April Moon (10 page)

“Have you proof?” Simon asked.

“Not a whit, but I feel it in my bones. If ye’re the new preventive man here, then ye should follow that lot. They’ll keep ye and yer rangers busy enough.”

“Too busy to follow you?”

Felix grinned. “Could be. But I’m as sincere as my mother’s heart about this. Ye follow the Cap’n, and ye’ll find a man who hates Jock Colvin and wants the whisky trade to himself.”

Simon nodded, considering. He glanced at Jenny. “If there’s anything to this, I intend to find out,” he said.

“Please,” she said, her plaintive tone surprising him.

“Ye’ll find them heading for the coast this night, I’d guess,” Felix said. “Should ye and yer rangers and dragoons stop them before they make their trades tonight—some of us would appreciate it.”

“Trading under a full moon?” Simon asked.

“Sometimes, though we dinna prefer it,” Felix answered. “If ’twere us, we’d hope ye’d look the other way. But them…well.”

Simon handed Jenny the reins. “Go back to Glendarroch, Miss Colvin. I’ll see you there later. Nicky lad,” he said, addressing the young man. “See that your cousin gets home.” He climbed out of the cart, while Nicky clambered inside.

Untying his horse’s lead, Simon leaped into the
saddle and turned the black stallion to head for the cliffs and the coast. But something made him glance over his shoulder.

Wide-eyed and lovely in the pale moonlight, Jenny watched him. She looked fragile somehow, vulnerable. He felt troubled, realizing that he was leaving her again without a word.

He leaned down. “I’ll be back. I promise,” he told her. While she watched him in silence, he rode off.

O
NCE SHE HAD PULLED
the cart into a clearing edged by gorse and hawthorn trees, Jenny unbuckled Sweetheart’s harness. She tethered the mare to a thorn branch not far from a narrow, fast-running burn that cut through the moor. Taking the lantern from the iron hook on the cart, she turned the wick down to a glow and lowered the punched-tin shutter.

Having no intention of going home, she had asked Nicky to join his father’s group again, which the boy was glad to do. Then she had reminded her uncle that Jock had given her a task that night. Aware of this, Felix had agreed, waving her on her way after promising to meet her by the cliffs later to assist her.

Glancing around, she saw no one else as she ran across an open expanse of turf. The moonlight was cool and eerie, and the sea surged loudly in and out of the estuary. Water foamed over the beach and the dark rocks that littered the sand, and gulls
flocked overhead, crying out as Jenny neared the cliff edge.

All her life, she had avoided these particular cliffs and caves. Legend claimed that the honeycomb of caves extended for miles beneath the moorland, and that they were haunted by otherworldly creatures. She remembered stories from childhood of the beautiful but terrifying sea kelpies that took the form of horses, as well as tales of mischievous fairies and even the ghost of a lost piper.

Logic told Jenny that the caves were dangerous enough without supernatural help by virtue of the free traders who used them as smuggling caves. While Jock Colvin and his band did not stash their cargo in these caves—the fast-rising tides were too unpredictable—over the years many others had braved the tales and tides to leave smuggled goods in the Kelpie’s Cave.

Remembering Nicky’s report of seeing the Beauty, the legendary white horse of the Solway shores, Jenny felt anxious for a moment. But she dismissed it as fancy—even she had seen, now and again, the illusion of white horses in the high, foamy waves that sometimes rushed to shore.

The caves in these cliffs were her goal, and she would go forward despite trepidation. She had promised her father to look here for what had been taken from him.

Fifty casks of Glendarroch’s finest whisky had been stolen out of Jock’s own storage caves farther along the coast. The casks would be worth a fortune in the south, where Glendarroch whisky was in high demand. Suspecting MacSorley had taken them, Jock had entrusted his daughter to discover the truth.

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.

H
EARING 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 daftie.”

“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 bor
der. 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.”