Page 67 of Captain Jack’s Woman

Matthew had arrived from the Castle with the disturbing news that she’d been there, but slipped through his net. The fact that she’d had the strength of purpose to try to see Lord Hendon was causing him grave concern. Unable to see the High Commissioner, would she take her information elsewhere? Jack hefted the keg to the back of a pony, wishing he could shrug off his worries as easily.

A black blur at the edge of his vision had him swinging around. He recognized Kit instantly. Equally instant came recognition of the reason for her speed. The storm was about to break.

His bellowed command saw all hands double pace, securing the last of the kegs, men scrambling aboard the lead ponies. The desperate struggle to clear the beach was already under way as he and George ran to the end of the line, to where Kit would pull up.

Kit saw them waiting, Jack’s hands open at his sides, ready to catch Delia’s bridle and quiet the excited mare. Abruptly, she pulled up ten yards away, out of their reach.

Jack swore and stepped forward.

Instantly, Kit pulled Delia back on her haunches, sharp black hooves flailing the air. When Jack stopped, she let Delia down but kept the reins tight. “Revenue. Only six. They’ll be around the bluff any minute!” She had to scream over the sound of the waves.

Jack nodded curtly. “Go east!”

If there was any question as to the absolute nature of the bellowed command, his arm, pointing toward Brancaster, dispelled it. But Kit could see they’d never make it off the beach in time; the Revenue were too close.

A cry on the wind drew all eyes to the bluff. The troopers came tumbling over the ridge, their horses slithering through the sand dunes.

Kit looked back at the smugglers. The boats were pulling out; the ponies were almost ready to go. Matthew had left to get the horses. Five minutes would see them all safe. Her eyes locked with Jack’s. He read her decision in that instant and lunged for her reins. Kit moved faster. She sprang Delia. West.

“Christ!” George joined Jack, staring aghast at Kit’s dwindling figure. “She’ll never make it!”

“She will,” Jack ground out. “She has to,” he added, under his breath.

The black streak that was Kit hugged the line of the waves, as far from the cliff as possible. The troopers saw her flying toward them and checked at the cliff foot. When it became clear she would pass them by, they milled uncertainly, then, with a bellow to stand, they set off to intercept her. But they’d misjudged Delia’s speed and left it too late. Kit swept past and on toward Holme. With cries and curses, the Revenue charged in pursuit.

Biting back a curse, Jack swung and roared his orders, setting the men on their way. Soon, he and George were the only ones left standing. Matthew arrived with the horses; vaulting to the saddle, Jack yelled: “She’ll have to go inland before Holme.” Then Champion surged.

Jack leaned over Champion’s neck, holding the grey to a wicked pace, trying, over the pounding of his heart, to take stock. Had Kit tipped off the Revenue, then changed her mind at the last minute?

The thought twisted through him, a sour serpent sowing seeds of doubt. Abruptly, he shook it aside. Kit had drawn the Revenue off at her own expense and was now in considerable danger. He’d concentrate on saving her satin hide first; learning the truth could come later.

Jack forced his mind to business. Kit was not well-versed in pursuit and evasion; on the other hand, Delia was the fastest thing on four legs this side of the Channel. But Holme, on its rocky promontory that blocked the beach, was close; Kit could not lose the Revenue before running out of beach. She’d have to go inland, taking to the fields or heading on to the west coast.

The drizzle intensified. Jack welcomed the sting of rain on his face. He swore, volubly, comprehensively, his gut clenched, the chill of doom in his veins. They’d started well behind the Revenue. When they sighted the promontory, the beach between them was deserted. Jack rode to where a well-worn cliff path led up from the beach. He drew rein where the path narrowed as it turned up the cliff. The sand was freshly and deeply churned. Jack drew his pistol and signaled to George and Matthew before sending Champion quietly up the path. There was no one at the top. Jack dismounted and studied the ground; George and Matthew rode in wide arcs.

“This way,” George called softly. “Looks like the whole troop.”

Jack remounted and walked Champion to view the barren stretch of track leading west. When he raised his head, his expression was grim. Kit had taken her pursuers as far from the Hunstanton Gang’s field of operations as possible. She was making for the beach north of Hunstanton, to head south along the wide stretches of pale sand at a pace the Revenue could never match. Doubtless, she thought to come up to the cliffs somewhere near Heacham or Snettisham, to disappear into the fields and coppices of the Cranmer estate.

It was a good plan, as far as it went. There was just one snag. With his sense of doom pressing blackly upon him, Jack prayed that, for the first time in his life, his premonition would be wrong.

Without a word, he set his heels to Champion’s sides.

Far ahead, on the pale swathes of sand lapped by the waves of the Wash, Kit hugged Delia’s neck and flew before the wind. Once she was sure the Revenue had followed her, she’d watched her pace, holding back so they remained in sight, held firm to their purpose by her bobbing figure forever before them. She’d had to pull up on the cliff top near Holme, letting them get close enough to see her clearly. Like obedient puppies, they’d followed, noses glued to her trail as she’d led them onto the beach above Hunstanton. Now that they were too far from Brancaster to give Jack and his crew any trouble, she was intent on losing them and heading for the safety of home.

Delia’s long stride ate the miles. Kit saw the indentation that marked the track up to Heacham just ahead. She checked Delia and looked behind her.

There was no sign of her pursuers.

Kit threw back her head and laughed, exhilaration pumping through her veins. Her laughter echoed back from the cliffs, startling her into silence. Here in the Wash, the waves were far gentler cousins of the surf pounding the north coast. All was relatively silent, relatively serene. Shaking off a shiver of apprehension, Kit sent Delia toward the track to Heacham.

She’d almost reached the foot of the track when a horde of horsemen broke cover, pouring over the cliff, another group of Revenue men, barking orders she barely heard. A spurt of flame glowed in the night.

A searing pain tore through her left shoulder.

Delia reared. Instinctively, Kit wrenched her south. The mare went straight to a gallop; the reins slack, Delia lengthened her stride, quickly travelling beyond pistol range. The Revenue Officers howled in pursuit.

Kit was deaf to their noise.