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“You can rest here,” she said. “If you remain silent, no one will find you.” She glanced at his bloodstained jacket and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I will return to see to your wound as soon as the men are gone.”

Jonas sank onto the cot. “You have my thanks. I would not have escaped without you.”

She met his eyes. “A few short weeks ago, I could have said the same.”

Chapter 6

The hidden panel clicked shut, and Elizabeth hurried across her bedchamber. Setting the lantern on the upturned barrel beside the water basin, she checked her clothes. Her left sleeve was blood-soaked, and her white apron was smeared with telltale brown smudges. Blood was trapped beneath her fingernails and caked on the hand that had grasped the smuggler’s jacket so tightly. She glanced worriedly at the door. The marks she bore were indicative of how heavily the man was bleeding, and she could only pray that no noticeable blood had dripped onto the step when he’d stumbled.

Men’s voices and heavy footsteps reached her from the staircase. They were getting closer. She opened the lantern’s tiny window and blew out the candle. Groping her way to the bed, she tore back the blanket, lay down, and pulled the cover all the way up to her chin. Almost immediately, there was a single, firm knock, and the door to her bedchamber opened.

“This is where my daughter sleeps.”

Her father was at the doorway, but it was someone else who stepped inside. Keeping a tight hold on the blanket, Elizabeth turned her head to look. A middle-aged man dressed in a military uniform stood beside her father. He held a lantern in his hand and was moving it slowly from left to right, surveying the interior of the bedchamber. The lantern’s movement paused over the bed, and Elizabeth waited, barely breathing, but then the man lowered the light.

“Sorry to disturb you, miss,” he said. “Good evening.”

Elizabeth did not reply. She simply watched as the man exited the room and her father shut the door between them. She closed her eyes and slowly released her breath as relief and regret replayed their familiar battle in her heart. What was wrong with her? She loathed every aspect of the smuggling world: the theft, the dishonesty, the greed, the threats, the violence. Yet, whenever government men appeared at the inn, she kept her silence. She fell in with her father’s wishes like a puppet.

A wave of self-incrimination washed over her. She was truly no better than the men and women who unloaded, transported, or sold the illegal goods. Not only did she do nothing to prevent the work from going forward, but she also served the smugglers their celebratory drinks when the deed was successfully completed. In her own way, she was aiding the Lamhurst Gang as well as any.

Sometimes she feared her actions were motivated by nothing more than a primal sense of self-preservation, that her fear of being made homeless or found guilty by association drove her to protect her father and those who worked with him. There had been times when she’d wondered if her behavior could conceivably be attached to something nobler. That perhaps it stemmed from loyalty—if not to her father, then to her mother. Loyalty seemed a more admirable trait than self-preservation, at least.

Then there were evenings like this one when her silence had nothing to do with her father or with her own well-being and more to do with sparing the life of another. On nights like tonight, she was all the more confused by her actions, for she recognized that she was risking her own freedom—perhaps even her very life—for a man who represented everything she despised.

She lay still, listening to the men’s progress down the hallway. The farther they went, the more perfunctory the knocks and the more disgruntled the voices. It seemed obvious that the government men had come expecting to find smugglers, their loot, or both. Instead, the locals they’d spotted on the beach had gone into hiding elsewhere and had taken the illegal goods with them.

Every minute she waited felt like an hour. The shuffle of feet, a distant shout, another door banging closed. Elizabeth did not dare move from her bed until the sounds in the inn had faded to nothing and a clatter of hooves came from the yard outside. Peeling back the blanket, she walked on tiptoes to the window. By the light of two lanterns, she saw at least a dozen men on horseback gathered around the uniformed man who’d come to her bedchamber. He was speaking. Those who listened nodded, some alert and filled with purpose, others weary, with shoulders slumped.

She stood, hidden by the curtain, and watched. The man in charge shouted an order, and the men guided their mounts into two tidy lines and started for the road. Elizabeth hurried to the door and opened it a crack. Placing her ear to the gap, she listened intently. Nothing. Opening the door wider, she glanced up and down the hallway, and upon seeing no one, she ran down the stairs.

The candle in the passageway lit her way. She went straight to the kitchen. Thankfully, she knew the room’s configuration well enough to find what she needed in the semidarkness. Gathering an armful of newly laundered dishrags, she took a sharp knife and wooden spoon from the drawer and three tallow candles from the cupboard. Moving out of the kitchen and into the front room, she hurried to the banked fire and lit the wick of one of the candles on the glowing embers. Once she had a flame to see by, she grabbed the bottle of brandy tucked beneath the counter and started for the stairs again.

Back in her bedchamber, Elizabeth locked the door, placed the lit candle on the barrel, and set the other items she’d gathered on top of the mattress. She dropped to her knees and withdrew a small chest from beneath the bed and opened the lid. Pushing aside the Bible and bird book Mr. Crawford had given her, she reached inside for her small sewing kit. The drawstring bag did not contain more than a few pins and needles, a thimble, a button or two, and a couple spools of thread, but those things had enabled her to repair and breathe new life into every faded and worn piece of clothing she owned.

She eyed the sewing kit and then glanced at the hidden panel in the wall. She’d only ever used the needles on fabric, but she’d watched her mother sew a bullet wound before and knew that if the smuggler’s injury was severe enough, suturing would be the only way to stem the blood flow. Tucking the muslin bag into her apron pocket, she rose to her feet. With the candle in her hand, she crossed the room and pushed opened the panel.

The hidden room was completely dark. Elizabeth waited at the entrance, listening. A moment later, she heard a soft moan from the direction of the cot. Raising the candle, she stepped inside. The man was lying still, his uninjured arm across his eyes, his breathing ragged.

“Are you awake?” Elizabeth whispered.

“I’m afraid so.” His voice was weaker. Slowly, he lowered his arm and looked at her. “Are the men gone?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve brought rags and water. If you’re willing, I’ll tend to your wound now.”

He nodded and attempted to sit up. He did not get very far before a groan escaped him.

“It might be best if you remained on your back,” she said.

He grimaced. “It will hurt that much, eh?”

“I imagine so.”

Closing his eyes, he nodded his weary acceptance. “What do you need me to do?”

Elizabeth stepped closer. “Where are you hurt?”

“Upper left arm. A single bullet.”