Captain Jack's Woman (Bastion Club 0.50)

“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 sce

nery 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.”