Page 68 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Thirty-Three

The lane leading to Oakwood Grange was deserted, but Lawrence knew better than to let down his guard. If the major had already rallied the garrison to his aid, there were bound to be sentries posted about the place. It was imperative that he and Nat put them out of action before the alarm could be raised.

Sweat pricked at his upper lip as he halted Belle by a gate. Leaping down nimbly, he threw his horse’s reins around the gatepost, signaled Nat to wait, then vaulted over.

They moved swift and silent along the hedge bordering the road until they reached the outskirts of the estate they were seeking. Lawrence motioned Nat forward, and whispered, “I’ll go widdershins, you go sun-wise. Keep well to the hedge and look through any gaps you can to see what—if anything—is afoot in the yard. If you see another soul, do your best to come up behind them and knock them out. But be quiet about it.”

Nat nodded and patted the stout cudgel concealed beneath his coat. Lawrence had no such weapon and would have to rely on his strength and the hardness of the pistol stock in his hand.

He just hoped neither of them would have to use violence. He wasn’t entirely devoid of conscience, nor of concern for the pains of his fellow man. But neither could he afford to waste precious time arguing with a redcoat who wouldn’t trust a word he said.

A quarter of an hour took him halfway around the smallholding, by which time he had noted a rambling house with smoke coming from the chimney, a barn, stable, and some outhouses. All was quiet and still in the autumn air, except the occasional champ of a horse from the stable.

His spine tingled an instant before he saw him.

A sentry.

The soldier lay on his stomach on the bank of an old rabbit warren, gazing out across the farmyard and the surrounding fields. Had it not been for the small sucking sound the man made on an unlit clay pipe, Lawrence might have believed him asleep.

This redcoat was built like a warship. Lawrence wouldn’t give much for his own chances if it came to a hand-to-hand fight, so he’d have to rely on catching the sentry unawares.

Great Jonah!Why did it have to be him who stumbled on their first foe? He’d no wish to draw blood.

The image of Flora crossed his mind. Flora, with her red hair tantalizingly caressing the top of her breast, her mouth softened by his kisses, and her lips parted for more.

For Flora’s sake, he had to sort out this mess. If the wreckers discovered she’d given shelter to Major Wilberforce, her life could be in danger, too.

There was no time to waste. He had to get to Wilberforce before Nat did, and he had to find a way to throw Nat off the scent. He could make it look like the major had prevailed in a struggle with Lawrence and knocked him out. Then no one could hold him to blame if Nat was taken and the major escaped unharmed.

Inch by tortuous inch, Lawrence eased the pistol out of his pocket, his eyes never leaving the lookout’s head, ready to pounce if the man made the least movement.

Reversing the pistol so he held it by the barrel, he tensed his legs, then sprang, landing so heavily on his foe’s body that the man instantly lost his breath. Swinging his right arm round in an arc, he brought the butt of the pistol down on the man’s skull with all the force he could muster, before leaping clear, changing his grip on the gun, and leveling it at the man’s temple.

His victim lay motionless, sprawled out on the grass as if dropped from a great height.

Lawrence’s heart beat fit to burst, but as the silence continued, he realized he’d won this first battle. If there was anyone else watching the house, chances were Nat would have dealt with them in a similar manner.

Moving quickly, Lawrence continued to skirt the yard until he met up with his companion, who shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. If there were any further lookouts, they must be well hidden. Dare they continue?

Lawrence turned again and surveyed the house. There was smoke in the chimney—a stove was alight, and no sensible householder would leave his house untended if the stove was burning. Somebody was at home. But how many somebodies?

“We’ll scout around the house,” Lawrence said in a low voice. “Peep into the windows, try the doors. A door would be quieter, if we can find one unlocked.”

Nat tapped the side of his nose with a grubby finger. “I’ve a set of pick-locks for that,” he whispered back. “I can get in any door that’s not bolted.”

Of course Nathaniel Pryce would have pick-locks. The man was a felon. But then, so was he, and at risk of becoming even more of one by the minute. He’d just knocked a soldier of His Majesty’s army senseless. That had to carry a hefty penalty.

Once again, he thought of Flora, and his conscience stabbed at him. He should never have become tangled up in this.

Too late to fret. Hesitation would cost them the advantage of surprise. He set his jaw and followed Nat in a creeping shuffle toward the kitchen garden behind the house, looking constantly about for any shifting shadow, his pistol primed and cocked.

Nat’s ability with locked doors was uncanny.

Within moments, they slipped into the dark interior of the house. All the doors off the passageway stood open, like a rank of gaping mouths ready to consume intruders. But nothing happened as he and Nat crept up to them, looked into the rooms beyond, and found them all empty.

A faint noise made Lawrence start and halt in his tracks. Nat heard it, too, and froze likewise.

“He’s in there,” Lawrence whispered. “Go aloft and deal with anyone you find. I’ll knock out our quarry so we can carry him off.”