stretched his hands forward so the guard could loop more rope around his wrists. Greville's knife rested in its leather-tooled scabbard, so damned close Matthias's fingers itched to grab it.
Click. Freckle-face cocked his musket.
Patience, Matthias reminded himself. Timing is everything. He sauntered to the corner and relieved himself. After buttoning his breeches, he leaned over.
"What the devil are you doing?" Greville demanded.
Matthias turned slowly, clutching the edge of the chamber pot in his bound hands. Freckle-face had assumed a firing stance.
"The thunder mug is full, and the men will need to use it. I thought I'd empty it out the window." Matthias offered the malodorous pot to the guard. "Of course, if you prefer to do it - "
"Dump it," Greville ordered.
"As you wish." Matthias paced to the open window and peered outside. Only one soldier guarded the front of the house. Damned arrogant redcoats.
"What are you waiting for?" Greville muttered.
"For the guard to pass," Matthias said. "Or would you prefer that I douse him with eau de toilette? It could only improve his smell."
The prisoners hooted and pounded the floor with their booted feet.
"Cease your noise!" Freckle-face aimed his musket at the prisoners.
They grew quiet, but their sudden misbehavior had been heard by the guard outside. He sprinted toward the window, and Matthias showered him with the contents of the chamber pot.
"Aagh!" The man jumped back. "Shit!"
"Not exactly." Matthias hurled the pot at the redheaded guard.
Freckle-face raised his musket to deflect it, but not quickly enough. The flying pot smacked him in the face and he tumbled backward, firing into the ceiling. Flakes of plaster rained down, and the pot shattered on the floor.
"Damn you!" Greville seized his musket and rushed toward Matthias, clearly planning to skewer him with the bayonet.
Matthias leapt to the side, grasped the musket's barrel, and wrenched the weapon from Greville's hands. With the butt end, he smashed his attacker in the face. Greville collapsed, crying out as blood gushed from his nose.
Matthias trapped the musket between his feet, bayonet pointed upward, so he could slice through his ropes. "Richard, watch the window. The guard outside is a trifle pissed."
With a snort, his cousin scrambled to his feet.
Just as Matthias finished freeing his hands, he noted Greville attempting to sit up. He knocked the guard out with another blow to the head, then yanked Greville's knife from the scabbard. Possibly a family heirloom, with its ornate handle inlaid with ivory, but still a weapon he couldn't afford to leave with the enemy.
"The other guard!" one of his men shouted.
Pottery shards crunched as Freckle-face stumbled to his feet. His musket had discharged, but it still possessed the deadly bayonet. With an angry roar, he attacked.
Matthias jumped aside as he threw his newly acquired knife. It lodged with a hideous thunk in the redcoat's chest.
Freckle-face halted, his eyes wide with shock. He crumbled to his knees, still focused on Matthias's face. The disbelief in his eyes glazed to a pained acceptance as if, for a brief moment, he mourned his own passing.
Squashing any sort of emotional reaction, Matthias checked the musket he'd taken from Greville. He had to remain focused until his men were free.
"Matt!" Richard lunged to the floor.
The drenched guard stood outside, his musket aimed at the window opening.
Matthias dropped to the floor a second before the shot exploded. He rolled toward the window, jumped to his feet, and pointed his musket at the guard's face.
With a loud gulp, the guard stepped back.
"You think this is frightening, you should see what's behind you," Matthias said.
"Ha! You think I'll fall for that old trick?" The guard glanced over his shoulder, then looked again as a group of armed Colonials charged toward him. "Bloody hell!" He dropped his firearm and lifted his hands in surrender.
Matthias removed the bayonet from his musket. "Stand up, Rich, and I'll cut your ropes."
Richard glanced out the window as he scrambled to his feet. "Who are those men?"
"Local militia, from the looks of their clothing." Matthias cut through his cousin's ropes, then handed him the bayonet. "Release the others."
Grins and shouts of victory spread amongst the soldiers.
Matthias exchanged a smile with young Simon before aiming his musket at Greville, who was regaining consciousness. "This one is still loaded."
Grimacing, Greville touched his broken nose. "You damned Yankee, you cannot hope to succeed."
"We already have." Matthias heard the tramping of feet as the militia moved through the house. "I'm afraid we must decline your offer of hospitality in Charles Town."