Free The Apothecary Rose by Candace Robb Page A

whom Owen assumed to be the apothecary's daughter.
    The woman glanced up at Owen. Looked again, with a hint of uneasiness. He was sorry for that, for she was a comely young woman, fine-featured and with clear eyes. But he could imagine what she saw. A scarred stranger in road-dusted leather. Trouble. And perhaps she was right. He waited until the merchant had departed, then approached the counter. She studied him evenly, her eyes pausing on the scar that spread out from beneath the patch across his cheekbone.
    'Is the Master about?'
    She bristled. 'Not at the moment. What can I do for you?'
    Stupid. He knew the Master was bedridden. And the question had gotten him off to a bad start with her. 'Do you have a salve of boneset and comfrey? My scar tightens and draws with the winter wind.'
    She reached over the counter and touched his cheek.
    He grinned, delighted. 'You have a gentle touch.'
    She withdrew her hand as if he'd burned her. 'It is obviously difficult for you, but you must think of me as an apothecary.' Her eyes smouldered, her voice chilled.
    Cheeky daughter, to call herself an apothecary. 'For give me. I found your touch disconcerting.'
    'Sweet words -'
    'I did ask your forgiveness.'
    She nodded. 'Honey and calendula. They are the best softeners. Ask any court lady.'
    'Softening. Aye. That's what it's needing. But some thing also to soothe the fire that returns now and again. To the scar, that is.' He grinned.
    She did not. Her blue eyes had a granite glint to them.
    He withdrew the grin, coughed. 'Sorry again.'
    'I can add something to cool the skin.' She cocked her head to one side, still with the even gaze. 'Your speech has an odd music. You are not from the North Country.'
    'Wales is my mother country. And the scar was got in the King's service.'
    'A soldier?'
    He could see that displeased her. He was not doing at all well.
    'No more. I've seen the error of my ways.' He beamed his most disarming smile.
    'You are fortunate’ Spoken without a hint of being charmed.
    'It is my excuse for being clumsy with women.' York women in particular.
    She smiled - politely - and stepped away to mix the salve. Owen watched her, noting how fluid were her movements, how graceful and sure. Her hair was tucked up in a clean white kerchief, baring a long, slender neck. He wished he had two eyes to feast on her.
    She bristled as she turned back to him. 'Have I grown horns?'
    He reddened, realising how he'd stared. But sure ly she recognised adoration. He refused to apologise. He'd done nothing to offend her. But he did change the subject. 'I noticed the garden gate.' He gestured towards the door. 'Do you keep bees?'
    'Bees?'
    'For the honey in the salve.'
    'No. No hives. I would like to, but I've no time to tend them with my husband ill. We get our honey from the abbey. St. Mary's. You are a gardener?'
    Her husband? Surely this was not Mistress Wilton. 'I was a gardener in another lifetime.'
    She looked puzzled. What clear blue eyes she had. How they bored into his soul.
    'When I was a boy in Wales.'
    'Ah. You are a long way from home.'
    'A long way indeed.' He loved those eyes.
    She cleared her throat and nodded towards the pot he clutched.
    'Oh. Aye.' He handed it to her.
    With a flattened spoon she measured out the salve. Exactly one measure.
    'You've a practised eye.'
    'Five years as my husband's apprentice’ she said with quiet pride.
    There it was again. Then you must be Mistress Wilton.' She nodded. How disappointing. Married, and to the man he hoped would employ him. He offered his hand. 'Owen Archer. I am staying at the York, so we'll be neighbours for a while.'
    She hesitated, then shook his hand. A firm, warm shake. 'We're pleased to have your trade, Master Arch er. The Merchets will take good care of you.'
    'You said your husband is ill?'
    Her face closed up. She handed him his salve. 'Be sparing of this. It is a strong medicine.'
    He regretted the question. 'I will be careful.'
    The shop bell jingled. As the fair