Page 6 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Four

“Ma’am, please, calm yourself. How can I help you?”

The words screaming around inside Flora’s head at that moment were unrepeatable, and the urge to strike Campaign’s suavely smiling face intense, but good breeding stayed her hand. She’d already shocked herself with the tears and was struggling to bring her emotions under control.

“You, sir, are a…a…cheat and a liar!” she exclaimed, jabbing a finger at him. “That hair tonic you gave me, it—it— Oh, I can’t bring myself to say it. Yes, I can. I’m utterly, utterly ruined. You’ve made me a laughing stock.”

The smile vanished, and the doctor stared at her intently. After a moment he said, “Is that my best customer, Miss Hartington, hiding her pretty face behind a veil?”

She nodded. She had been a good customer. Because, until now, everything she’d bought from him had worked.

“What, exactly, has happened to upset you so?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you here,” she whispered. “I need somewhere private to show you.” Fear threatened to swamp her, and she added in a rush, “Oh, you’d better be able to rectify this, or…or…I don’t know what I’ll do!”

After a shifty glance around, he grasped her elbow and propelled her up the steps into his wagon. As she stood there in the gloomy interior, incoherent with anguish, he lit a lantern overhead and pulled down the canvas flap at the entrance, closing them in.

She went very still, suddenly regretting her outburst. Maybe she should have saved her complaint until morning and brought a companion or two along. Was she safe, concealed and contained like this, with a man who was no gentleman?

“Please sit down.” He was all politeness, removing a heap of books from one end of an upholstered bench and placing them on the floor. The look he gave her was both friendly and concerned, so she sat, and pulled up her veil.

She wriggled about uncomfortably on the embroidered cushion. There was a lump underneath it. Reaching in, she pulled the object out, but when she saw what it was, her hand shook so much, she nearly dropped it.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, carefully retrieving the pistol from her. “I’d forgotten I left that there. You can’t be too careful when traveling alone, you understand.” He tucked the weapon away amongst a heap of medical clutter. He then swept a stack of papers and a bunch of dried plants off his bed and sat opposite her.

As he did so, something was pushed out from beneath the mattress and fell with a metallic clink to the floor.

A dagger.

She leaped to her feet, but he was up before her, and pushing her back onto her seat.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

Her heart pumped so noisily she was surprised they weren’t both deafened. This was definitely the last time anger got the better of her. She’d no idea she was walking into an armed encampment.

“What do you mean to do to me?” she quavered, keeping her eyes glued to the dagger.

“Nothing at all!” he exclaimed, releasing her, and stepping back abruptly. “I’d never hurt anyone. Well, not deliberately. Unless I was threatened. I have to protect myself, as would anyone else with coin and marketable goods in his possession. Why, my copy of Gerard’s Herbal alone would fetch—” He grimaced. “But then, whoever stole it from me would probably be too stupid to recognize its value. They’d throw it in the fire they cook their conies over.” He rolled his eyes. “But that’s beside the point. I’m a healer, ma’am, so I don’t go about wantonly hurting others. Now, what’s happened to distress you so?”

She stared at the knife that lay between their feet, then looked up at him. “Um…”

“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me.” He stowed the dagger away at the opposite end of the wagon from where he’d put the pistol. Apparently, he expected his enemies to come at him from all directions. What would he do, she wondered, if they cut a hole through the side of the wagon? Were there weapons concealed along the vehicle’s flanks as well, hidden amongst all the paraphernalia?

She noted the position of the dagger. Just in case she might have need of it herself.

Taking a fortifying breath, she said, “You may, or may not have noticed, on the various occasions when I’ve bought things from you, that I have hair of an unremarkable color. Light brown, I suppose one might say. I wasn’t unhappy with that color. But after using your hair tonic— Well, just look at it!” With a dramatic flourish, she removed her bonnet.

He looked, pursed his lips, and gave a low whistle. Leaning over, he pulled a strand of her hair free from her loosely pinned bun and scrutinized it. Then he sat back down and reached for her hand.

Puzzled, she didn’t object as he pressed her fingers between his own, saying earnestly, “My apologies. I can see there’s been some terrible mistake. But the truth is, it makes you look absolutely ravishing.”

She gaped at him. “Fol-de-rol! You should see what it looks like in full daylight. I have never before seen so unnatural a color.”

Flattery wouldn’t work on her. Redress was what she needed.

“But it suits you, ma’am. I’m quite spellbound. Has the color taken evenly across the head?”

“I don’t know!” she snapped. What did that have to do with anything? “I’ve rinsed it, and washed it, and rinsed it again until my head stung, but not one drop of the color has come out.”