Perhaps a vision of fishermen’s children playing under nets on the beach? She’d seen such a sight just that afternoon, while riding past a fishing hamlet. Whatever, she pulled her scarf high, covering nose and chin, and yanked her hat down. Drawing Delia around, she set the mare on a silent course parallel to the shore. There was no pathway where the Revenue were headed. Kit knew every inch of this stretch of coast, the section she most frequently visited on her rides. She left the Revenue behind but didn’t turn Delia to the shore until she was out of their sight. The clouds were unreliable; she couldn’t afford to be seen.

Once on the beach, she turned the mare’s head for the smugglers, a dark blotch on the shore. Praying they’d realize a single rider was no threat, she galloped directly toward them. The dull drubbing of Delia’s hooves was swallowed by the crash of the surf; she was nearly upon them before they realized. Kit had a momentary vision of stunned faces, then she saw moonlight flash on a pistol’s mounts. Struggling to turn Delia, she all but snarled in fright: “Don’t be a fool! The Revenue are on the cliff. They’re some way from a path, but they’re there. Get out!”

Wheeling Delia, Kit glanced back. The smugglers stood frozen in a knot about their boat. “Go!” she urged. “Move-or they’ll nail your hides to the Custom House in Lynn.”

Afterward, she realized it was her use of the shortened name for the town, a habit with locals, that prompted them to turn to her. The largest took a tentative step toward her, warily eyeing Delia and her iron-tipped hooves. “We’ve a cargo here that’s got nowhere to go. All our blunt’s sunk in’t. If we don’t get it out, our families’ll starve.”

Kit recognized him. She’d seen him that afternoon at the hamlet, busily mending nets. Fleetingly, she closed her eyes. Trust her to stumble onto the most helpless crew of smugglers on the English coast.

She opened her eyes, and the men were still there, mutely begging for help. “Where are your ponies?” she asked.