April Moon (13 page)

“I agree this might keep Jock from a hanging, but I wish it were guaranteed. And how are we to get her out of here?”

“Oh, the tide!” She frowned, then began to pace back and forth. “If we wait until the MacSorleys leave the cave—do you think the Beauty could swim in the sea far enough to get out of the cave to the beach? Some horses can.”

“I won’t risk it,” he said. “And we’ve no boat for us, even if she could swim alongside it. The
tidal pull in the Solway basin is treacherous, especially under a full moon. I might see you both go down, and…I couldn’t live with that.”

She sent him a sharp glance. “You let years go by without knowing what became of us,” she pointed out.

He sighed, his arm still resting on the horse, and regarded her. “I knew,” he said quietly. “I always knew.”

“How?” she asked.

“I have my ways, love, and my secrets, too.” His voice, quietly heard in half shadows, sent a thrill through her. “I worked as a solicitor for the Customs and Excise Board in Edinburgh. I read the reports from the Solway officers. I knew when your kin were sighted, when they were questioned or fined, when goods were confiscated. And I knew when your father was arrested. I came back…to do what I could, if he was innocent of the charge.”

“He is.” Tilting her head, she watched him, heart beating hard. She remembered that sudden, heart-melting kiss. Her thoughts and emotions tumbled, and she suddenly wanted to know what had happened to Simon. Until then, she had clung desperately to her anger. Now she felt it beginning to dissolve a little.

Yet there was no time for questions. “Simon—we must get the horse out of here quickly. But the tide will not pull out for hours yet.”

He took the headrope and led the horse back to the troughs. “There, my bonny. We’ll get you home to your owner somehow,” he murmured. He stroked her again, whistling that same gentle tune, and the horse snorted with contentment.

Simon looked at Jenny. “We may be able to take her out through the landward entrance.”

“Is it possible?” Hope flashed within her, and she smiled, but resisted the urge to give him another hug. That, and the kiss, had aroused strong, insistent feelings in her that left her head and heart whirling.

He must have felt it, too, for his gaze was hungry and intent on hers. In the silence, she felt something powerful pass between them, as strong as a tide, as mysterious as moonlight. A blush heated her cheeks, and she glanced away.

“We must find that other exit soon, before MacSorley’s men come back for the horse,” she said quietly.

“We’ll need to wait a bit before we take her out. I want to know what MacSorley’s men intend to do with her.”

“They mean to ensure that my father hangs, that’s what.”

“They might mean to sell her down to England, or over to Ireland or France. Felix Colvin mentioned a ship coming in tonight.” He strode toward
the entrance, grabbing Jenny’s hand as he passed, tugging her with him into the corridor. As they went, she took up the lantern she had set down, and followed.

“M
Y FATHER NEVER
used these caves,” Jenny said. “That proves that he did not take the magistrate’s horse.” She held the lantern as they walked and he took her other hand, his grip strong. Although the cave was chilly, she was troubled by the distinct coolness of his fingers. He was paler, too, she thought, glancing at him. A trickle of blood ran over his left hand.

“Dear God, Simon. Your arm—you must let me tend to it again.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, jamming his hand in his pocket. “Jenny, finding the horse could help Jock, but the authorities already have enough quarrel with him for distilling and trading illicit whisky.”

“But horse thieving is the hanging crime. He’ll be saved from that, at least, if we can get the horse to the sheriff in time, before the morning—”

“We’ll have to prove someone else took her. Jock could have put her there himself.”

“He never comes to these caves. He’s afraid…of
sea kelpies and ghosts, though he would never admit it.”

“I never knew that.” He smiled faintly. “We’ll watch what MacSorley means to do with your Beauty. If we can catch them about to sell her or ship her off, that will be proof enough.”

“We canna wait.”

“How can we walk out of here leading that horse? There’s smugglers all about. Here, this way.” He tugged her along a narrow artery through the stone where the walls were clearly marked with traces of chisel work. “It looks familiar now…I think we may find the landward exit. Aye, there,” he said, as they reached a fork in the corridor.

He pointed toward a short, third spur off the two routes. At the end of that tunnel, raised a little above the level of the floor on a ramp of stone, Jenny saw a smooth slab fitted into the rock wall.

As large as a door but rounded, the slate was fixed with an iron pull-ring and iron hinges, the whole neatly set in the shadowed recess of the back wall. On a side wall, two iron hooks protruded from the stone, ready to hold lanterns or other gear. A shovel and an axe leaned in a dark corner.

“I came through there by accident,” Simon said. “I happened to fall through the brush that conceals the hatch on the moor. It opened easily enough when my weight fell against it.”

“I think we can bring the horse through there,” Jenny said. “It looks large enough. Let’s go get her.” She turned.

“Not yet.” Simon grabbed her arm. “I’ll wait here to see what they intend to do with her. You go through there, and home,” he ordered, turning her toward the short tunnel.

“Oh, no,” she said, rounding back. “I told you I’m staying.”

“You’ll not,” he said, taking her shoulder to turn her.

“I will,” she said firmly, and shrugged off his hand, stepping away. “Thank you for showing me the exit.” Swinging the lantern, she strode back toward the horse’s cave.

“Stubborn lass,” he muttered as he followed.

She smiled and glanced over her shoulder.

He caught up to her, and as they passed the horse’s cave in silence, Jenny took Simon’s arm again, a gesture of compromise as much as a bid for simple comfort in the gloomy, eerie recesses of the underground labyrinth. At a turn in the tunnel, Simon held out his right arm to keep Jenny behind him.

She glanced around. Behind them lay the horse’s cave, and several yards in front was the little crevice where they had hidden earlier. Beyond lay the
great hall cave, open to the sea. From that direction, a faint light washed over the walls.

“They’re coming this way,” she whispered.

“Shut the lantern,” he growled. She did so, and he looked at her. “I’ll go ahead to see what they’re doing. There’s a wee cavelet just here—wait inside, lass, and do not move.”

“But you—”

“Jenny, listen. If I do not return for you soon, go back to our little moonlit balcony. You’ll be safe there.” He gave her a gentle shove toward the low mouth of the small cave just behind her. Then he sprinted away, quick and quiet.

She eyed the low, dark opening dubiously. Earlier, she and Simon had peered into the small cave, which had seemed unremarkable. Ducking, she stepped inside.

Once past the low-hanging entrance arch, she found with surprise that she could stand upright in the blackness. The space seemed higher and larger than she had thought. Tracing her hand over cold stone, she moved deeper into the cave, following the curvature of the wall. A moment later, she knocked her shin against something hard, and bumped her hip against some other object. Reaching out, she felt a wooden object under her hand, and groped around to find several more, all of similar size and shape.

Opening her lantern, she saw casks neatly stacked all along the walls, and more kegs and wooden crates on the floor. Moving around, she saw round iron-banded wooden kegs in the small and portable size that smugglers, including her father, often used. Shifting one of them, she heard liquid slosh inside.

Whisky casks. She had found the smuggler’s cache of goods.

Then light infused the entrance and she heard footsteps. Sliding the lantern shut, she crouched behind a stack of boxes next to the wall. Long shadows fell across the entrance, and she heard voices as several men entered the cave.

Curled behind the boxes, she waited silently. Glancing through a narrow space between crates, she saw six men in all, including the three she and Simon had seen earlier.

With low murmurs and brisk directions, they set to the task of lifting and carrying casks and boxes. A few of them hoisted the small, heavy wooden casks to their shoulders, while others carried out two or three boxes in a stack, and some took a few of the sacks.

Within minutes, they were gone. When she was sure of safety, Jenny crawled out of her hiding place. She opened the lantern a little and moved around the crowded cave, searching for anything
that bore the Glendarroch symbol, a tiny design of an oak leaf burned into the wood.

She found boxes of laces, silks and other fabrics, and kegs of brandy and rum, as well as whisky that was not Glendarroch make. Sighing in frustration, she glanced anxiously toward the cave entrance. The smugglers might be back soon. Lifting the lantern, she scanned the cave one last time, and suddenly glimpsed the tiny, familiar oak leaf design branded on some wooden casks.

Sighing in relief, she hurried to the other side of the cave to discover several stacks of small, portable kegs at the back of the cave, hidden by a tall pile of boxes, so that Jenny could not get to them easily.

Enough, for now, to know that Colvin goods were here. She had to let her kinsmen know.

But she did not want to leave Simon with his wound bleeding again, although she knew he would insist that he was fine.

Realizing that some whisky would be useful for his wound, she tried to get to one of the Glendarroch casks but could not reach them. Examining the wooden boxes stacked nearest her, she pried open one nailed lid with a broken bit of stone. Inside she found tin flasks filled with liquid, most likely Highland whisky.

Removing one flask, she wedged it down her
bodice, above the ties that snugged beneath her breasts. Shivering from the cold touch of the metal, she slipped out of the cave and ran down the empty passageway.

W
HAT THE DEVIL
had become of her?

Simon paced the little balcony area feeling an increasing sense of alarm. He had seen the smugglers go in and out of the very cave into which he had shoved Jenny, and had to duck deep into the crevice to avoid being seen himself. Now he was fraught with concern for her, and angry with himself for leaving her.

And he had seen that the smugglers were moving illicit cargo, while he, the excise officer, was trapped, one man unable to stop them. Despite their presence, he had to find Jenny.

Bending to crawl back through the gap in the rock, a wave of dizziness took him with such force that he paused while the little cliffside niche seemed to swing crazily. He broke into a clammy sweat and his arm throbbed painfully. He knew it was bleeding again, felt the warm soak of it through the bandages.

Still, he could not sit here panting and reeling. He had to find Jenny, either to save her—or stop her from whatever madness she had planned that
night. He suspected Jock had sent her here on some illicit chore.

Head swimming, he looked through the gap again, and saw a slender dark shadow slipping through the crevice to come toward him. Relief washed over him, and he realized again how very much she meant to him.

He waited while she emerged sideways through the gap and placed her booted feet on the floor, skirts rucked over her stockinged legs to her knees. Then he took her arm to assist her.

“Jenny, thank God,” he murmured, and pulled her into his arms, feeling an undeniable force, relief and love and a sudden, inconvenient surge of desire. He pressed his cheek against the sweet wildflower softness of her hair as he embraced her.

Her arms came around his waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “The men came to that cave. I had to hide there for a while. There were six of them this time.”

He nodded. “And more than that in the main cave. I saw them loading goods into two rowboats.” He did not want to let go of her, he realized, nor did she seem inclined to pull away.

As he held her, something cold and oddly shaped pushed into his chest. Frowning, he set her away from him, glancing down at the tantalizing swell of her breasts. A strange bulk rested beneath the fabric
of her bodice. Keeping that awareness to himself, he glanced at her. “And just what were the smugglers doing there, lass?”

She laughed, at once sultry and mischievous. “I found their store, Simon. Casks, boxes, sacks—there’s whisky and West Indies rum, French brandy, laces, silks, all in one cave.”

“Aye?” A wave of the accursed dizziness he had tried to ignore hit him again, and he leaned against the rock wall near them. A cool, reviving wind blew against his neck and through his hair. Moonlight poured over his shoulder to show Jenny’s face.

She looked at him with concern. “The cave looks small from the outside, but inside ’tis spacious—and full of cargo.”

“Including tin flasks?” With deft fingers, he reached inside the neck of her dress, grabbed the flask and drew it out. The metal felt warm where it had touched her skin, and he could not help but notice the firm, luscious shape of her breasts. “You did not have this on you earlier. Do I need to search you more thoroughly?”

She watched him in surprise, then drew a long, deep breath.

He dangled the flask between his fingers. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked in a low voice. “Are you in league with these smugglers after all?”

She blinked at him and licked her lips, an unconscious gesture that revealed her nervousness.

He wanted desperately to kiss her in that moment, wanted to take her in his arms and explore every part of her, touch and savor her as he had done years ago. His body throbbed with the need, despite their situation, despite the dizziness and pain that plagued him.

“No,” she said firmly, at last. “I brought that for you.”

He frowned. “I do not accept bribes.”

“Nor do I give them. Sit down over there.” She motioned toward the ledge of stone that served as a seat. “Your wound is bleeding again. Are you fevered?” She touched his forehead, then his cheek. Her hand was cool, the sensation delicious and soothing, as if he was fevered—but surely there was another reason that he felt overheated in her presence, with his heart slamming and his body hardening.

“I’m fine,” he said, and let out a grunt as she shoved him gently downward.

“Sit. And give me your coat again.” She assisted him as before, being careful of his wounded arm. Kneeling beside him, she gasped softly. “Oh, Simon,” she whispered.

He glanced down. The bandage she had applied earlier was a dark mass in the moonlight—surely
not how it should look, he thought, feeling almost befuddled, swamped by dizziness again. He leaned back against the wall, aware of damp, cold rock.

Gingerly she peeled away the sodden strips of cloth to reveal the wound, and wiped his arm with the previously torn sleeve that she pulled from his coat pocket. Reaching for the tin flask he had set down, she handed it to him. “You’d better drink some of this. I’ll do what I can to stop the bleeding.”

He glanced down at his arm. “Damn,” he murmured.

“It needs to be cauterized.” She sighed, looking worried.

“I’m not happy about it, but I’m not keen on bleeding to death, either. Have you ever done this?”

“No. But I’ve seen it done. But how…in here?”

“I have a knife, and we can use the lantern flame.” He withdrew the little black-handled
sgian-dhu
that he carried sheathed at his waist beneath his vest. Silently, he laid it on the ledge of rock beside her.

She opened the lantern shutter and turned up the wick so that the flame flared. Simon lifted the flask and drank.

Mellow fire slid down his throat, faintly sweet, its inner heat flaring quickly. “Excellent,” he said,
mildly astonished, distracted for the moment from the dreaded task ahead.

He had been raised around illicit whisky production in pot-stills hidden from the king’s men, yet somehow he had never developed a taste for whisky himself, despite its ubiquitous presence in every Scottish household he had ever known. He found the stuff unpleasant at best, harsh and undrinkable at worst. But the contents of the tin flask surprised him—delicate and subtle, its delicious warmth was invigorating and intriguing. He took another sip.

“This is…rather good,” he admitted.

“Have a little more,” she suggested. “You may need it.” She pushed his hand, holding the flask, toward his mouth.

He sipped. “I confess I’ve never tasted whisky quite like this. There is something…faintly sweet about it, almost soft, yet the burn is strong. It’s like…honey and flame mixed together. A superb choice in stolen peat-reek, my dear,” he said, and raised the flask in salute.

“Superb? Then I wonder—let me taste it,” she said, and took the flask from him. Setting her lips around the neck, she drank.

“Careful, lass, it’s powerful,” he cautioned. “I can already feel it in my blood after just a few sips.”