Chapter Twenty-Three

“Follow me, then.”

Deciding which was the darkest, quietest quadrant of the heath, Lawrence began slithering forward on his elbows, but he’d barely gone a few yards when a sharp burn slashed across his left bicep, followed by the crack of a rifle. Judas! He felt the hot seep of blood beneath his jacket sleeve and cursed softly.

He froze and motioned the man behind him to do the same. For what felt like hours, he waited, unable to hear anything but the crashing of the blood in his veins and the stampede of his heartbeat.

Should he proceed, or wait? He was injured now, and needed to get his wound seen to as soon as possible, before his arm stiffened or infection set in.

The choice was taken from him by his companion, who hissed, “No point staying here and waiting to be discovered. At least if we move, we can find out what direction that ball came from and adjust our course accordingly. Have you weapons?”

“Aye, two pistols, primed.”

He could hear the amusement in the man’s voice as he inquired, “Two?”

A cool customer, indeed. Lawrence was starting to lose track of who was saving whom as the man wriggled up next to him and lay there, looking at him expectantly.

Gripping one of his pistols between his teeth, Lawrence set off again, writhing snake-like through the bracken. The journey to the road was interminable, and by the time they reached it, his shoulders ached like the devil and his hips felt bruised to the bone. Not to mention the hellfire burning in his bicep.

He could hear the labored breathing of the man behind him. He must be tiring now, after his long battle with the waves and now the exhausting haul through the heathland. Turning, he signaled the fellow to silence. As soon as the man’s breathing eased, Lawrence listened for the normal night sounds he was used to—the harsh shriek of hunting owls, the churr of a nightjar, the occasional bark of a fox.

Instead, his ears were assailed by the rapid tramp of many pairs of feet coming down the road from the fort.

Reinforcements!

He flung himself to the ground, grazing his nose and chin on the pounded gravel of the road surface, then grabbed his companion’s coat and rolled with him down the raised bank which flanked the road and into a clump of hawthorn bushes.

To his great surprise, the man he’d rescued tried to scramble up the bank again.

“Judas! What are you doing?” He grasped his coattails and dragged him bodily back down to their hiding place.

There followed a grim, brief struggle, with the man attempting to shout out, and biting hard on Lawrence’s hand when he tried to stop him. He was strong, an opponent to be reckoned with, despite the ordeal he’d just been through.

“Damn it!” Lawrence cursed in a whisper, feeling the flesh tearing around the wound on his arm. He decided on a swift resolution to their battle. He hit the man full force across the temple with the butt of his pistol.

The struggling stopped, and in the ensuing moment of peace, he could hear the footsteps of the soldiers retreating into the distance. He was safe.

For now.

Hurting in more places than he could count, he cursed the whim that had led him to save the gentleman. Of course, the fellow was a law-abiding creature and would see the soldiers as salvation, whereas he could only see them as a threat. What the devil was he supposed to do now? The man he’d saved was more likely to turn out an enemy than a friend.

It wasn’t safe to leave with him, and it wasn’t safe to leave without him. And he could hardly drag an unconscious man all the way to the village. Not with the blood pouring down his arm and his fund of energy rapidly running out. He’d have to try and find a place to lie low until the furor had died down, and when the sun rose, he could get up, brush himself off, and saunter back into Fortuneswell, looking the picture of innocence.

The man he’d saved could take care of himself. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be able to describe Lawrence to the authorities. Although…hadn’t he told the man he was a doctor?

Damn! He slapped himself on the forehead, cursing his stupidity, then reached around his neck and untied his kerchief. This he stuffed into the man’s mouth. Then he felt about in the man’s damp pockets and found his handkerchief, which, along with one of the gentleman’s stockings, he tied together to bind the fellow’s wrists.

When the man recovered his senses, he’d be able to walk to safety, even if he couldn’t talk. Lawrence would return on the morrow, with Charley in tow, and make sure the man had gone, that his rescue was complete.

He felt a stab of guilt as he disentangled himself from the hawthorn, knowing how much he was putting the stranger at risk by leaving him bound and helpless. But at least the rain had now ceased, and the temperature would rise as soon as the sun was up.

He rolled the man onto his side to make him more comfortable, then felt the shape of the swords beneath his coat. He’d be in a foul temper when he awoke. Did Lawrence really want some irate stranger hunting him down, armed with a brace of blades?

He unbuckled his captive’s sword belt and tucked it and the two weapons out of sight, some distance from where the man lay. Maybe he’d find them when he awoke, but hopefully, he wouldn’t. Not before Lawrence had the chance to remove himself as far away as possible.

He then crept cautiously back toward Fortuneswell, finally settling down in a mossy hollow within easy reach of the village. He did what he could to bind up his wound, and waited for morning.

How long he spent lying like this, gazing up at the stars and the lightening sky, fighting his pain and the urge to sleep, he couldn’t tell, but by the time the rusty light of dawn stole over his face, he was almost too stiff to move.

Easing himself gradually upward, he peered from his hiding place and scanned the area. Thank goodness! The heath was now peopled with ordinary folk—cockle girls heading down to the beach and old women with empty baskets off in search of driftwood.

They’d get more than they bargained for when they reached the strand, he thought grimly. He brushed himself off and stepped onto the highway, looking as nonchalant as he could. His wagon was now tucked away behind the Admiral Duncan in Fortuneswell, and he made it thither without incident. He climbed wearily up the steps and collapsed onto his bed.

Now he was finally safe, he was aware of the blood pumping around his veins at speed, and the rapidity of his breathing.

Never before had he been in such peril as he had last night. And he wasn’t safe yet—there was his wound to attend to.

He sat up again and eased his jacket from his shoulders. Beneath it, his shirt sleeve and the handkerchief he’d applied to the wound were stiff with blood. He’d have to soak them off with warm water before he could inspect the wound.

As he dragged himself to his feet and set about getting his chafing dish going and put a pot of water on to heat, he asked himself if all this peril was worth it.

Was a passage to America genuinely worth risking his life for? How did he know things would be any better over there? How could he be sure the ship wouldn’t sink in an Atlantic storm? How could he be certain he wouldn’t catch some unknown disease for which he had no cure and perish before he even came within sight of New York City?

Nothing in this life was certain.

Groaning, he looked down at his breeches, snagged and ripped from their encounters with thorn bushes and gorse. He peeled them off and gazed disconsolately at his naked lower body, speckled with dark dots of blood where the thorns had penetrated.

Oh, how pleasant it would be if he’d had a wife to come home to! Someone to ease his hurts, make him a drink, and listen wide-eyed to the rousing tale of his adventure.

Hah, what foolishness! He’d been alone for much of his life. His adoptive parents had made him feel an outcast, mocking his insatiable curiosity. Still, he’d learned much from them, particularly about plants. His folk could not afford to pay for physick when they fell sick, but had to make do with what grew naturally.

He must just be feeling maudlin because he missed Tom Capstone’s Troupe, the only real family he’d ever known. Tom had taught him to read, and so many other things besides. But there was no point dwelling on his loss—he needed to look after himself.

Stiffly, he hobbled over to the pot of water to see if it was sufficiently warmed. As he leaned over it, he was aware of stinging pain at the end of his nose and on his chin. He rubbed the places ruefully. Just grazes, but he’d put some comfrey ointment on them all the same to help them heal faster.

As soon the water was steaming, he dipped a wad of muslin into it and began the tortuous process of soaking his shirtsleeve away from his wound. Finally, it came free. He pulled the shirt over his head and inspected the damage done to his flesh. Hmm. The injury needed cleaning. Would it need stitching, too?

“Lawrence?”

He froze. A woman’s voice, sounding high and unnatural. As he stared dumbstruck, a small female hand came through a gap in the canvas and started unlacing the wagon flap. He’d only ever shown one woman how to do that.

Grasping his shirt to his belly for decency’s sake, he moved toward the front of the wagon.

“Flora? Is that you?”

“Oh, Lawrence!” She got the flap open and tumbled, tearful and shaking, into his arms. “Oh, thank heaven,” she choked against his bare shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you! I heard the dreadful news about a battle on the heath last night. I feared you were dead!”