Page 22 of A Potion for Passion

Nat blinked rapidly, temporarily blinded. “What’s the glim for?” he asked, tensing to run.

“One of my acts was knife throwing.” Lawrence held up his blade so it glinted in the glare of the lantern. “If you try to run, I’ll have this in your back before you’re halfway to the lychgate.” He tossed the knife up, spinning it and catching it by the handle, then held it ready, perfectly balanced, between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’d like to see that,” scoffed the other, taking a tighter hold of the bundle he carried. “Saints alive!” he yelped as his hat flew off and landed in a clump of long grass behind him.

Lawrence bent again, his fingers poised over his other boot, his eyes on Nat. “I just want you to know I never set out with only one knife. Drop the bundle, and I’ll see you in Dorchester.”

Nat’s face looked pale as a ghost’s. “Dorchester Fair next week, I’ll be there,” he said hurriedly. “But don’t think you’ve heard the last of this.”

Lawrence straightened, twirled the knife between his fingers, and strolled across to the wrapped bundle of silk as Nat bent for his hat.

“My knife, if you please,” he said.

The wrecker flung it on the ground and departed, cursing. As soon as he was out of sight, Lawrence quickly snuffed the lantern, tucked his knives away, and grabbed up the bundle. He leaped over the churchyard wall and ran for the thicket where he’d hidden his horse.

“Come on, Belle,” he urged, throwing himself into the saddle. “We need to get out of this place before they come looking for us.” He spurred the mare to a gallop as they passed the last house in the village and rode off into the night as if all the devils of hell were behind him.

He wasn’t afraid of encountering anyone—or anything—in daylight. But night was a different matter. Not all of Portland’s outlaw salvagers and wreckers were as stupid as Nathaniel Pryce.

And they wouldn’t think twice about cutting a man’s throat in his sleep, if he didn’t toe the line.