7. November, 1826

7

NOVEMBER, 1826

GROSVENOR STREET – LONDON

H amish brushed his best suit for the second time and wondered why he was spending so much time on his clothing. He tried, unsuccessfully, to banish the memories of how his mysterious housemate had tasted the previous morning when he'd punished her for drugging his wine.

He had no idea what the hell he'd been thinking, because instead of "punishing" her, he'd ended up suffering more than she had with a nearly perpetual cockstand whenever she was near. The mere scent of her could send him into a painful spiral of need.

She'd tasted like roses, and her screams when she'd fallen apart under the tutelage of his probing tongue had brought the Rutherfords back pounding on the parlor door. Hamish now regretted his anger and rare bout of lust for which he'd apologized to the poor woman many times since.

She'd never said anything in reply to his abject apologies, only favoring him with her enigmatic smiles. He feared he'd never know the woman well enough to understand her strange ways, but he'd made a point of not drinking anything she'd prepared for him since that night. The sooner he finished his bodyguard and tutoring duties, the sooner he could put as much distance as possible between him and the unpredictable, exotic Saida.

The spare bedchamber he'd been given at the rear of the first floor had cheery buttercup yellow walls and a window overlooking the mews so that he could enjoy the sun whenever it made an appearance. November in London was not the most light-filled of seasons.

As to why he was taking so much care with his wardrobe, he and Saida were going to venture out to the busy Bell Pharmacy on Oxford Street. He thought that would be a good introduction for her to the kinds of treatments dispensed in London. He'd arranged a tour of the back rooms where they compounded the medicines sold in the front of the shop.

Perhaps he could persuade her to relax and open up to him about the kinds of Berber folk medicine she'd practiced in her home country. It seemed that every time he broached the subject, she bristled as if he were a nosy intruder in her life.

So far, life at No. 3 Grosvenor Street had been extremely quiet. He'd almost abandoned his nightly rounds of the townhouse making sure all doors and windows were secured. Could it be that the earl had overestimated the threat to Miss Hossini? That, fortunately, was none of his concern.

Unfortunately, he had a more pressing need. He was going to do physical damage either to his cock, or his left hand in his nightly, multiple bouts of self-gratification if he didn't put distance between himself and Saida Hossini. Every night he vowed to simply go to bed, roll over, and get some rest. Every night his throbbing member had other ideas. How his cock somehow knew the dratted woman slept a mere floor above them was beyond him.

He'd been given a mission to accomplish. If he could educate the stubborn young woman in the ways of English physicians in the short time they'd have together, she could perhaps become an assistant at Lady Camilla's nephew C.B.'s clinic, or a nurse at one of the hospitals. She might also enhance her practice of midwifery. However, if the earl's glowing recommendations were to be believed, she already excelled in those skills.

As to whether or not she was a murderess, he had no idea. She was certainly capable of murder, but he had no desire to ever find out if she'd actually killed someone. For the love of Zeus, the earl had a damned Bow Street runner in his pocket. Why did he need a physician of all people to do his dirty work?

Hamish had finally managed to organize the takeover of his practice by putting his patients into the care of a young physician who'd interned at St. George's under his tutelage. He'd found him a place at C.B.'s clinic in Seven Dials where Hamish still volunteered his time one day a week. They'd struck a bargain whereby the young man would send Hamish a small portion of his income each year until he'd paid for the practice.

Hamish had debated as to whether to resign from his volunteer work at the Seven Dials clinic, but helping the poor residents of London's worst neighborhoods was too important. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Lord Framlingwood had readily agreed to bringing two extra under butlers into Saida's household on Mondays when Hamish volunteered.

As for his own practice of bored, wealthy matrons, he suspected they'd be upset at first when they learned a younger man would be taking over. However, young Charles Goodenough was indeed as much as any, erm, female patient could hope for. He was tall, well made, and with the face of an angel. Hamish could not imagine any of his former patients turning the young man away. He'd already warned him about their predatory tendencies, but young Charles had merely leaned his lanky frame against a cabinet in C.B.'s surgery, folded his arms and given him a wicked smile.

Hamish walked down the stairs and retrieved his bowler hat and cane from the table in the hall whilst waiting for the lady to make her entrance. When he looked up after listening to the patter of footsteps down from the top floor, she stood in the weak morning sun streaming through the fan of glass windows above the door. And she was wearing that damned rose silk dress.

Saida had deliberately chosen the same dress she wore on the day Hamish had "punished" her. She knew she was pushing the poor man, but she couldn't refrain from trying to see what would happen. She was endlessly curious about the enigmatic Scotsman. The expression on his face told her all she needed to know. He was a prisoner of lust, much like herself.

As an additional tease, she lifted her skirts the tiniest bit so that he could spy the same creamy lace stockings she'd worn that day as well. She assumed the pretense that she needed to lift them out of the way to negotiate the last few steps after having practically skipped all the way down from the second floor would go unnoticed.

He showed little outer reaction, save a slight widening of his nostrils. That was enough for her. She was satisfied she was driving the man wild again. At some point that day, she was confident she'd find some way to re-ignite the lustful rage in him she craved.

He gestured toward the door with his walking cane. "Are you ready to learn about English medicine?"

"I'm ready to listen," she said, refusing to admit he might have something to teach her that she didn't already know.

He sighed and followed her out the door held open by Quick Rutherford. Her curricle awaited them with two of the earl's high-spirited grays in the traces. Of course she'd chosen ostentation for their first foray together out in public. He cringed inwardly. He was afraid he was beginning to understand the devilish woman.

When she climbed to the driver's seat and he clambered up next to her, she nodded to the groom to loose the grays. They thundered off up Grosvenor Street with Hamish clinging desperately to the side of his seat and hanging on to his hat. Saida's stylish rose velvet hat with a dainty veil dotted with rosebuds remained perfectly still atop her infernal head.

He hoped to hell Young Rutherford clinging to the high outside rear seat was holding on tight. He wondered idly if the earl was aware that one of his mistresses willfully made a spectacle of herself on public streets. That thought dashed from his mind to be replaced by total concentration on self-preservation when they rounded the corner at Bond Street, practically on one wheel.

Saida stood in the middle of the back room of Bell's Pharmacy and turned slowly in a circle. Blackened pots and crucifers stretched from wall to wall. A series of pulleys delivered the raw materials, presumably. A small army of men worked at creating the compounds, and the smell…the smell. The smell was unbearably bitter and acrid. This was not the sort of healing apothecary she'd grown up knowing so well back in Ceuta.

Hamish was deep in conversation with the manager who kept stealing surreptitious looks her way. She realized Englishmen considered this the domain of men only, whereas in her country people had never questioned her abilities and gifts of healing.

The scents that assailed her customers were those of sweet, spicy pungent barks of trees of the Mediterranean, honey-like saffron, or lemony verbena. The bitterness here was frightening to all of her senses. How could all of these bitter compounds heal the sick, even though they were packaged in elaborate jars in the front of the pharmacy? She shook her head slowly and in her heart, pitied the ailing masses amongst the English.

After a long, sometimes heated discussion with the manager, Hamish re-joined her and gave her a quick walk around the room, pointing out various compounding stations and what the products made at each would be used for as they went.

"You English physicians seem to use a lot of purgatives. Is that your treatment for most ailments?" She delivered her question in a deliberately challenging tone of voice.

Hamish quirked up one corner of his mouth and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You're trying to upset me, aren't you?"

She gave him a sly smile. "Is it working?"