a feeling of righteous anger that suffused her entire body. She’d just patched up two injured men and kept a level head in a crisis, but all Mrs. Daniell cared about was the color of her hair.

She folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “What are you doing here at this time of night? Am I never to have any respite from your disapproval? I’m fed up, truly fed up with having you play spy for my sister. This is my house, and always has been, and you are not welcome any time of the day or night, no matter what you might think. Good night, Mrs. Daniell.”

The other woman stared at her a moment, her lips pressed tightly together. Then she said, “You look tired, overwrought. I’ll accord you the benefit of the doubt and leave you for now. In the morning, I daresay you’ll have remembered your manners and will want to make your apology. Good night.”

Mrs. Daniell spun away and marched to the front door, let herself out, and slammed the door behind her.

A contrite Jenny immediately appeared from the parlor, claiming she’d done her best to deny the reverend’s wife access.

Flora waited until her thumping heartbeat returned to normal, then attempted to placate the maid. She managed to exhibit a calm she was far from feeling. It was lucky Mrs. Daniell had only discovered her red hair. If she’d known about the potion maker in the potting shed, and the soldier in the bedroom, she’d have had a true fit of the vapors.

But Flora had offended Lucinda’s spy. Now Mrs. Daniell would, no doubt, redouble her efforts to interfere in Flora’s life.

And facts might come to light that were a great deal more threatening to her reputation than her flaming red hair.