Kit patted Delia’s glossy black neck. “We’ll have a run soon, my lady. But first let’s do a little deceiving.”
They were nearing the village of Great Bircham when Jack realized they’d lost the pack train. He reined in on a crest overlooking a moonlit valley. Somewhere ahead, the rider still ranged. “Damn! He’s moving too fast to be following ponies. We’ve been had.”
George stopped beside him. “Maybe the ponies were faster through the woods. The rider went slow there.”
Jack shook his head emphatically. Then, as if to confirm his deduction in the most mocking way, the rider appeared, crossing the fields below at full gallop, a streak of black against the silvered green.
“Christ!” breathed George. “Will you look at that.”
“I’d rather not look at that,” Jack replied. After three seconds of silence, in which the rider gathered the fluid black into a soaring leap over a pair of hedges, he continued grudingly: “Well, whoever he is, he can ride.”
“What now?” asked Matthew.
“We go home and try to figure out another way of contacting this accursed gang.” With that dampening answer, Jack shook his reins and set his grey stallion, Champion, down the ridge.
Kit raced with the wind, the scenery a blur about her. She took her usual route to Gresham Manor, circling it, then pulling up on a hill overlooking the house to let Delia rest.
What would Amy say if she went down and threw gravel at her window? Kit grinned. Amy had a streak of conservatism that was quite wide, despite her predeliction for becoming hot and wet for her George.
Sighing, Kit folded her hands across her pommel, staring at the dreaming countryside. She hadn’t thought of Amy’s disturbing revelations for weeks, not since she’d taken up smuggling. Had excitement filled in that odd gap in her innermost self? After a moment’s consideration, she admitted it had not. Rather, the demands of smuggling had left no time for dwelling on ill-defined regrets. Which was just as well. Shaking the cramps from her shoulders, Kit picked up the reins. It was time for the quarries.