Page 9 of A Potion for Passion

She froze, half expecting him to produce a dagger…or even a sword. When he pulled a perfectly ordinary pair of snips from his pocket, she relaxed.

Her fears were groundless. After all, people trusted this man to pull their teeth and stitch their wounds, so—as he’d said himself—he could be trusted not to hurt her.

Even so, he definitely took advantage of the situation when he started to plait and re-pin her hair. But the touch of his hands on her head before had been such a sensual delight, she didn’t have the will to object.

Had anyone lifted the wagon flap, they would have been scandalized at the liberty he was taking. And at the way she was allowing him that liberty.

He tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin with impressive dexterity. Something he’d learned from experience, no doubt.

This close, she could smell the cloves on his breath, and the bitter scent of ink on his fingers. Glory! He was stroking her cheek!

His lips were now dangerously near. She couldn’t draw her gaze away from them. What would it feel like to be kissed by such a man—a man as wild and free as the autumn wind, not shackled by the mores and expectations of Society?

Abruptly, he pulled away and gestured toward the front of the wagon. “You must be keen to get home for your supper,” he said in a voice oddly devoid of expression.

“Yes, I must be, mustn’t I?” she agreed.

She moved forward in a daze, ducking just in time to avoid the hanging lantern. But before she reached the flap, he pulled something from a drawer in one of his drug chests and pressed a small packet into her hand.

“What’s this?” She didn’t want any more of his remedies, thank you very much.

“Part of my apology, Miss Hartington. A few grains of saffron.”

Her eyes widened. “But that’s—”

“Rare and expensive. I know. Use it wisely.”

“Why yes, I…I will. Thank you.” It was a lavish gift. She should refuse it, but she was too surprised to form the words.

He stepped out in front of her and held the flap open. As a last finger of rusty sunlight streamed in, it glinted on a sword propped up against the canvas. This pushed all other thoughts from her head. His wagon was a traveling arsenal!

Her heart quickened, and she decided that any future dealings with this exceedingly well-armed man should be conducted outside.

He jumped to the ground, then turned and gave her an exaggerated bow, offering his hand to help her down the steps. The tethered collie immediately jumped up at its master, tail lashing wildly, then turned and licked her hand.

“Forgive Charley,” he chuckled. “He’s quite unable to restrain his urges.”

It immediately occurred to Flora that he might have ended the sentence with “just like myself.”

“Good evening,” she squeaked, averting her head to hide the flush of awareness on her cheeks.

As she scurried away, she told herself to stop being foolish. She was a plain-faced spinster with terrifying red hair. No man was likely to have urges of that kind for her.

She turned to wave farewell to Lawrence. Just in time to see a dark figure duck out of sight behind his wagon. A brief glimpse of a bonnet and the shadowy swish of a skirt proclaimed his secretive visitor to be a woman.

Flora recognized the gaudy lilac walking dress immediately. She’d seen its owner earlier, on the village green.

Sally Matthews.

Whatever was she doing there? And more importantly, had she caught a glimpse of Flora before concealing herself? Head down, Flora scurried away and hoped that, if Sally had seen her emerging red-faced from Lawrence’s caravan, she’d tackle her about it in private.

And not mention it to her two best customers. Thea and Mrs. Daniell.