onto the path down to the sands.
In the trees on the cliff top, two riders met a third.
“Spotted them,” Matthew murmured, as Jack and George came up, walking their horses over the thinly grassed ground. He pointed to where ten ponies were being loaded with the consignment of lace they’d refused. As they looked, a mounted figure all in black broke from the shadow of the cliff and raced across the sands. “Gripes,” muttered Matthew. “What’s that?”
“A lookout we’ve alerted,” came George’s laconic answer.
“But where did a smuggler get a horse like that?” Jack watched as horse and rider flew toward the boats, a single entity in effortless motion. “This gang has signed up a little unexpected talent.”
George nodded. “Do we go down now that they know we’re here?”
Jack grimaced. “Let’s wait. They might think we’re the Revenue.”
It appeared he was right. The rider reached the group on the sands. Immediately, their pace increased. Within minutes, the boats pulled out to sea. The rider backed from the ponies as the men tugged straps and girths tight. The black horse danced; the rider scanned the cliffs. He did not look directly their way.
Squinting, George whispered: “The horse-is it all black?”
Jack nodded. “Looks like it.” He took up his reins. “They’re heading in. Let’s follow. I’ve a desire to see where they’re stashing their goods.”
Kit couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being watched. Like Delia, her nerves were at full stretch. She hadn’t explained to Noah why she came bolting out of the dark, urging him on. She’d just issued a warning: “There’s someone out there. I didn’t wait to find out who. Let’s get going.”
Five minutes later, she and Delia gained the cliff top. She waited until Noah, walking beside the lead pony, crested the cliff, then leaned down to say: “Go east by Cranmer woods, then cut back to the quarries. I’ll scout around to make sure we’re not followed.”
She wheeled Delia and made off into the surrounding trees. For the next hour, she tracked her own men, sweeping in arcs across their trail. Time and again, Delia skittered. And every time, Kit felt the hair on her nape lift.
In the end, she realized it was she, the rider, the unknowns were tracking. Abruptly, Kit drew rein. Her followers were mounted, else they wouldn’t have kept up thus far. They weren’t trying to catch them but were following them to their hideout. But they were on Cranmer land and none knew that better than she. Her men would soon be turning north toward the quarries. She, with her unwelcome escort, would continue east.
Kit patted Delia’s glossy black neck. “We’ll have a run soon, my lady. But first let’s do a little deceiving.”
They were nearing the village of Great Bircham when Jack realized they’d lost the pack train. He reined in on a crest overlooking a moonlit valley. Somewhere ahead, the rider still ranged. “Damn! He’s moving too fast to be following ponies. We’ve been had.”
George stopped beside him. “Maybe the ponies were faster through the woods. The rider went slow there.”
Jack shook his head emphatically. Then, as if to confirm his deduction in the most mocking way, the rider appeared, crossing the fields below at full gallop, a streak of black against the silvered green.
“Christ!” breathed George. “Will you look at that.”
“I’d rather not look at that,” Jack replied. After three seconds of silence, in which the rider gathered the fluid black into a soaring leap over a pair of hedges, he continued grudingly: “Well, whoever he is, he can ride.”
“What now?” asked Matthew.
“We go home and try to figure out another way of contacting this accursed gang.” With that dampening answer, Jack shook his reins and set his grey stallion, Champion, down the ridge.
Kit raced with the wind, the scenery a blur about her. She took her usual route to Gresham Manor, circling it, then pulling up on a hill overlooking the house to let Delia rest.
What would Amy say if she went down and threw gravel at her window? Kit grinned. Amy had a streak of conservatism that was quite wide, despite her predeliction for becoming hot and wet for her George.
Sighing, Kit folded her hands across her pommel, staring at the dreaming countryside. She hadn’t thought of Amy’s disturbing revelations for weeks, not since she’d taken up smuggling. Had excitement filled in that odd gap in her innermost self? After a moment’s consideration, she admitted it had not. Rather, the demands of smuggling had left no time for dwelling on ill-defined regrets. Which was just as well. Shaking the cramps from her shoulders, Kit picked up the reins. It was time for the quarries.
The trio of riders cantered north in no great hurry. Jack drew rein as they topped a hill and turned to George, who pulled up beside him. Champion’s head came around, but not to look at George, or George’s gelding. The grey stallion shifted, craning his long neck to stare past George. The movement caught Jack’s attention; he followed the horse’s gaze.
“Hold very still,” he commanded, his voice a bare murmur. Carefully, he turned in the saddle and looked back. The flash of black that had caught Champion’s attention appeared in the fields behind them, this time heading west. Then horse and rider crossed the road, still flying. Jack watched until they disappeared into the trees bordering the next field.
Only then did he relax his rein and let Champion turn. The horse came about and stared in the direction the unknown rider had taken.
A grin of diabolical delight spread over Jack’s features. “So that’s it.”
“What?” asked George. “Was that the rider again? Why aren’t we giving chase?”
“We are.” Jack set Champion back down the road, waiting until George and Matthew caught up before shifting to a canter. “But we mustn’t get too close and warn him. I’ve been wondering what gave us away. I’d wager that black is a mare. Not having been introduced to Champion here, like any other well-bred female, she gets skittish whenever he gets close.”
“Can Champion lead us to them?”
“I’ve no idea.” Jack patted the silky grey neck. “But we can’t risk getting too close until the rider dismounts.”
Kit reached the quarries as the last pony was unloaded. Noah and the others greeted her with relief.
“Thought as how somethin’ might have come upon you, lad.”
Feeling thoroughly alive, her blood stirred by her long gallop, Kit swung her leg over Delia’s neck and slid to the ground. “I’m sure we were followed, but I didn’t catch sight of anyone. I went a very long way around, just in case.” She looped Delia’s reins to a wooden strut at the edge of the clearing, well away from the men, who had an almost superstitious fear of the black horse. “What’s the stuff like?” She headed for the tunnel entrance.
Noah waved to a packet opened on a rock. “First-class stuff, it looks.”
Kit bent over the lace, resting both palms on the rock to protect against the impulse to draw off her gloves and finger the delicate tracery, a far too feminine gesture. “This is better than that other stuff you ran. What’s the price?”
The other men sat in the cave entrance, chewing baccy and talking quietly, while she and Noah reviewed their plans.
What warned her, she never knew. The hairs on her nape lifted. The next instant, she whirled, her rapier singing from its sheath, sweeping in an arc before the three men silently approaching.
What happened next made her blink. The foremost man-tall, well built, and hatless was her first impression- took one step back and her rapier clashed against solid steel. Kit’s eyes grew round. She swallowed a knot of cold fear at the sight of her elegant blade countered by a longer, infinitely more wicked-looking sword. The two men following the first drew back, leaving a wide area to the fighters.
Resolutely, Kit quelled the impulse to drop her rapier and flee. Drawing a deep breath, she forced her mind to function. If this man was a smuggler, he’d have no knowledge of the finer points of swordsmanship. She, on the other hand, had been trained by an Italian master, a close friend of Spencer’s. She hadn’t practiced for years but, as her opponent drifted left, she instinctively drifted right, the blades hissing softly.
He made the first move, a tentative prod Kit easily pushed aside. She followed immediately with a classic counter, and was dismayed to meet the prescribed defense, perfectly executed. Two more similar exchanges sent her heart to her boots. The man could fight and fight well. The strength she sensed behind the long sword was frightening.
