Page 14

The feeling on the beach was different this time. It had been almost three weeks since Jonas had first helped the Lamhurst Gang unload their smuggled cargo in the midst of a downpour. Tonight, the skies were clear. The stars were bright, and a full moon shone, illuminating the men and women hauling goods ashore far too clearly. Tension steeped their terse, whispered communication, and more than once, he’d seen those around him glance toward the headland and then back toward the village. So far, there’d been no warning shout or flashing light from the lookouts.

“One more boat,” Black Pete muttered. “That’s what they’re sayin’, leastways. Don’ know why they always leave the ’eaviest stuff t’ the end. Makes no sense. If we ’ave to make a run fer it, it’s goin’ to be a hundred times ’arder.”

From his position, thigh deep in seawater, Jonas glanced over his shoulder. Most of the women had already dispersed, their packets of tea and tobacco safely stowed within their extra layers of clothing. A couple of fishermen were hauling their boat up the beach, a good indication that Black Pete was correct. One more boat to unload.

“D’you reckon the Midnight Master will be about tonight?” Jonas asked, remembering to infuse some local flavor into his accent.

Black Pete swiped his arm across his forehead, the whites of his eyes bright in the moonlight. “I dare say. ’E’s usually about when the boats come in. But not ’ere on the beach. Not where the real danger lies.”

There were about a dozen men still standing in the water. Jonas watched three or four of them wade a few steps farther out, toward the rapidly approaching rowboat. Their anxiety to unload and be gone was as tangible as the buffeting waves.

“Come on! ’Urry it up!” Another smuggler’s voice carried across the water.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. As one, the men turned and began wading frantically for shore. Across the headland, a light flickered, and Jonas heard the men in the boat shout. Above the sound of the churning water around his legs, the splashes of heavy objects entering the sea told of cargo being jettisoned. Jonas did not turn to look. He kept his eyes on the silhouetted tree line at the top of the beach and urged his frigid legs to move.

When the smugglers reached the beach, they scattered, their shadows chasing after them as they made for cover. Jonas headed straight for the copse of trees where he’d left his mare. He had no idea which direction the Preventative Men were taking, but he knew his chance of escape was infinitely greater if he was on horseback. Black Pete obviously believed the same. He was a few feet ahead of him and had just reached the trees when another burst of gunfire rent the air.

“Sounds like they’re comin’ in from St. Johns way,” he panted. “Best avoid that road an’ the one through the village.”

Jonas’s mind spun. St. Johns was to the north of Little Tilbury, not far from Dover, which meant the Preventative Men could well have recruited customs officers or the military to assist them. As glad as he was that the officials were finally making a showing in Little Tilbury, it was imperative that he not be caught. When he’d embarked upon this venture, he’d thought his greatest danger lay in the leaders of the Lamhurst Gang uncovering his true identity. Now, however, he faced another, equally dangerous threat. If he was found wearing Reynard’s clothing and in the company of known smugglers by officers of the crown, explaining his way out of the situation would be virtually impossible. Not even his close association with the Earl of Bloxley or the prime minister could fully eliminate the smirch upon his reputation if word of his involvement with the smugglers reached London Society.

The pounding of running feet reached him. The Preventative Men were coming up from behind, and they’d already reached the loose pebbles below the trees.

“Quick,” Black Pete said. “Find yer ’orse.”

Darting under the cover of the low-lying branches, Jonas raced toward the large oak where he’d tied his mare. He could no longer feel his feet, but numbness was easier to bear than chilling pain. Shadows shifted, darker and more difficult to discern under the trees. He heard a horse’s nicker and veered that way. Stumbling over a rock, he reached for a tree trunk to break his fall. More shouts. Gunshots sounded, and suddenly, his left shoulder was on fire.

“Ah!” The cry escaped him before he could clamp his teeth together.

Black Pete turned. “Can you still move?”

Jonas released his gritted teeth just long enough to hiss a reply. “Yes.”

“Then do it.”

The shepherd’s arms were moving wildly and after a moment of trying to focus through the pain, Jonas realized they’d reached the horses and Black Pete was untying their reins. He staggered forward, and standing beside his mare, he placed his right hand on the pommel and heaved himself into the saddle. Pain flashed down his other arm and across his chest, but he grabbed the reins, dug his heels into the horse’s sides, and took off after Black Pete.

Behind them, there were more shouts and more gunshots. Jonas kept his head down. They reached the road. In the distance, he could hear hooves, but his befuddled mind could not tell their direction.

“Head to the inn.” Black Pete rode up alongside him. “Miss Doyle will know what t’ do for you. I’ll go the other way an’ see if I can’t take most of ’em along with me.”

Jonas blinked, trying to keep his accomplice in focus as he rode away. But it was no use. The blurry image was quickly swallowed up in the darkness, and Jonas could only point his mare in the opposite direction and give her her head. Buildings, black squares on a gray canvas, flashed by. At one point, Jonas thought he saw the church’s spire pointing up to the moon, but it passed by so quickly, he could not tell for sure. The farther he rode from the sea, the fainter the sounds of the chase, until at last, the hedgerows crowded in on him and he realized he had ridden beyond the village.

A flicker of light pierced the darkness up ahead, and when he rounded the bend, he recognized the outline of The Fox and Hare Inn looming over the narrow road. Like a beacon in the night, a single lamp shone in the upper window, and without any guidance, Jonas’s mare slowed her pace and turned into the yard. Whether she remembered the stable from her brief sojourn there a few weeks before, he couldn’t tell, but she walked directly to the doors and came to a halt.

Jonas sat, trying to draw the strength to dismount. Icy shivers that began at his wet feet were working their way up his body only to be almost instantly replaced by a surge of heat that began at his upper arm and quickly moved across his shoulder. Pushing past the constant shaking in his limbs, he placed his weight on one stirrup and swung his other leg over the horse. The momentum lifted his body clear of the saddle, and he dropped, one foot touching the cobbles just before the other came loose from the stirrup. He reached for the saddle, clinging to it as pain shot through his body and his knees threatened to buckle. Breathing through the agony, he raised his head as the stable door creaked open.

A man with wild dark hair and a beard exited. When he saw Jonas, he paused, then he stepped closer and raised the lamp in his hand. The moment he recognized him, he growled out a curse.

“What’re you doin’ here? Everyone knows not t’ come anywhere near the inn when the Preventative Men are about.”

“I’ve been shot.” The realization was only beginning to register, as was the impossibility of his finding his way back to London in this condition.

Cyrus Doyle cursed again. “So help me, if you’ve left a trail of blood leading to this inn, I’ll put you in a grave myself.”

“No one followed me.”

He cocked his head as though listening. Then he swung the lantern out toward the road and peered into the gloom. When nothing materialized, he turned back to the stable. “Georgie!” he yelled.