Page 1 of Magic Touch
Chapter
One
WILLIAM
I never should have told my driver Samuel that I would walk the last five blocks, but the carriage was delayed by an overturned cart, and the afternoon is waning into evening. Foolish as it might be, I hope the healer will be able to give me some relief. The idea of waiting another day depresses me.
Shooting pain screams up my leg. If the healer says she needs to cut the damned thing off, I won't argue. I exaggerate, of course. The surgeon in France wanted to do just that, and I threatened to gouge out his eyes, even as my blood-soaked the table.
I check the address on the parchment again. Mr. Preston, the apothecary I visited yesterday, said Miss O'Dwyer, a healer, had a shop on this street, but he didn't know the name of the establishment.
A grocer, a book shop, and a door with no marking at all line the street, but nothing says “healer.” Of course, Mr. Preston had hesitated before calling her a healer, and I swear he’d muttered witch under his breath.
My disappointment turns to anger as I turn back up the street. The awkward movement shoots a bolt of pain through my thigh as if a hot poker were stabbing the bone. Biting my cheek prevents me from crying out and drawing the attention of people going about their day.
As the wave passes, I take a deep breath.
From the door with no sign, a bell tinkles.
A woman of middle years with blonde hair poking out from her cap creeps from the door. Eyes wide, she looks down the street in both directions before she hurries off.
Perhaps the healer doesn't need a sign in this part of town. I go to the door and step inside, causing the bell to tinkle once again.
"Did you forget something, Mrs. Cauly?" a woman calls.
Lavender and frankincense fill the air. As my vision adjusts to the dimness, I find myself surrounded by shelf after shelf of bottles, jars, and packets.
At the far end of the narrow shop, a counter stands with bowls of herbs and earthy scented powders.
At eye level to my right, a soft-pink skirt moves. Perched on a ladder, a woman with moss-green eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes stares down at me.
"I beg your pardon, sir. I thought my last customer had returned." She scurries down the ladder and faces me with a kind smile. Her dark hair is swept up in a loose bun, and soft curls frame her face. Lips meant to be kissed long and hard distract me utterly.
In fact, I can't seem to remember anything. I'm sure if anyone asks my name at this moment, I will stumble for the answer.
Her curved brows rise, and she cocks her head. "Are you lost, sir?"
Perhaps I am, but that isn't the right response. Shaking off my fascination with her unmatched beauty, I say, "That depends, madam. Are you Esme O'Dwyer?"
A wider smile pulls at those maddening lips, and my brain fogs over again. "I am she. How can I help?"
It takes me several long moments, while I likely look like a dimwit, before I can put a sentence together. Damn those lips. "Mr. Preston, the apothecary, said you might have something for pain. I've exhausted all my options, and laudanum muddles the brain too much. It's not to my liking. I was hoping you might have a tea." I prattle on while she stares with those pouty lips and sympathetic eyes. "I've tried peppermint and clove, but they didn't help enough. You see, it's been some time since I've had a night's sleep, and what my physician gives me is effective but makes waking rather difficult."
I order myself to stop talking. Why did I tell her all of that? I need a tea for pain would have been sufficient. Lord, I'd die happy if I could kiss her. What? No. I've clearly lost my mind.
Her cheeks flush briefly. She strides behind the counter. "I will try to help. What kind of pain do you suffer from, sir?"
"It's my leg. You see, I was wounded in France." Unsure what else to say, I force myself to remain quiet.
She nods as if she'd expected as much, but instead of gathering items for tea, she stares at me a long while, her gaze so intense it makes me feel as if I'm under scrutiny for more than a painful gait.
Unable to decide if I should leave, stay, speak, or grab her and kiss every thought from her beautiful head, all I can do is wait. As if frozen in place, I stare back while heat climbs up my neck and blood rushes to my manhood at an alarming rate. When she finally speaks, I have to clear my head to make it out.
"If you will trust me, Sir William, I think I can help you far more than any tea. Though, a good curative tea is not without merit. If you had a recurring headache, I would make you a tea. This, however, may need more than herbs."
Moving to the counter, I bite back against the searing pain. I've almost gotten used to living with the reminder of my time at war. Almost. Between the leg and my growing arousal, I stumble slightly and have to catch myself against the wood. I regain my balance and look at her, my face entirely too close. "I apologize, madam, I don't know what you mean, nor did I realize you knew me."
Color infuses her creamy cheeks again. "Pardon me. I read about you in The Herald last year. A few months ago, I saw a portrait hanging in the Royal Museum. It seemed rude to mention it when you first walked in. Perhaps it's still rude."
