Page 88 of A Potion for Passion

There was no reply, only the feel of his eyes on her, examining, condemning.

Endeavoring to put off the terrible moment when he told her how much he hated her, she inquired, “How are you?”

“Exhausted. As you could tell if you bothered to look at me. Am I such an anathema to you, my angel, that you cannot bear to do so?”

Her head snapped up. His angel? “Oh, Lawrence!”

Lines of weariness etched his beloved face, and she fought the urge to run her fingers over them and smooth them away. But the invisible chasm between them sucked up all her spirit, and she couldn’t bring herself to look into those dark eyes, to read the resentment, the disappointment there.

Custom took over. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, Flora, have you nothing more to say to me?” His voice was soft, regretful.

She could have coped better with his anger. The gentleness of his tone and manner only made her feel worse.

She said, “I just don’t want you to hate me.” Her hands were twisting together beneath her apron, exposing her extreme agitation. If only she could keep the tears at bay.

He reached a hand toward her. A strong, tanned, masculine hand. A beacon of hope, a spar in a raging sea. As soon as she put her own in his, the gulf between them was spanned. Hands met, then bodies, then lips. His touch seared away all sorrow, doubt, and shame. Her heart soared.

When she could take no more of his impassioned kiss and was in danger of sliding to the floor, she eased out of his embrace. “Do you really still want me?” she asked shakily.

“Evidently,” he said, with a grin that made her knees weak.

“You’re not angry with me about—?”

“The letter you sent to Major Wilberforce? I was furious at first, yes. I can see you’re eaten up with anxiety. I’ve a tonic for that back at the wagon. Can I offer you some?”

“Don’t jest at a time like this!”

He gave her a rueful pout, which only made her want to kiss him some more, to nibble at that firm, masculine mouth, slick her tongue along the seam of his lips, and explore again the sensuous secrets of his mouth.

“I gather we’re alone,” he said, “Or you wouldn’t have let me kiss you.”

At her mute nod, he smiled again, then tipped her into his arms and carried her to the old sofa where he sat down and pulled her onto his lap.

She fought against the lustful impulses of her body. The moment was too precious, her feelings too raw. “You promise you don’t hate me?”

“Quite the opposite,” he assured her.

“Tell me what happened,” she demanded, twining her arms around his neck and feasting her eyes on him.

“I was in the churchyard. Sally was sniffed out to identify me, and she came with a couple of soldiers. One of them was that irksome redcoat who was hanging about at the Dorchester fair, remember?”

Yes, she remembered. How could she ever forget the bizarre incident involving the removal of Nat Pryce’s tooth?

“I was escorted to Oakwood Grange in manacles for a private interview with the major. He’d given orders that I be brought to him under duress, so I didn’t look like an informer. He questioned me thoroughly, made sure I told him everything I knew.”

She bit her lip. “How much persuasion was necessary?”

She hoped he had turned King’s Evidence willingly. He was more likely to be pardoned then.

“He didn’t have to resort to torturing me,” he replied with a half-smile. “Mind you, there were plenty of veiled threats—”

“It must have been hard, giving up the names of your friends,” she said. “But I just couldn’t think of any other way you’d be safe after turning in Pryce.”

“It wasn’t as difficult as you might imagine. None of those men were actual friends. Besides, Wilberforce knew some of their names already. I just gave him a statement he could use at trial, if needed.”

“Oh, Lawrence, that’s wonderful!”