Page 87 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Forty-Three

Flora sat by the parlor window, gazing out at the mild October day, unseeing. For three days she’d hidden her fears well, but there was no need to hide them now. The house was empty. The servants had gone off to choir practice, as had the Daniells. Finally, she had privacy to vent her feelings.

No reply had reached her from the letter she’d sent Major Wilberforce. She knew he’d received it, because a pair of redcoats had arrived the next morning in the early hours to carry Nat Pryce away. The major had not come himself, nor had he sent word of what he was going to do about Lawrence.

Three long days, and not a word about his fate. A fate for which she knew she was entirely responsible. Because she hadn’t just written a note asking the major to collect Nat.

She’d confessed to him that Lawrence was buying goods from the wreckers. She’d begged that he be treated leniently if he gave up the names of those he knew to be involved.

Digging her nails into the back of her hand, she watched the skin whiten as the blood was pushed away and she tried to focus on the physical pain rather than on the mental torture she was going through.

Had she mistaken Major Wilberforce’s character, and unwittingly condemned Lawrence to hang? Or would he now be forced to live like a fugitive, pardoned by the government but forever looking over his shoulder, lest some cutthroat associate of Pryce’s plant a blade in his back?

Oh, why had she ever written that letter? And why had no one told her of its outcome? The wait for news was agonizing. Trying to conceal both a broken heart and a soul-destroying burden of guilt from the rest of the world was taking all her strength.

A knock on the door sent her leaping to her feet. Who could it be? Dashing the tears from her eyes, she wiped her face on the skirts of her apron.

And then paused.

She must look a fright, her eyes red rimmed, her cheeks streaked with the salt of her tears.

She was also alone. It might be wise not to open the door, at all.

The knock came again, louder and more determined. She ducked away from the parlor window and hid behind the drape. Just as a shadow moved across the window and a face pressed against the panes.

Her pulse exploded like a cannonade. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

Lawrence?

The one man in the world she most wanted to see…because she loved him.

The very last man in the world she wanted to see…because she’d betrayed him.

There was a tap on the window, and she shrank back, not daring to breathe.

“Flora, I know you’re in there.”

Oh, the welcome sound of that dear, sweetly remembered voice!

All the air was sucked out of her. She needed movement to get her lungs working again and quash the unbearable tension.

There was only one thing she could do. Face her fate.

After walking determinedly into view, she paused and gazed through the misty panes at the figure beyond. “What do you want?” she called, hiding her hands beneath her apron so he wouldn’t see how much they shook.

“To talk to you. Let me in.”

No doubt so he could tell her how disappointed he was, how hurt, how angry. There would be no soft words of love, nothing to ease the pain of his displeasure. But at least he was a free man, and, surely, that was more important than her selfish need for his love…

She must deal with it. She’d coped with Frank’s death. It was time to accept that Lawrence would soon be as good as dead to her, too.

With a heavy heart, she opened the door and, not able to meet his eyes, motioned him to enter.

As he walked past her into the room, she felt the power of his dominance, the connection created by their lovemaking which made her body a slave to his. Without even touching her, he could bring her—metaphorically—to her knees.

“How are you, Flora?”

The cold formality of his greeting threatened to set her tears flowing afresh. Head averted, she replied, “Well enough. A little tired, perhaps.” It was a struggle to get the words out, mundane as they were. Her voice just wouldn’t work.