MacSorley’s band had long frequented the area near these caves, so Jenny had agreed to go inside to see if Glendarroch casks were stored in the sea caves. If she found them, she was to alert her kinsmen, who would retrieve them and exact revenge.
Her father had cautioned her to go into the caves before the tide got too high, and while MacSorley and his men were occupied elsewhere. Jenny had known that MacSorley and his smugglers were still out on the moor, but Simon Lockhart’s arrival had been a shock—and had delayed her.
Whoever had taken Jock’s store of whisky might have also accused him of stealing the magistrate’s horse, thereby neatly eliminating Jock from the local free trade. Her father had sworn that if he must die, he could only go in peace if his veritable fortune in stockpiled whisky was recovered.
Approaching the cliff edge, Jenny glanced around, relieved to see no one else about. As she descended a rough incline toward the beach, she was grateful for the moon’s clarity, which lit her way toward the dark cave mouth.
Underfoot, the rocks were wet and slippery, and she made her way carefully. Moonlight rippled on the sea, and lacy breakers rushed toward the shore as the tide swirled into the broad, low arch of the sea cave’s entrance.
The water level was already too high for her to simply walk inside, so she made her way across the field of rocks and stones at the base of the cliff, and finally stepped into the cave mouth at the nearest edge of the entrance.
The sea roared as it filled the great, dark cavity of the cave, and moonlight gleamed on the swirling water. Overhead, the ceiling soared into a black expanse, and the curved rock walls glittered back in the moonlight.
A crescent-shaped rim provided a natural walk-way, and she followed it deeper into the cave. Waves slopped over the shelf as she walked, and she held up the hems of her dress and cloak with one hand, while carrying the lantern in the other.
Tracing a hand along the damp, rough curvature of the rock, she moved cautiously. An explosion of sound and sudden movement overhead startled her so much that she cried out and flattened her back against the wall.
Birds poured out of the upper recesses of the cave, and she watched them soar away, moonlight silvering their wings—hundreds of rock doves, she realized, had been disturbed by her presence. They commonly nested in the caves and cliffs along the shore, but she had not heard their telltale cooing and rustling over the sounds of the incoming tide.
Drawing a shaky breath, she continued. The cave was enormous, its ceiling an inverted bowl over a wide pool, the entrance a low arch. Kelp and bladderwrack draped portions of the rock and floated on the surface of the water. A broken wooden crate floated past near her feet.
She stopped, uncertain where to look first. She had not expected to find cargo neatly stacked just inside, but she had hoped to see some stored goods upon entering.
As she drew out of the blue glow of moonlight, the darkness became inky. Jenny lifted the lantern’s window a little and turned the wick higher, casting a golden bloom over the walls.
The creases and crevices in the rock walls took on new dimension. The cave was permeated with openings and passages into other recesses that looked like more caverns. Any of those spaces might be used for storage.
If she kept a cautious foot and a careful eye, as her father had advised her, she could locate his stolen whisky and make her way out of this place before anyone returned.
As she neared the blackness at the back of the cave, a shrill scream came from some shadowy recess. Jenny stifled a gasp and shivers rose along her neck and arms. The sound had not been the steady roar of the sea, nor the harmless chorus of rock doves.
The scream came again, reedy and eerie, while Jenny stood in the darkness, chilled to her soul.
HEARING DISTANT hoofbeats and the dense jangling that signalled the movement of many horses, Simon slowed his own mount and waited. Within a minute or so, a group of men and horses topped a hillock and came across the broad swath of moonlit moorland.
Thirty or more riders, each man leading a pack-horse, traveled bold as brass in the clear light of the full moon. No harnesses were muffled, no lantern shuttered, no voice softened as they rode toward the cliffs that led down to a secluded beach and caves that were known smuggling haunts.
Free traders commonly moved through the countryside in groups as large as a hundred men and twice as many horses, Simon knew—he had done so himself, years past. The larger the band, the less likely that customs officers would attempt to stop them or take custody of their goods.
Although alone, he decided to introduce himself as the new excise officer. A group this large had no reason to harm a single officer who presented no threat. Guiding his horse forward, he held up a hand and waited. He had a primed pistol tucked in his belt under his coat, but he made no move toward it.
They stopped gradually, and then the leader urged his horse forward a few steps. He was a large man, burly through chest and shoulders, his hair and beard reddish even in the moonlight. Simon recognized him easily.
“Customs and excise,” Simon announced. “Greetings, Captain MacSorley. I am Sir Simon Lockhart. Perhaps you remember me.”
“Lockhart o’ Lockhart?” MacSorley stepped his horse forward again, and grinned. He carried a long club across his saddle pommel. Smugglers with any sense never carried pistols—to do so was tantamount to rebellion against the government. “I do remember ye, lad—but not as a gauger.”
“I’m now the resident excise officer for this part of the Solway shores. You’d best tell me your business here, Captain. I see those packhorses have full panniers.”
“Och, there’s no shame in a bit o’ the free trade, as ye no doubt recall.” MacSorley came closer on his horse, hands calm on the reins, no obvious threat in his manner. Behind him, his men waited and watched. “Years ye’ve been gone sir, and I see what brings ye back. Paid work, a secure position wi’ some respect…and a fine chance to work both sides, eh?”
“That may be,” Simon said cautiously.
“Clever lad to get the best of both. Though the pay for excise work is poor.”
“It can be profitable,” Simon said. “A fee is paid per each cask confiscated.”
“But ’tisna so easy to get enough cargo to make good cash. Ye know well how it works here—if I dinna see ye, then ye dinna see me. A man can make a good living along these shores if he plays his hand carefully. There’s a fair bit o’ traffic.” Angus smiled, and watched Simon closely.
“Aye, so I’m aware. Pot-still whisky is regularly brought south, and hides, as well, and there’s trade in rum and brandy, silks and laces. There’s wrecking, too, which I expect is still sometimes done under cover of darkness,” Simon said dispassionately. “Not under bright moonlight like this.”
“True, there’s plenty to keep men busy of a night. And not enough king’s men to keep up with it all, eh?” Angus grinned.
“We may be few, but we’re a curious and persistent lot.”
“Most gaugers play blind when it suits,” Angus said.
“I see clearly when I want to,” Simon said. “What are you all about on such a fine moonlit evening, Captain?”
“Och, just carrying a bit o’ the finest whisky in the land to those that have the craving for it,” Angus said boldly. With over thirty men facing one officer, Simon thought, MacSorley could afford to be bold—for now.
“Jock Colvin makes a fair whisky, too, as I recall.”
“Glendarroch brew is fine stuff, I give him credit for it. But his stills are small, and he doesna produce as much as some do. Fussy about it, him and his lassie. They horde it too long. Aged whisky is good but doesna turn a profit for years. Besides, Jock’s been arrested—as ye must know, being a preventive man.”
“No doubt his arrest was good news for MacSorley’s lads.”
“Well, I’m sorry for him, and surprised to hear he resorted to horse snatching. But the magistrate’s animals are fine ones, and valuable, and Jock’s always been a bit of a daf
tie.”
“Though never a thief,” Simon answered, watching MacSorley.
“Ye never know what makes a man change. Look at ye, now.”
Simon inclined his head in acknowledgement. With no proof and no protection, he could hardly accuse the man of committing the crime himself. But he resolved to look into it further. “So you’re moving some whisky about? Taking it down to meet a ship?”
MacSorley grinned. “Could be, or could be we’re taking it by land to Carlisle and over the border. Or we may be taking it back home to drink it all ourselves. Smugglers dinna care to move about much under a full moon.”
“Of course. I did hear a ship might be expected tonight.”
“I’ve heard none of that. Even so, what could one fresh new gauger do about it?”
Simon smiled. “Little enough.”
“Do ye have a taste for good whisky yerself, Lockhart?” MacSorley turned and beckoned one of his men forward. The man dismounted, pulled a tin flask out of a pannier basket strapped to a horse, and came forward to hand it to MacSorley.
Angus offered the flask to Simon. “This is verra fine stuff. And ye might find a cask o’ this stuff on yer doorstep…let’s say at the full of every moon.” He glanced upward. “There’ll be a cask delivered wherever ye like tonight. To honor old friendship, o’ course.”
Simon took the round flask, turning its weight in his hand. Tin, cheaply made and well-used by its dents and scratches—just the sort of vessel that smugglers used to transport whisky in quantity. He glanced at MacSorley. “And in return?”
“Ye’ll be unobservant as the former excise officer. We had a fair agreement with that lad.”
“The man was shot while riding over the moor one afternoon.”
Angus shrugged. “We had naught to do with it. He let us alone, so we let him alone. It was Jock Colvin’s lads—the Royal Defiance Bladder Band, they call themselves. Fools and ruffians, those lads, but dinna let their jovial ways convince ye that they’re harmless.”
“Captain MacSorley, I can look the other way if you and your lads smuggle a few gallons to pad your purses. The king’s laws are harsh, and Scotsmen must find ways to make do.” He leaned forward, the flask in one hand. “But should you harm innocent citizens or take what does not belong to you or betray good men for your own ends…I will see you then, by God, and I will pursue you.” He straightened. “Fair warning, Captain.”
Angus narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps one keg of whisky a month is not enough.”
“More than enough. Too much, in fact.” Simon did not care much for whisky—or for bribes.
“I heard an interesting rumor some time ago, Lockhart.”
“What was that?” Simon asked warily.
“A fellow I met at a market fair mentioned that Lockhart o’ Lockhart was a guest in the Edinburgh dungeons. Held for smuggling offenses, he said.”
“I was held…for a while.”
“Ah. I remember, years ago, that ye had some falling out with Jock Colvin. Did ye come back to repair that rift?”
“I returned because this commission was assigned to me. And some rifts…are not easily repaired.”
“Well, if ye decide to go back to yer rapscallion ways, ye canna rejoin Jock’s band so quick. He still has a grudge against ye. However, we might take ye…did we find ye trustworthy.”
“I’ll remember that. For now, Captain, I trust you and your lads to go home from here, put away whatever you’ve got in those packs, and take quietly to your beds for the night.”
“And who will see that done? The excise man?” He laughed.
Simon tossed the flask quickly through the air, so that MacSorley barely caught it. “I cannot accept gifts while acting as an officer of the king. But your generosity is appreciated.”
MacSorley narrowed his eyes, shoving the flask into the pocket of his coat. “Ye’ll regret that, sir.”
“Good evening.” Simon turned his horse and rode off, leaving MacSorley staring after him. He could feel the bore of the man’s eyes and dark thoughts as he rode over a hillock on the moor.
Glancing about, he saw no one else, including Felix Colvin and his kinsmen, or Jenny with her horse cart. He hoped she had indeed headed home. There were far too many rogues about, despite the bright moon, and he did not want her on the moorland.
Nearing the cliffs, glancing about, he decided to wait by the cliffside to watch the sea for ships, and the moor for smugglers. Excise men often set themselves up for waits of several hours, and he would be no exception. Besides, he had told Bryson to bring dragoons back to the area of the cliffs, and the fellow could be back within the hour.
Dismounting, he led the black stallion toward a dense stand of hawthorn trees and gorse bushes, surrounding a large clearing. The place had long been used as a hideaway by smugglers.
As he led the horse inside the screen of trees, he noticed another horse already there—a bay mare. Nearby was a small pony cart, concealed by straw and dry branches.
Jenny. He almost swore aloud. Tying his horse beside hers, he turned and went toward the cliffs. Where had she gone, and what sort of urgent business did she have here, alone?
She must be doing her father’s work for him, while Jock sat in prison. Cursing Jock for sending his daughter out alone on a dangerous task, Simon made his way along an outcrop of boulders that overlooked the sea and the beach below.
The moon was a bright silver coin in the sky, its light pouring over surging tides, the sands along the shore, and the black creased rocks that formed the high cliffs.
Leaning his elbows on one of the boulders, Simon took a spyglass from his pocket, opened it, and looked through it.
He could see the silvery sparkling waves, and far out, the black reef where wrecks sometimes occurred. Water frothed on the surface of the sea, delicate as lace. Above, in the purple dusk, the moon’s pale, mottled surface filled, for an instant, the circular window of the spyglass.
He might as well settle in for a long wait, he told himself. His mission for the customs and excise board involved the pursuit and capture of the smugglers who were running high quality whisky over the Scottish border and down along the coast. That in itself was not so unusual, but these particular rogues had a habit of killing men who balked at their high prices. And the whisky itself was of a very fine quality, mostly originating from Glendarroch.
Learning that in Edinburgh, he had volunteered for this post. If Jock Colvin and his men had resorted to the roughest means of making their living, then Simon wanted to be involved in their pursuit and capture. If they were innocent of those practices, he wanted to be involved in the proof of it.
And he had wanted to see Jenny again.
Training the glass along the shoreline, he watched the tides sweep toward the beach, creaming over sand, gushing in and out of coves and the sea caves that sprinkled the coast. He saw no one at all—and certainly did not see a slim young woman intent on some foolhardy mission.
Where the devil had she got to? Surely not into the caves below, he thought—but every instinct, and the rising hairs on the back of his neck, said that she had done just that.
He slipped the spyglass into his pocket and straightened. Walking along the upper cliff edge, breeze blowing through his hair, he scanned the shore.
Then, behind him, he heard the muffled sound of horses. Turning, he hunkered down and moved toward the stand of trees where his horse and Jenny’s were hidden.
A sudden sound popped nearby, and he felt a tug on his arm, a sting like that of a bee. Looking down, he saw his torn coatsleeve, and with an odd, detached sense, realized that he had been shot.
Another pistol shot rang out, and Simon dropped to the ground, rolling as he landed. Strangely, the ground gave way beneath him, and he hit something hard, then tumbled down farther into blackness.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNY STOOD TREMBLING in the darkness, but the eerie shrieking did not come again. She glanced toward the wide mouth of the cave, where the surg
ing sea tide, rippled with froth and moonlight, was already higher. For a moment, she longed to run back toward the entrance and leave this frightening place.
The cave was haunted, they said, by the ghost of a long-ago piper who had lost his way, following the fairies deep into the maze of the caverns and tunnels beneath the cliffs. Haunted, as well, by the legendary sea kelpie that took the form of a graceful white horse, luring souls to their deaths in the water.
But she could not turn back. Her father had sent her here, and this might be the last favor she could ever do for him.
Drawing a breath, she forced herself to move onward. A narrow pass cut through the rock, and she followed it. The lantern’s glow revealed the brown and rusty variations in the walls, and the stone felt damp and rough beneath her fingers.
Beyond the pool of lantern light, the blackness and silence seemed complete. The sea shushed in the main chamber behind her, the sound fading as she walked. Her footsteps crunched over gritty sand and broken shells, and her fingers touched slimy seaweed on the walls. So the tide came this far and this high into the caves. Shivering at the thought, she moved on.
Waving the light around, she saw crevices, caves and winding passages, just a portion of the honeycomb of tunnels and chambers beneath the cliffs. She would have to search until she found the caves where the MacSorleys stored their smuggled goods.
Turning down a wide, twisting channel, she noticed a sudden bloom of light, its source hidden. Then she heard men’s voices, low and urgent, and she stopped, heart slamming.
Quickly she shut her own lantern and ducked into a nearby crevice, hoping that it was deep enough to conceal her.
Three men came into sight, the leader carrying a lantern with an opened window. He muttered to the others, and they halted near a protrusion in the wall, behind which Jenny stood hidden.
Hardly daring to breathe, she waited.
The men came forward, and she glimpsed them just past the concealing edge of the rock. The man with the lantern had a craggy face, harsh in the light. All three wore dark jackets and wide-brimmed hats, though she saw only the leader clearly.
April Moon Page 10
