Page 47 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lawrence was making his way as stealthily as he could to another meet with Nathaniel Pryce. Not in the churchyard, this time, but on the Fortuneswell side of the heath, above the cliffs overlooking the sea. Nat had chosen a poor night for their rendezvous. The winds were moving fast up in the heavens, sweeping intermittent clouds across the moon and dimming its brightness. The clouds threw out fistfuls of chilly rain, and it felt more like autumn than summer.

Lawrence didn’t take the lane. Where it crossed the heath, it was broad and open, but at this end, trees crowded out the sky, making it the perfect place for a robber to ambush an unwary traveler. There was a sheep track to follow, though it wasn’t easy to navigate when the scudding clouds shut off the moonlight every few minutes.

In case he met with trouble, he was well armed, as usual, with a brace of pistols in his pockets, a throwing knife in each boot, and a dagger sheathed at his waist. There was nothing on his person worth stealing. He’d given his coin to Flora, and the rest of his savings remained in their secret hideaway at the wagon. Well, the pistols and dagger would be worth a bit to a footpad, he supposed, but he preferred to think that, with his wrestling skills and throwing ability, he was a sight more dangerous than any footpad was likely to be.

Although, they’d be desperate men, indeed, to be out so late on a night like this. No one in their right mind would venture onto the heath or down to the sea cliffs in such unseasonable weather. He’d heard there was a ball taking place tonight, but the revelers would all have returned to their homes by now.

He was starting to regret being out himself. The wind whipped his hair so hard it stung his face and made the raindrops feel like hailstones where they hit his exposed skin. He cursed Nathaniel Pryce every step of the way to the blasted oak where they were supposed to meet.

Crouching low, he made his way through the ferns and gorse bushes, until the dark bulk of the tree interposed itself between him and the stars. He scouted around. Nat wasn’t here yet. Damn the fellow!

As he settled himself down to wait, keeping low so his silhouette would blend in with his surroundings, he wondered what new merchandise Nat was bringing him. If it was alcoholic, he’d have to hide it under the furze and return to collect it in daylight on horseback. He’d bring his collecting basket with him, so if anyone were to question what he was doing out here, he could claim he was looking for medicinal plants.

But he’d rather it wasn’t brandy or rum. Silk and lace were much easier to sell, and he had a good network of buyers. Well, had had. If he continued to disappoint his female clients as he had Lady Pen, he might lose them. But Flora, the cause of all his recent distraction, was gone now, and he needed to put her out of his heart and his mind.

As he had discovered, the making of anti-love philters was really not his forte.

In the distance, he heard the clock on the Fortuneswell church tower strike midnight. He jerked his head up. No, still no sign of Nat. But the wind brought a new sound to his ears—the distant cries of men. Leaping up, but remaining in the shadow of the tree, he listened intently. Each buffet of the wind brought with it further dreadful sounds—the creak of a ship’s timbers, the loud crack of sails, and cries giving way to screams as the sailors fought their vessel, in fear for their lives.

Was there to be a wreck here, right below the very cliff near which he stood? That would bring wreckers out from miles around. But would they be part of Nat’s circle, or some other group who wouldn’t take too kindly to having him as a witness?

As he stood in the lea of the tree, battling to stay upright against the bitter wind, another sound, close by, had him pricking up his ears again. Nat Pryce? No, the sound of cracking twigs and regular footsteps was too noisy for just one man. He peered between the fern fronds to see what was going on.

His heart jumped into his throat, and in less than a second, both pistols were in his hands, cocked, and ready to fire. There was no mistaking the men marching in an orderly group across the heath, swinging their lanterns in front of them.

Soldiers!

The bitter taste of gall flooded his mouth. Had Nat betrayed him? And if so, why? For Nat was much deeper into illegal business than he was. Lawrence was just a fence, but Nathaniel Pryce was a true wrecker. Unless, of course, the man had decided to turn King’s Evidence.

Time to go. As soon as the soldiers were past him, Lawrence bolted up out of the bracken like a hare and ran. With any luck, they were making too much noise to notice the fleet passage of a single, surefooted man. But luck was against him. Suddenly, a spurt of light erupted from the detachment of soldiers, followed by a sharp crack of musket fire.

He kept running, dodging wildly from side to side, not even certain it was him they were firing at. Yells and curses split the air, and more muskets cracked, but nothing touched him, and he didn’t hear the patter of spent shot anywhere near.

What was going on?

He threw himself to the ground, spotted a large boulder, and crawled through the leaf mold to hide behind it and observe the action.

Although he was now some distance away from the soldiers, the random motion of their lanterns showed him the detachment was in total disarray. Numerous dark shapes surrounded them, diving right in amongst them with clubs and blades in their hands. As he watched, the soldiers seemed to rally, and he saw moonlight glint on steel and polished wood as they formed themselves into a circle, leveled their weapons, and fired as one into the darkness.

The dark shapes faded into nothingness, their shadows becoming one with the scrubby trees and gorse bushes. Then all hell broke loose, with the soldiers running about in all directions, wrestling with men in the gorse, firing at random, and yelling loud enough to wake the dead. Lawrence couldn’t retreat to the village now. The chance of being stumbled upon by a panicking soldier, or one of the men daring to attack them, was too great. The only place he could go was the beach, where he might be able to hide among the rocks and stay out of trouble until daybreak. By that time, hopefully, the melee on the heath would be long over, and, on the beach, everyone would be too distracted by the wreck to notice him if he lay low.

There were several paths down to the shoreline. He took the nearest, his feet slipping on loose limestone pebbles and chalky mud as he fought his way down in the teeth of the wind. All at once, to his horror, he saw men scrambling up the path toward him, their backs bent under a range of odd-shaped packages.

There was nowhere to go. He froze, but it was too late—he’d been seen.

The man in front swore, cast his burden into the scrub on the side of the path, and threw himself at Lawrence, tipping him off balance.

“Kill him!” said another man, with a thick local accent. “He’s not one of us.”

The man who’d pinned him down didn’t know it yet, but a dagger was poised to drive straight into his belly. However, a life was a life, and Lawrence didn’t want to take one needlessly.

“Get off me, numbskull,” he growled. “I’m no threat to you.”

His words had an instantaneous effect. The weight above him shifted, and a lantern flashed in his eyes, creating a blood-red afterimage that obscured his sight.

“Campaign?”