The leader was a tall man, broad-shouldered and long-legged. His greatcoat and boots were as black as his horse, and his hair was that black, too, thick and whipping in the wind, hatless, for she had set him a mad pace. He rode with ease and seemed so close to catching her that she leaned forward to urge the bay faster.
“Halt!” the man called. “Stop, you! Preventive officer!”
She felt a sudden spike of fear. Excise officers would not only keep her from her task, but they often delighted in searching women on suspicion of smuggling. Her father never allowed her out alone on the moors or near the coast after dark.
But tonight she had no choice, nor was Jock Colvin there to prevent his daughter from this errand. In fact, he had sent her in his place, for he sat in a cell in the Tolbooth, accused of horse thievery, and awaiting a sentence of hanging.
She had but one more chance to prove his innocence, but she could not risk delay. If the excise men caught her and realized that she was Jock Colvin’s lass, they would not be inclined to let her go.
Snapping the reins, she sensed the bay mare surge as the cart hurtled over the moorland. In the distance, Jenny glimpsed the glittering sweep of the Solway Firth. Like a pearl riding on lavender velvet, the moon rose in the twilight sky.
A full moon revealed too much, and smugglers stayed home on such nights, she knew. But Jenny had no choice but to see to this task tonight. If she did not, her father’s imminent death by hanging would weigh heavily on her heart and in her soul.
Her father had sent her out to find a cache of goods stolen from him, and she needed secrecy for that mission. Darkness had eluded her in the full moon, and now she was being followed.
Over the rattle of the cart and the thud of the bay’s hooves, she heard the relentless drumming of other hoofbeats. Looking back, she saw that the lead rider was even closer. She sensed the steel of his determination. Behind him the others—including two dragoons, for she glimpsed their white gaiters in the darkness—pursued her steadily, as well.
“Halt!” shouted the rider in black once again.
Jenny slapped the reins, and the bay gave a burst of effort. The little cart rumbled over the turf, wooden crates sliding about in the cartbed, tin lantern jangling on its hook.
Was the new excise officer chasing her? Her kinsmen had learned that the new man would be nothing like the complacent, sly fellow who had accepted smuggler’s bribes for years. The new preventive man would cut through the net of Solway smugglers like a hot blade through butter, or so her kinsmen had heard it said in the town.
As yet, no one knew his name or had seen him yet—he was that freshly arrived from Edinburgh—but word had spread throughout villages, crofts and hills. Everyone with a cellar or a cupboard full of hidden, untaxed goods, every man with a whisky still tucked away in the forest or on some remote hill, would stay wary until the measure of this fellow had been taken.
Had these men watched her father’s house at Glendarroch, in the hills north of the moor, waiting for suspicious activity among Jock Colvin’s kin? Had they seen her take the cart and head for the coast? The new man must have begun his patrol before the dust of Edinburgh was even wiped from his boots.
Another rapid glance showed her that the rider in black was within reach of her cart now. Frantically Jenny whipped the reins, bending forward with the increased pace.
Her pursuer shouted again, then drew alongside her, sending her a dark and furious glare, but she did not slow. Streaming past her, the man leaned over and snatched the bay’s bridle, then rose in his saddle as if to leap onto the horse.
Jenny pulled hard on the hand brake, and both horses and cart pounded to a halt. The rider turned to glower at her over the wide shoulder of his caped greatcoat. Black brows furrowed over blue eyes that were brilliant with anger.
“What the devil are you about, driving a cart like that?” he demanded.
Jenny stared, stunned. His face was so familiar—and so totally unexpected—that she felt the impact like a pistol shot.
Simon Lockhart.
Moonlight revealed the handsome, all-too-familiar planes of his face, now drawn down in anger. She should have recognized his tall, strong silhouette, the limber grace of his horsemanship. She should have known. Her heart slammed as she gazed at the man who had disappeared from her life four years earlier, taking her hopes with him.
“I might ask what the devil you’ve been up to,” she said crisply, “for four years.”
“Still swearing like a rogue, Jenny Colvin,” he growled, as he let go of the bay’s bridle.
“I’m a rogue’s child,” she snapped.
She was not sure of his reaction, or even the moment when he had recognized her in turn. He had always been like that, keeping his secrets and his thoughts close. Now he stroked the horse’s neck and muzzle, murmuring calmly to the bay, which soothed readily beneath his leather-gloved hand.
Frowning, Jenny irrationally wished that the horse could resent the man, too.
“Hey, Sweetheart,” he told the horse. “I see at least you recall me kindly.”
“Sweetheart remembers you for the carrots you gave her,” Jenny said. “It will take far more than carrots for the rest of us to remember you kindly.”
He folded his hands on his saddle pommel and regarded her. “Greetings to you, too, Miss Colvin. How nice to see you again.”
“I canna say the same, Mr. Lockhart.” She had dreamed of seeing him again, longed for it—but she was not such a fool as to admit it.
“Actually, it’s ‘Sir Simon’ now. I was knighted recently.”
“How nice,” she said coldly.
He inclined his head with a faint smile, cocking an eyebrow, and her heart gave a little flip. In the clear moonlight, she saw that he had grown even more handsome, filled out and strengthened by manhood and unknown adventures. Wherever he had gone, whatever he had done, her deepest heart still belonged to the rapscallion who watched her now. She lifted her chin proudly.
“Have you been here long? Seen your kin as yet?” She sounded like a dimwit, she thought, but she still felt flustered and stunned. His property, inherited from his father years ago, lay in the hills miles north of the firth. In his extended absence, the castle and lands had been rented out to tenants by his cousins, Jenny had heard.
“Not yet. I arrived in Whithorn only today, and I’m at the inn there until certain affairs are settled,” he answered. He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching riders, then looked back at her. “Miss Colvin, I beg pardon for interrupting your evening jaunt, but I must ask you some questions.”
“Oh? Perhaps you’d like to know how we’ve fared while you’ve been gone—dinna worry that I will try to get away,” she added, when he reached out to tug the reins from her hands.
“Ah, but I do worry,” he said, as he wrapped the reins around one gloved hand, “very much, about you, and your kin.”
“So your absence proved,” she snapped, striving to hide the trembling that ransacked her limbs beneath her dress and cloak. “At first we thought you dead, or thought you had made off with my father’s cargo that night. Then we heard you were in Edinburgh, even in prison for a bit. I thought a cell was just the place for you.” She glared at him.
“And Miss Colvin apparently wishes I had stayed there,” he drawled. “I did not expect much of a welcome upon my return. And I did not even know it was you I was chasing at first. Any cart traveling that fast over the moors at night and avoiding the hail of an excise officer must be stopped.”
“Excise officer!” In the shock of seeing him again, she had forgotten that he had identified himself as a preventive man. She stared at him, uncomprehending. “You? How—”
“I lately accepted the commission as Chief Customs and excise officer for this part of the Solway coast.”
She shook her head in disbelief, and glanced at the men about to join them. “And they are—”
“Another excise officer and a couple of dragoons. We were patrolling this
evening, following a group of men and horses—too many for the four of us to stop, though I’d like to know their intentions. Likely they’re smugglers,” he said mildly. “Would you happen to know, Miss Colvin?”
“If you are asking if they are my kinsmen, I canna say. Smugglers travel openly here—the larger the group, the better, for no one dares stop them. As you will recall, Sir Simon.”
“Aye. While we were out, we saw you racing for the coast. There’s an odd sight, I said to myself—a lass alone on a moonlit night, with smugglers out and about.”
“And did you say to yourself, aha, here’s my chance to make the apology I owe that lassie?” she asked in a spicy tone.
“I’ll save that for another time,” he answered quietly.
She sat forward. “You asked after my kinsmen. Well, my father…is in the Tolbooth at Whithorn, and—” Suddenly her throat tightened. “They mean to hang him for horse thievery.”
“I know, Jenny. I saw Jock earlier today.” His voice, low and mellow and suddenly very kind, sent shivers through her.
She did not want to melt for this man, as she had done before. She wanted to be angry with him, though she fought against the impulse to throw her arms around him and feel his arms close secure and loving about her. Gazing at him for a moment, she allowed herself to be deeply glad that he was safe.
But she knew that he no longer loved her, although he had once persuaded her that he did. She had spent four years convincing herself that she did not love him.
Years ago, he had been her father’s protégé, gradually becoming her friend and her hero—brave, daring, quick-witted and so charming and compelling that her heart had melted at his smile, at his slightest touch. When she had sneaked along on midnight smuggling ventures against her father’s will, Simon ensured that she was safe, even let her take part. They had spent more and more time together, until he knew all her dreams and had shared his own. And when he had begun to learn her body, as well, and she had explored his, she had reveled in discovering passion with him. On that last evening, she had very nearly given herself to him completely.
Thank the Lord she had not. One night, after promising her that he loved her, he had disappeared, taking her father’s cargo with him. His betrayal had hurt all of them deeply, and Jenny had thought she might never recover.
Now she could not allow him to undermine her hard-won strength. She lifted her chin. “I hope you made your peace with Da when you saw him. He has little time left.”
“I tried, though he is…well, still perturbed with me. I think it will not be easy to make peace with you, either.”
“We thought you lost, stolen or dead, Simon Lockhart! We endured a hell of worry for you. Then we heard you were living a fine life—and never a word to us.”
“I did send word.”
“Aye? The postal coach comes from Edinburgh every week,” she pointed out.
“I—Jenny, we’ve no time for this now,” he said abruptly, as the three other riders cantered toward them, reining in their horses. Jenny turned.
“What’s this? Ah, Miss Colvin, good evening!” The leader tipped his wide black hat politely. “Riding about, are you? We’ll need to see what you have there, Miss.”
“Mr. Bryson,” she said stiffly. Donald Bryson had been accepting bribes of whisky and other goods from Jock Colvin for years. Jock had always thought him unsavory and ineffectual, although not wholly bad, as some of his kind could be.
“What’s in the cart, Miss?” Bryson asked. He gestured toward the wooden crates.
“Empty boxes. You’re welcome to look. We use them to pack whisky in flasks—legitimate whisky that we produce at Glendarroch from our licensed still,” she added pointedly, glancing at Simon. “We make less than five hundred gallons, for the use of our own kinfolk.”
“Ah.” Simon nodded. “Under five hundred—small enough that you need not pay duties on the whisky.”
She nodded. “So none of you have any business with me.”
“Dinna believe her, Sir Simon,” Bryson said. “Glendarroch whisky is the finest in southwestern Scotland—some say the whole of Scotland. Jock’s got stills hidden everywhere in that glen.”
“Does he?” Simon asked, managing to sound surprised. Jenny shot him a little glare. He knew well enough that her father had stills tucked away in the hillsides and forest groves near Glendarroch, where her family had lived for generations.
“Aye, we just canna find ’em. His spirits are in great demand in the south. He makes a pretty living smuggling it out. I’ll wager this lassie knows more than she will let on.”
“I see,” Simon murmured. He looked bemused.
She leaned closer to him. “Does Bryson know about you?” she asked quietly.
“Aye, some of it. The customs office regards my background as an asset, now that I’ve…reformed,” he answered.
“Jock Colvin is a rogue and a thief, and in prison for it. He’ll hang, too,” Bryson said. “Sir, she must be searched.” He dismounted. “The women in this area are notoriously clever helpmates to their men-folk. They smuggle whisky in places, well, that are not proper for gentlemen to search. But excise officers must sometimes see to it. Come down, lassie.” Bryson reached toward her. Jenny stiffened, leaning away from him.
“Mr. Bryson,” Simon barked, dismounting. “I’m the chief officer here. If Miss Colvin must be searched—”
“Oh, ho, you’ll do it?” Bryson grinned at him. “Not so green at this as I thought.” He grinned at Jenny. “It’s the law, lassie, that you must submit to a search if we think it necessary. Come down, my bonny, and show us what you’ve hidden under your skirts.” He grabbed her around the waist.
“I said I would take care of this, sir.” Simon clapped his hand hard on Bryson’s shoulder and moved him aside abruptly. Reaching up to take Jenny by the waist, Simon swept her neatly to the ground before she could draw breath to protest. “My girl, if I don’t search you,” Simon murmured, “Mr. Bryson is eager to show me how it’s done. And I would hate to have to pummel a king’s man on my very first night as excise officer,” he added blandly.
Heart pounding, she nodded, aware that Bryson stood watching, his mouth hanging open, eyes intent. The dragoons sat passively on their horses, but their eyes were alive as well.
Taking her by the shoulders, Simon turned her so that her back was to the other men. The yardage of her long hooded cloak, tied at the throat, shielded her from the men’s leering glances.
But nothing would shield her from Simon Lockhart.
She stood motionless as he slipped his hands around her waist, skimming there, then tracing his fingers over her back, then her upper arms and gathered bodice. His touch was so featherlight that she scarcely felt it, yet tingles rushed through her, threatening to buckle her knees. Blushing, furious, she squeezed her eyes shut and stood in proud, motionless silence.
Far better that Simon Lockhart do this than Bryson, she thought. Although she had never been searched before, she knew women who had. Few had fared well in the officers’ keeping.
Simon dropped to one knee and slipped his hands under her skirt. She felt his fingers close around her left ankle, then slide upward over her drawers. His touch was warm, gentle, scarcely there, yet her heart leaped as he neared the top of her thigh. Moving his hands to the other leg, he skimmed downward.
She kept her eyes closed, wishing he would stop—and remembering the pleasures she had once known under his hands. Feeling a sharp and poignant longing, she fisted her hands, and knew that her cheeks were hot and blazing.
“Jeannie Simpson was a Highland widow,” Simon said, as he traced his palms over her hips, ruffling the fabric of her chemise, “who carried whisky in bladderskins strung under her skirt. She transported the stuff every day, totalling gallons each month, riding past the excise man and greeting him as she went. She made a handsome income and kept her family nicely.”
“I am not a widow with a family to support,” she replied. “If I was, you can
be sure I would have whisky bladders hanging under my skirt and flasks tucked in my bodice, and the de’il take the excise man.”
“I do not doubt it,” he murmured. His hands rounded over her behind, ran along the backs of her thighs. She took rapid little breaths. His touch still held magic for her, and she hated that fact. She wanted to shove him away as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her again, in another setting, in another mood. But that dream was not possible anymore.
He withdrew his hands, straightened her skirt hem and stood. She lifted a hand to slap him, but he caught it deftly in his and lowered it, concealing their joined hands in the folds of her cloak. “She’s carrying nothing,” he told Bryson. “She’s free to go.”
He guided her toward her cart and assisted her into the seat. All the while, her heart slammed, and she fought both her rising temper and the profound befuddlement brought on by his touch.
Simon looked up at her. “I apologize for the search,” he murmured.
“Sir, that is the least of your offenses with me,” she said, and snapped the reins.
CHAPTER TWO
“HEY,” BRYSON CALLED. “That lass is not headed home!”
“So I see,” Simon answered, already setting his foot into the stirrup to vault into his saddle. Taking the reins, he turned the black stallion’s head. “I’ll correct her direction. I want her out of the area tonight—something is afoot this evening.”
“Aye, those men we saw leading packhorses must be moving contraband somewhere. Bold rascals, to ignore a full moon. They dinna care if they’re seen.”
“We’ll need more men if we’re to do anything about it,” Simon said. “Ride back to Whithorn and appeal to the sheriff—I believe he’s still at the Tolbooth—for dragoons and rangers.”
“We can summon no more than ten or a dozen,” Bryson grumbled. “The shortage of revenue men is a problem here.”
April Moon Page 8
