Matthew nodded. “Aye. Easy enough to check our trail.”
Jack settled in his saddle. “Given the smugglers are all from outlying farms or fishing villages, there’s no reason they should stumble on our real identities.”
Checking his horse, Jack turned left, into the narrow mouth of a winding track. George followed; Matthew brought up the rear. As they climbed a rise, Jack glanced back. “All things considered, I can’t see why you’re worrying. Captain Jack’s command of the Hunstanton Gang should be plain sailing.”
“Plain sailing with Captain Jack?” George snorted. “When pigs fly.”
Chapter 1
May 1811
West Norfolk
Kit Cranmer sat with her nose to the carriage window, feasting on the landmarks of memory. The spire atop the Customs House at King’s Lynn and the old fortress of Castle Rising had fallen behind them. Ahead lay the turning to Wolferton; Cranmer was close at last. Streamers of twilight red and gold colored the sky in welcome; the sense of coming home grew stronger with every mile. With a triumphant sigh, Kit sat back against the squabs and gave thanks yet again for her freedom. She’d remained “cabin’d, cribb’d and confin’d” in London for far too long.
Ten minutes later, the entrance to the park loomed ahead in the gathering dusk, the Cranmer arms blazoned on each gatepost. The gates were open wide; the coach trundled through. Kit straightened and shook old Elmina awake, then sat back, suddenly tense.
Gravel scrunched beneath the wheels; the carriage rocked to a halt. The door was pulled open.
Her grandfather stood before her, his proud head erect, his leonine mane thrown into relief by the flares flanking the large doors. For one suspended moment, they stared at each other, love, hope, and remembered pain reflected over and over between them.
“Kit?”