Page 48 of A Potion for Passion

He sat up, shaking the spots from his eyes. “Nat? Did you forget our meeting?”

“I had better things to do. It’s all right, boys, he is one of us,” said Pryce. “Though I wish he weren’t, the benighted hedge surgeon.”

Lawrence struggled to his feet and blinked, waiting until his vision adjusted to the shifting darkness. Nat shuttered his lantern, hoisted his pack back onto his shoulders, and said, “I’ll be on my way. Go down, if you will, but we’ve taken the best of the wreck. Still, you might find something. Cut the finger off a dead man, and add it to a potion, maybe?” Nat gave an unpleasant laugh and rejoined the cavalcade of wreckers trudging up from the beach.

“There are soldiers on the heath,” Lawrence called after him.

“I know,” Nat flung back over his shoulder. “They’re being dealt with.”

Lawrence shuddered, then stiffened his resolve and continued on his way down to the beach. He’d never seen a fresh shipwreck before, but it inspired curiosity rather than greed, even though his secret income came from salvaged goods. He was unprepared, however, for the carnage that met his eyes when the moon made its next appearance.

Writhing in the ghostly light were numerous men, exhausted sailors washed ashore, their limbs still jerking in a swimming motion as men, women, and even children went through their pockets and stripped the shirts from their backs. One boy was running back and forth with a knife, cutting off the sailor’s queues and stuffing them in his pocket.

A man followed in his wake—armed with a hefty club.

“Judas!” Lawrence’s limbs felt numb, and the bile rose into his gorge, almost choking him. Murder was being committed on the beach tonight. Those who had survived the catastrophe of shipwreck now met their fate at the hands of their fellow men. The legacy of Cain ran deep.

This was something he could never condone. Salvaging was one thing, cold-blooded killing quite another. But what could he do to stop it? What hope had he against so many? He could run back and guide the soldiers down, maybe save the lives of the few sailors who remained unharmed. But Nat’s words resonated in his head—the soldiers were being “dealt with.” The survivors of this wreck were doomed, all because they stood in the way of the wreckers’ right to claim the cargo as their own.

A movement to his far right caught his eye. A tall man was struggling out of the shallows, weighed down by his sodden clothing. None of the wreckers had noticed him yet. If there was any chance…

Lawrence worked his way across the bracken to the next path downward. It was steep and uncompromising, twisting back and forth, and fit only for the feet of children and rabbits, but he wasn’t going to just stand by and watch another poor soul perish right in front of him.

Finally, he arrived on the beach, bruised and torn by his rapid descent. Casting quickly around him, he could see no one heading his way, so he made straight for the man in the shallows and grabbed him by the coat sleeve.

“Get off me, blackguard,” was the ungrateful response. “Or I’ll slit you from your gizzard to your gut.”

Recognizing the accent of a gentleman, Lawrence said, “Save your threats, sir. I’m rescuing you. Can you walk?”

The man stilled his efforts to tear himself from Lawrence’s grasp. “Of course, I can,” he said after a moment. “But why should I trust you?”

“No reason. I’m a doctor, and more used to saving lives than taking them. But if you don’t want my help—”

The man turned and looked down the beach. Another flash of moonlight revealed the ranks of bodies, lying still, the wreckers picking them over like crows on a battlefield.

“Can’t we help them?” asked the stranger.

“Too late. And it’ll be too late for you if you don’t come quickly. Now the killing’s begun, every last survivor of the wreck will die. No one will be left alive to reveal the truth of what happened here tonight.”

Lawrence grabbed the man’s sleeve again and jerked him into a stumbling run along the beach to the treacherous path. “I’d advise hands and knees, sir, lest you be seen. I’ll crawl up after you, in case you slip.”

Yard by tortuous yard, they made their way back up to where the land leveled out and the cover of the bracken began. He hissed at the gentleman to lie on his stomach while he did the same, listening. After a moment, he crawled alongside, and, as soon as the moon came out once more, poked his head up and looked around.

“We must head for the darkest, quietest spot,” he told his companion. “There was a battle going on up here earlier. If I can get you to my wagon at the inn, we’ll hide you there until the wreckers are all returned to their beds. But if we’re seen—”

“I can fight,” the man growled. “I have two swords buckled around my waist.”

No wonder it had taken the fellow such an age to crawl up the cliff path.

“Two?”

“It’s complicated,” was the terse reply. “Now, to the matter in hand. What’s the best way off this wretched heath?”

There was something in the man’s tone that smacked of command. More than just that of an aristocrat, or a gentleman used to ordering servants around. Had he just saved a military man, or someone in authority? He hoped to God the fellow would prove grateful at being rescued. He didn’t want his good deed backfiring on him so he ended up dangling at the end of a rope.