A Potion for Passion by Elizabeth Keysian

Author:Elizabeth Keysian
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-08-30T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

The first thing Flora noticed when she saw Lawrence was that he looked terrible. Haggard and pale, his face was bloody, and there were dark patches under his eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept for a week. The second thing she realized was that he was completely naked. Except for the shirt he held in front of him.

Correction. Had held. For now, both his arms were around her.

But what mattered most was the fact that he was alive. In a poor state, admittedly, but alive. And he hadn’t thrown her out or shouted at her—yet. So, her presence could not be entirely unwelcome.

For some time, she was just happy to hold and be held. He kissed her hair and murmured incoherent words of comfort in her ear. As if she needed the comfort! He was the one who’d been in the wars.

But what, exactly, had he been up to, to get into such a state?

He murmured, “I must sit, sweetest. I’m exhausted. And in need of patching up, if you’re up to it.”

She nodded and released him, trying to keep her mind on the fact that he was hurt, and not on the fact that he was naked.

Saints alive! She could completely understand why women sought his attention. Having told herself she could never be that shallow, she did, nonetheless, continue to take little peeks at him as he moved along the caravan and eased himself awkwardly into his bed.

“What can I do?” she asked, stepping over the bloodied shirt and peering into the pot on the chafing dish.

“I got grazed by a shot to my left arm,” he said wearily. “Everything else is little more than skin deep. Although it all stings like the devil.”

“Comfrey ointment,” she said confidently, and made straight for the shelf where she knew it was kept. She removed the pig’s bladder lid and handed Lawrence the pot so he could anoint his punctures and scratches while she cleaned his arm.

The wound washed up well, but she could see no alternative to stitching the ragged edges of the flesh together.

She hunted down Lawrence’s brandy bottle and handed it to him while she felt about in one of his chests for his sewing kit. He took several deep swigs, and she was pleased to see his shoulders relax. The more relaxed he was, the easier it would be to mend him.

“Clean the wound some more,” he commanded. “I don’t mean just with water. Use some of my distilled alcohol. I’ll curse enough to make a sailor blush, but pay me no heed.”

She did as she was told, although she hated knowingly causing him pain. He tried to hide the grimace on his face, but it affected her so much that she helped herself to a fortifying tipple of his brandy before proceeding any further.

He kept himself still while she stitched his wound, and she couldn’t help but admire his bravery. Perhaps what he’d said to those redcoats all those weeks ago was true—a man was far less likely to fuss about pain when in a woman’s presence.

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