Munro sat on the edge of the bed in the inn, gripping the mattress, unable to summon the will to even remove his boots.

He clamped a hand on his knee to stop the insistent trembling that echoed the beating of his troubled heart.

His parents had assured him repeatedly that when a man met his soul mate, he’d know it. However…

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered over and over until he became aware he was talking to himself.

A tap at the door heralded a scullery lad with a taper to light the candles. He allowed the boy entry and watched with disinterest as flames flickered and shadows loomed on the walls of the small room.

He stuck out a foot. “Will ye give me a hand, laddie?”

Once relieved of his boots, he flipped the obliging lad a coin and nodded in response to a polite goodnight.

He didn’t move as night encroached.

There had to be an explanation for Sarah’s rejection. “My feelings apparently are nay reciprocated.”

He pondered that for a long while. He considered himself reasonably attractive, having inherited his mother’s raven hair and his father’s rugged features. It was evidently a mistake to think Sarah enjoyed his company. Yet, the longing in her eyes said otherwise.

“It must be she doesna like Scots.”

It didn’t take long to dismiss that notion—it made no sense in light of her ready laughter at his brogue.

“She’s afraid of men because of her late husband.”

He gathered the linens in his fists, angered such cowards existed in the world. But surely she realized he was honorable and had been brought up to respect women.

“She’s ashamed of her mother.”

Mary Ward was definitely odd, but then she too was recently widowed. By the skeletal look of her, he’d warrant she hadn’t had a decent meal in many a year. He pondered the possible nature of hard times that had driven parents to leave three daughters in the care of a stranger and go off to Chepstow, of all places. From what he knew of the town it consisted of naught but an ancient castle. Despite being abandoned, Sarah had traveled all the way to South Wales to visit her father’s grave, but didn’t even know the whereabouts of her sisters. The prospect of unraveling that knotty problem made him slightly dizzy.

“She’s worried about finding a suitable apprentice.”

But he’d offered to assist with that, and her initiative in approaching Battersby had set the endeavor in motion.

Sarah was an enigma.

She was hiding something, always careful never to reveal too much. If he wanted her, he had to find out what it was and convince her it made no difference to his feelings.

“None of it makes any sense,” he rasped as he crawled onto the bed and drifted off to sleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

Sarah longed for her bed and had no patience for her mother’s complaints about the cramped accommodations above the shop. This from a woman who’d lived in a prison for twelve years. “Yes, there’s just the one bed. Only my husband and I lived here. It’s the best I can offer. Now, I must go down to speak with the headmaster. Thank you for suggesting I approach him.”

She had a feeling from the answering frown that her mother had forgotten making the suggestion, but there was no time to waste.

She hurried down the stairs and took a deep breath before reentering the shop.

Battersby was poking about in one of a myriad of herb drawers. “I have to confess to being impressed, Mrs. North,” he said, his fingertips under his nose. “I suggest you come to the school tomorrow to meet young Giles. Sad case. Parents died in a fire that started in a smithy next door to their shop. His father was a mercer. These conflagrations happen all too frequently, as you know, but when a family can no longer pay the fees…” He sighed. “What is one to do? You’ll find him a willing lad—keen to learn.”

Sarah’s heart went out to the boy she’d yet to meet. She knew what it was to be left alone to face a sometimes terrifying world. She wondered what would have happened to Giles if she hadn’t come along. It was doubtful Battersby would have done anything to help him. After all, no fees…

“Certainly,” she replied. “In the morning?”

“Yes. Ten o’clock, then we can be done well before luncheon.” He took out his pocket watch. “Goodness. The night porter will wonder what’s become of me. Goodnight.”

Not surprised the headmaster would want her off the school premises by the time luncheon was served, she bade him farewell and locked the door behind him.

As darkness stole into the silent shop, she paused by the counter and inhaled again the soothing scents of lavender for headaches, oil of cloves for toothaches, rosemary for sore muscles.

Despite her exhaustion, she doubted she would get much sleep with her mother in the same bed. In addition, she’d be kept awake by the exciting prospect of acquiring an apprentice more quickly than she’d anticipated.

And then there was Munro Pendray. The infuriating man’s smile, wit and rugged good looks would haunt her dreams for many a day. Not to mention the memory of his leg…

Cease!

A cup of camomile tea might help her sleep, but she didn’t have the energy to relight the fire in the workshop. Reginald had taken care of such things, and sparking flint was a skill she wasn’t yet proficient at.

It was tempting to curl up on the pallet in the workroom, a place she’d often found refuge, whereas the upstairs room…

When she climbed wearily to the top of the steps, she found her mother sprawled across the bed, sound asleep, clad in the same shift she’d worn for days.

It was going to be a long night.

Munro woke from a fitful sleep sometime in the night. The candles had burned down and his limbs were stiff. It eventually penetrated his fogged brain that he was lying atop the linens, still fully clothed.

He undressed and climbed between the sheets.

Getting back to sleep proved elusive. The nagging problems he’d pondered earlier recurred over and over.

Now, there were new questions. He wondered if Battersby had been impressed enough with the shop to help Sarah. Munro had been in apothecary shops before but never paid much attention. He remembered the aromas. Lavender in particular.

It was a eureka moment. Lavender was the scent that clung to Sarah.

He conjured a vision of her distilling essences, grinding herbs, taking delight in easing pain.

He hoped she was in a warm bed. The chill left his veins when he thought of curling his body around hers, sharing his heat, touching intimate places.

He turned over onto his belly in an effort to discourage the arousal his erotic visions had stirred.

On the morrow, he’d inquire how far it was to the shop. It would be advisable to go in the morning, before she had a chance to escape.

That notion sobered him. He’d be better off swallowing his pride and accepting she didn’t want anything to do with him. There were many eligible lasses in the Lowlands who’d be only too thrilled to wed Munro Pendray.

He finally fell asleep, resolved to take the next stagecoach to Shrewsbury and forget all about Sarah North.