Chapter Twenty-Eight

Flora froze, unable to think, as the sound of the hammering echoed in her head. Then she shoved the breeches at Jenny, who’d just shot out of the kitchen, and whispered to her to bury the major’s clothes in the laundry basket while she attended to their unwelcome caller.

With a gnawing sense of dread, she approached the front door, hoping she didn’t look like someone who’d had a day filled with drama and blood. She opened it just a crack, desperately trying to think of an excuse for not welcoming whoever was on the other side.

Dusk had come early due to the lowering clouds, so there was no light outside to illuminate the new arrival, but he immediately took her into his embrace and started kissing her. It could only be one man.

Lawrence.

“Saints alive! I thought you had to stay away.” Fighting free of his grasp, she pulled the door to behind her and stepped out into the rain.

“I wanted to sh-sh-shee you,” he slurred, reaching for her again. “Can’t live without you.”

“Lawrence, you’re half-cut,” she said sternly. “Get away from here before the servants see you.”

“No matter. Need you, Flora. Julietta. Love you.”

As he tried to kiss her again, she smelled the brandy on his breath. And felt the heat in his cheek. Wrestling free of his embrace, she put a hand to his forehead. His hair was soaked with the rain, but the flesh beneath was burning hot.

“Oh, sweet heaven, you’ve taken a fever,” she cried. “The last thing you need is to be out here getting wet!”

She thought frantically. With the servants already on edge, there was no way she could get Lawrence into the house unnoticed. An injured major was one thing—a drunk and lusty Lawrence was much harder to handle. It was best he go in the potting shed outside. It would afford some shelter, at least, and give him a chance to dry off a bit.

“I can’t bring you inside. The major’s still here, and you told me you can’t be associated with him.”

“Haven’t you made him well yet?” Lawrence complained. “Thought I’d trained you better.”

“How much of that brandy have you drunk?” she asked irritably, hoisting his arm over her shoulder and trying to tilt him into forward motion.

“Just for pain. Had to get the high and mighty major here, then the benighted horse tipped me off, and I fell on my bad arm. Sore. Very sore.”

Now, wasn’t this just splendid! She had a man with an injured leg upstairs, and another man with a potentially infected wound in his arm, which would have to be dressed for a second time because he’d fallen on it. She might as well put a blood and bandages sign outside the door and have done with it.

Mrs. Daniell certainly wouldn’t approve of the company she was keeping, or how she was keeping herself occupied. Only the other day, Flora had been lamenting that she was bored and lonely. Now things couldn’t be more different. Handsome men were popping up everywhere, like woodworm coming out of the furniture.

Not bad for a shy, straight-laced maiden aunt, she thought as she fended off another kiss from Lawrence. But now that shy gentlewoman must be strong.

She had a crisis to deal with.

Hustling Lawrence into the potting shed around the corner, she settled him down on a pile of potato sacks and exhorted him, on pain of death, not to move a muscle until she returned.

Hastening back into the house, she called out to Jenny, “The coast is clear. Just someone who’d lost their way in the rain and the dark. I’m going to get a lantern and set them back on their path.”

Both Jenny and Adam answered her from upstairs. Good, they must be keeping an eye on the major, which meant the kitchen was unoccupied. She hurtled around, gathering up the heel of a loaf, some cheese, a large flagon of water, a pair of old aprons, and a lantern. Then she slipped out and went around to the potting shed, where she found Lawrence just as she’d left him. He was snoring gently, his head propped up on the dusty windowsill, his feet surrounded by cracked flowerpots.

Those words of love he’d spoken…they must have been drunken ramblings. Mustn’t they? Holding her lamp aloft, she gazed at the sleeping man. He was as handsome in repose as when he was animated, just as alluring with his damp, tumbled locks falling about his forehead as when he was smartly dressed and tidy.

Against how many eager female mouths had those firm lips pressed? How many passion-starved women had that lithe, muscular body pleasured? And to how many of them had he given the lie, “I love you, I need you, I can’t live without you”?

Cursing herself for a fool, she set the lantern down and tackled the awkward task of removing his sodden clothing so she could examine the damaged arm.

The dressing had been knocked askew and was caked in dried blood. The edges of the wound were still clean, however, and there was no sign of gangrene or infection.

She felt his forehead again, and he awoke, seized her hand and kissed it, looking up at her with a grin so sinfully wicked that she was tempted to slap him.

“Stop that, Lawrence. You’ve brought me enough trouble already today.”

The corners of his sensuous mouth drooped mournfully. “Don’t you want me?”

“That’s neither here nor there,” she replied. “I need to dress this wound again, and then decide what to do with you.”

When he sobered up, or when the fever left him and his judgment returned, she must get him to cast his expert eye over the stitching job she’d done on Will. He’d said they mustn’t be seen together, but what would be the harm of a few minutes?

“I’ll sort out your dressing,” she said, “and bring you some feverfew and willow bark as soon as I can, but I want you to stay here and rest for now. Speak to no one and hide under the potting bench if anyone comes out here. Hopefully you’ll be sober in a few hours. Then you must come inside and look at the major, make sure I’ve done everything right.”

Lawrence’s brown eyes lost their glint, and his expression tightened. “You’re going away?”

“Not immediately. Hold out your arm.”

Using the gardening shears, she made slits in one of the old aprons, then tore it into strips and bound his wound up again.

“I don’t know why you have a fever,” she told him as he sank his head back against the windowsill. “Your wound’s clean and a healthy color. Perhaps it’s the brandy. Or too much exertion in bringing the major here. Tell me, why can’t you be seen with him? Surely, you want to take credit for his rescue?”

Ignoring her question, he looked at her admiringly, saying, “My sweet Flora. You’re the best pupil a man could have. There’s so much more I’d like to teach you. And not just about medicine.” His eyes twinkled seductively.

“You’re not too unwell to be slapped,” she said stoutly, though her cheeks warmed at his compliment. “Now, I’d better go and make the tisane I promised you.”

It took considerable effort to drag her gaze away from his well-muscled torso. His skin looked fine as silk in the yellow light of the lantern, each bulge and dip accentuated by shadow, each sinew burgeoning with strength.

She’d have to fetch a blanket to cover him with while his clothes dried on the potting bench. The tempting male chest, the padded stomach muscles, and the broad shoulders were just too distracting.

As a temporary measure, she tucked the spare apron over him, handed him some water, and bade him drink as much as he could until she returned.

She hurried back into the house, praying that the cooling rain on her face would remove all trace of the heat which the sight of Lawrence’s bared torso had ignited in her body.

As she stepped inside, she brushed drops of water from her sleeves and shook out her skirts. She untied her cap and walked into the kitchen to squeeze the water out of it over the sink.

And, suddenly, became aware that she was not alone.

Mrs. Daniell was standing in front of the lighted stove, staring at her in absolute horror.

“Great heaven, Flora,” she croaked. “What have you done to your hair? Your family will be disgusted with you, making yourself look like the Whore of Babylon!”

The heat rushed into Flora’s face, along with a feeling of righteous anger that suffused her entire body. She’d just patched up two injured men and kept a level head in a crisis, but all Mrs. Daniell cared about was the color of her hair.

She folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “What are you doing here at this time of night? Am I never to have any respite from your disapproval? I’m fed up, truly fed up with having you play spy for my sister. This is my house, and always has been, and you are not welcome any time of the day or night, no matter what you might think. Good night, Mrs. Daniell.”

The other woman stared at her a moment, her lips pressed tightly together. Then she said, “You look tired, overwrought. I’ll accord you the benefit of the doubt and leave you for now. In the morning, I daresay you’ll have remembered your manners and will want to make your apology. Good night.”

Mrs. Daniell spun away and marched to the front door, let herself out, and slammed the door behind her.

A contrite Jenny immediately appeared from the parlor, claiming she’d done her best to deny the reverend’s wife access.

Flora waited until her thumping heartbeat returned to normal, then attempted to placate the maid. She managed to exhibit a calm she was far from feeling. It was lucky Mrs. Daniell had only discovered her red hair. If she’d known about the potion maker in the potting shed, and the soldier in the bedroom, she’d have had a true fit of the vapors.

But Flora had offended Lucinda’s spy. Now Mrs. Daniell would, no doubt, redouble her efforts to interfere in Flora’s life.

And facts might come to light that were a great deal more threatening to her reputation than her flaming red hair.