Stephanie Laurens - Captain Jack’s Woman / A Gentleman’s Honor

“We sometimes get brandy, too, depending.” The big man had drawn closer.

Kit’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing else?” She’d heard there were things other than goods brought ashore in the boats.

Her tone was sharp, but the man’s face was open when he answered: “We ain’t done no other cargoes-this’s been enough t’present.”

She could sense their entreaty. Her Norfolk blood stirred. A leader of smugglers? One part of her laughed at the idea. A small part. Most of her unconventional soul was intrigued. Her father had led a band for a short time-for a lark, he’d said. Why couldn’t she? Kit crossed her hands over her pommel and considered the possibilities. “If I became your leader, you’d have to agree to doing only the cargoes I think are right.”

They glanced at each other, then the big man looked up. “What cut?”

“No cut.” They murmured at that; behind her muffler, Kit smiled. “I don’t need your goods or the money they’ll bring. If I agree to take you on, it’ll be for the sheer hell of it. Nothing more.”

A quick conference ensued, then the spokesman approached. “If we agree, will you show us these quarries?”

“If we agree, I’ll take over right now. If not, say so, and I’ll be off.” Delia pranced.

The man sent a glance around his companions, then turned back to her. “Deal. What moniker do ye go by?”

“Kit.”

“Right then, young Kit. Lead on.”

It took them an hour to reach the quarries and find a suitable deserted tunnel to use as a base. By then, Kit had learned a great deal more of the small band. They contracted for cargoes through the inns in King’s Lynn. Whatever they brought ashore, they hid in the cave for a few nights before transferring it by pack pony to the ruined abbey at Creake.

“S’been a clearinghouse for years, hereabouts. We show the goods to the old crone who lives in the cottage close by, and she’s always got our cut ready an’ waiting.”

“The old woman has the money?”

“Oh, aye. She be a witch, so the money’s safe with her.”

“How very convenient.” Someone, somewhere, had put considerable effort into organizing the Norfolk smugglers. An unwelcome thought surfaced. “Are there any other gangs operating about here?”

The large man went by the unenviable name of Noah. “Not on the west here, no. But there’s a gang east of Hunstanton. Big gang, that is. We’ve never come across ’em, though.”

And I hope you never will, Kit thought. These poor souls were a remarkably simple lot, not given to unnecessary violence, fisherman driven to smuggling in order to feed their families. But somewhere out there lurked real smugglers, the sort who committed the atrocities proclaimed in the handbills. She’d no desire whatever to meet them. Keeping clear of this Hunstanton Gang seemed a good idea.

Once the lace was stored, she gave orders, crisply and clearly, about how they were to pass the cargo on. She also insisted they operate from the quarries henceforth. “The Revenue men will be suspicious of that stretch of beach, and the cave’s too close. From now on, we’ll work from here.” Kit threw out a hand to indicate their surroundings. They were standing before the dark mouth of the abandoned tunnel in which they’d stashed their goods. “We’ll be safer here. There are places aplenty to hide, and even in broad daylight it’s not easy to follow people through here.” She paused, then paced before them, frowning in concentration. “If you have to go out in your boats to bring in the cargo, then the boats should just land the goods and go directly back to your village. If the rest of you bring ponies, then we can load the goods and transfer them here. When it’s safe, they can go on to Creake.”

They agreed readily. “This be a dandy place for hiding, right enough.”

As they stood to leave, Noah noticed the rapier at Kit’s side. “That’s a right pretty toy. Know how to use it?”

A heartbeat later, he was blinking at the soft shimmer of moonlight on steel, the rapier point at his throat. Swallowing convulsively, his gaze traveled the length of the wicked blade, until, over the top of the ornate guard, he met Kit’s narrowed eyes. She smiled tightly. “Yes.”

“Oh.” The big man remained perfectly still.

Kit relaxed and expertly turned the blade and slid it back into the scabbard. “A little conceit of mine.”

She turned and walked to where Delia waited, ears pricked. Behind her, she sensed the exchanged glances and hid a smug smile. She swung up to the saddle, then looked back at her little band.

“You know the road home?”

They nodded. “And we’ll keep a watch for the Revenue, like you said.”

“Good. We’ll meet here Thursday after moonrise.” Kit wheeled and set her heels to Delia’s sides. “And then we’ll see what comes next.”

“Damn!” George flung his cards down on the rough deal table and glared at Jack. “Nothing’s changed in well-nigh twenty years! You still win.”

Jack’s white teeth showed in a laughing smile. “Console yourself it’s not the title to your paternal acres that lie under my hand.” He lifted his palm, revealing a pile of woodchips.

Pushing back his chair, George snorted disgustedly. “As if I’d risk anything of worth against such a dyed-in-the-wool gamester.”

Jack collected the cards and reshaped the pack, then, elbows on the table, shuffled them back and forth, left hand to right.

Outside, the east wind howled, whipping leaves and twigs against the shutters. Inside, the lamplight played on Jack’s bent head, exposing the hidden streaks of gold, bright against the duller brown. Aside from the table, the single-room cottage was sparsely furnished, the principal items being a large bed against the opposite wall and an equally large wardrobe beside it. Yet no farmworker would have dreamed of setting foot in the place. The bed was old but of polished oak, as was the wardrobe. The sheets were of linen and the goosefeather quilt simply too luxurious to permit the fiction of this being a humble dwelling. True, the deal table was just that, but smoothed and cleaned and in remarkably good condition. The four chairs scattered about the room were of assorted styles but none bore any relation to the crude seating normally found in fishermen’s abodes.

Jack slapped the pack on the table and, pushing his chair back, stretched his arms above his head.

Hoofbeats, muffled by the wildness outside, sounded like a ghostly echo. Dragging his gaze from the flames flickering in the stone hearth, George turned to listen, then sent an expectant look Jack’s way.

Jack’s brows rose fleetingly before his gaze swung to the door. Seconds later, it burst open to reveal a large figure wrapped in heavy frieze, a hat pulled low over his eyes. The figure whirled, slamming the heavy door against the tempest outside.

The tension in Jack’s long frame eased. He leaned forward, arms on the table. “Welcome back. What did you learn?”

Matthew’s lined face emerged as the hat hit the table. He shrugged off his coat and set it on a peg beside the door. “Like you thought, there’s another gang.”

“They’re active?” George drew his chair closer.

At Jack’s nod, Matthew pulled another chair to the table. “They’re in business, all right. Ran a cargo of brandy last night, somewhere between Hunstanton and Heacham, cool as you please. I heard talk they did that consignment of lace we refused-the run that clashed with that load of spirits we took out Brancaster way.”

Jack swore. “Damn! I’d hoped that night was all a piece of Tonkin’s delusions.” He turned to George. “When I went into Hunstanton yesterday, Tonkin was full of this gang he’d surprised running some cargo south of Snettisham. Preening that he’d found another gang operating on Osborne’s turf that Osborne hadn’t known about. I spoke to some of Tonkin’s men later. It sounded like they’d seen a fishing boat pull in for a break and Tonkin invented the rest.” Jack grimaced. “Now, it seems otherwise.”

“Does it matter? If they’re a small operation…” George broke off at Jack’s emphatic nod.

“It matters. We need this coast tied up. If there’s another gang operating, no matter how small, who’s to tell what cargoes they’ll run?”

The wind whistled down the narrow chimney and played with the flames licking the logs in the hearth. Abruptly, Jack pushed away from the table. “We’ll have to find out who this lot is.” He looked at Matthew. “Did you get any hints from your contacts?”

Matthew shook his head. “Not a whiff of a scent.”

George frowned. “What about Osborne? Why not just get him to clamp down along that stretch?”

“Because I’ve sent him to clamp down on the beaches between Blakeney and Cromer.” Exasperation colored Jack’s tone. “There’s a small outfit operating around there, but for most of that coast, the silts are so unpredictable no master in his right mind will bring his ship in close. The few reasonable landings are easy to patrol. But I sent Osborne to ensure the job was done. Aside from anything else, it seemed preferable to make certain he wouldn’t get wind of our activities and seek to curtail them. Tonkin, bless his hopeless heart, is so bumblingly inept we stand in no danger from him. Unfortunately, neither does this other gang.”

“So,” George mused, “Tonkin’s now effectively responsible for the coast from Lynn to Blakeney?”

Jack nodded.

“Whoever this other lot are,” said Matthew, “seems like they know the area well. There’s no whispers of pack trains or any such, but they must be moving the goods, same as us.”

“Who knows?” Jack said. “They might actually be better set up than us. We’re only novices, after all.”

George turned a jaundiced eye on Jack. “I don’t believe any man in his right mind would call Captain Jack a novice-not at this sort of devilry.”

A broad grin dispelled Jack’s seriousness. “You flatter me, my friend. Now, how are we to meet this mystery gang?”

“Must we meet them?”

“How else, oh knowledgeable one, are we to dissuade them from their illegal pursuits?”

“Dissuade them?”

Jack’s face hardened. “That-or do Tonkin’s job for him.”

George looked glum. “I knew I wasn’t going to like this mission.”

Jack’s chair grated on the floor as he rose. “They’re smugglers, for Christ’s sake.”

George sighed, dropping his eyes from Jack’s stern grey gaze. “So are we, Jack. So are we.”

But Jack had stopped listening. Turning to Matthew, he asked, “What cargoes do they usually take?”

A week later, from the cliff top screened by a belt of trees, Kit watched her band beach their boats at much the same spot as on the night she’d first rescued them. This time, there was no Revenue troop about; she’d reconnoitered the cliffs in both directions.

Still she was nervous, twitchy. Since she’d taken over, her band had run five cargoes, all successfully. Her band. At first, the responsibility had scared her. Now, each time they came off safely, she felt a thrill of achievement. But tonight was a special cargo. An agent, Nolan, had met them in Lynn last night. For the first time, she’d joined Noah for the negotiations. Just as well. She’d intervened and driven their price up-because Nolan was in a fix. He had a schooner with twenty bales of lace and no one to bring it in. They were his last resort. She’d already heard of the Revenue raids about Sheringham and, for some reason, the Hunstanton Gang had refused the run. Why, she didn’t know-which was the root cause of her nervousness.

Everything, however, was going smoothly. The night was dark, the sky deepest purple. Beneath her, Delia peacefully cropped, undisturbed by an owl hooting in the trees behind them.

Watching the orderly way the men swiftly unloaded the boats, Kit smiled. They were not unintelligent, just unimaginative. Once she showed them a better way of doing things, they caught on quickly.

Suddenly, Delia’s head came up, ears pricked, muscles tensing. Kit strained her senses to catch what had disturbed the mare. Nothing. Then, far to the left, another owl hooted. Delia sidled. Kit stared at the great black head. Not an owl? She didn’t wait for confirmation. Pulling Delia around, she set the mare 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?”