Page 42 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Twenty

By the evening of the following day, Lawrence had made a painful discovery. His feelings for Flora were getting out of control, and he had to do something about it.

He sat in his wagon, staring blankly at the old almanac in front of him, unable to rid his mind of an imagined vision of Flora stripped naked, squirming with pleasure beneath his body. But it wasn’t just his lust that needed quelling. Flora had—incredibly—touched his heart, a heart he’d thought entirely safe. Her company thrilled and delighted him.

Judas—what a coil to be in. There was no way they could be together. Even if his lifestyle could accommodate another person, it was no life for her. There was no room in the cluttered wagon for a woman’s things. She was delicately bred, so how would she cope with a winter on the road?

And he couldn’t afford to take her to America with him. Leastways, he could, but only if he doubled his efforts to make money from the wreckers—and if what they sold him wasn’t legally acquired, he could end up doing seven years’ hard labor. One day soon, he really ought to join them on one of their salvage sprees, just to make sure no assault or murder ever took place. One read about such things in the broadsheets.

There was every chance Flora wouldn’t want to come to America, anyway. She had a settled home and a family in England, even if they did treat her like a poor relation.

But nothing would stop him going. If Bonaparte had his way, England could be finished by Christmas. Lawrence felt no great sense of patriotism—one government was much like another, and no matter how loud the cry of ‘freedom!’ folk usually ended up under the rule of either a monarch or a tyrant.

Except in America, the land of opportunity. From his pocket he pulled out the folded piece of paper advertising the costs of passage to the New World and smoothed a reverent hand over it.

He resisted the urge to unlock the hidden chest where he kept his savings and count the money; he knew he was still short of the required sum, and reinforcing this depressing fact would serve no purpose. It might be a good idea, however, to find a more secure location for the money.

He’d think about that later. What was he to do about Flora Hartington? Admittedly, their partnership would end soon, anyway, when she returned to Fortuneswell, so maybe he need do nothing. He’d struggle to bear her loss, though—in more ways than one.

Melancholy descended again as he flipped through the pages of the almanac. Perhaps he needed a drop of Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Perfect Pick-me-up. Or just a jug of ale at the King’s Arms, where he’d parked the wagon for the night.

But she was in there. Would she be hurt if he went in for a few bevvies, and didn’t call on her?

Didn’t call on her?Lawrence gave a bitter laugh. Good God, he sounded like a proper gentleman. Yet he was fooling no one but himself. Nobody could be further removed from polite society than a man brought up by wandering laborers. People thought them no better than thieves, spitting at them as they passed. Even the fact that he could read and had more knowledge in his head than many of his so-called betters did not improve his social status.

Such treatment hurt more than he’d care to admit. How splendid it would feel to be respectable and to fit in! But here in England, he was just a low-life itinerant and mocked as a charlatan by those who had no faith in his ability to cure the sick.

In America, things would be different.

He hoped.

Still idly leafing through the almanac, he came upon the ubiquitous illustration of the human body, showing which parts were governed by which celestial bodies.

He thumped his hand on the table as an idea struck him. He could break Flora’s hold on his heart, after all. If such things as love philters existed, there could just as easily be anti-love philters, couldn’t there? And just as there were aphrodisiacs to provoke lust, there were also nostrums to crush it. All he need do was mix something up and take it, and his balance would be restored. And, for good measure, he’d ensure Flora took some, too. From her responses to him, there was a good chance she not only wanted to explore his physical gifts but wanted to get closer to him emotionally.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. Right, he’d look through his books and see what he could brew up. There was bound to be something in Culpeper or Gerard.

As he worked, he wrote down the recipe. One day, he planned to write a proper herbal and publish it—if he could afford to. Every remedy therein would be tried and tested, combining modern methods with ancient ones. Unlike most other itinerant doctors, he had great success with his remedies, and even dared believe himself a genuine healer.

As he lit the kindling in his chafing dish and filled a small pot with water, his thoughts were drawn irresistibly back to Flora. What was her heritage? She’d made the transition from gently bred lady to actress and showman’s assistant incredibly quickly. It was amazing to discover what people had buried inside them, pushed deep down by their circumstances.

Given the opportunity, or out of desperation, a person could be capable of anything.

Flora was exceptional when one got to know the beautiful mind behind those captivating eyes. Which was why he so enjoyed her company.

And why he needed to stop enjoying it before he got in too deep.

He threw a handful of mixed herbs into his concoction, stirred, and then sniffed the brew. Not very palatable. Honey would be good, and a little port wine, perhaps with a dash of precious cinnamon.

He added these, then removed the pot and put it to one side to be strained.

A voice from outside brought him up short.

“Lawrence?”

Flora. He grinned like a lovesick schoolboy, then remembered he was supposed to be quashing all desire for her.

He looked at the pot on the table.