Page 18 of The Cornish Mermaid

The sound of the gate scraping across the flagstones carried through the still night air. She’d have a better view from the front window.

This time, proper caution raised its head, and she tiptoed across the creaky floorboards. With nervous fingers, she drew back the curtain at one corner to peer out more warily than before. A thrill of excitement sizzled at the prospect of watching real, nineteenth-century smugglers at work, that history was enacting itself before her eyes.

The yard was filling fast with shuffling ponies and men, whose heavy, hobnailed boots made far more noise than their ponies’ muffled hooves. Where were Jago and Kit? With them or merely awaiting their arrival?

The low rumble of a gravelly voice came from by the front porch. “Keep it hushed now, all o’ you gen’lemen, as Kit warned. We’ve got ourselves a guest upstairs, and we don’t want her wakin’ up an’ seein’ this.” A low chuckle. “Though she shouldn’t be wakin’, not after the dose o’ brandy Loveday give her.”

A murmur of agreement susurrated around the farmyard, and the light laughter of at least two women. Loveday and Jenifry, of course. Smuggling must be as much a woman’s thing as a man’s.

“Well done, lads,” Jago continued. “You can unload my brandy into the end shed. I’ve four barrels, I hear. And Kit’ll have those two bolts of silk for Miss Elestren. You can give him those now.” There was a scuffle as the men hurried to do as they’d been bidden.

“Where d’ye want the baccy, Jago?” called an overly loud voice.

A chorus of others joined in with low voices admonishing the speaker.

“Shush Clemo!”

“You deaf old fart.”

“Keep it down.”

If only they knew that she’d already worked out what they were up to and had no interest in giving them away.

Vague shapes milled about the yard as the unloading went on. Morvoren strained to see better. Was that figure near the porch familiar in its height and build, taller by far than the surrounding men?

Even as those thoughts crossed her mind, the man in question turned to glance up at the front of the house, perhaps seeking out her window. Perhaps afraid she might be looking out at the scene in the yard, despite Jago’s assurances that she’d had her milk spiked.

Morvoren dropped the curtain and stepped back into the comparative safety of the dark room. The man had been Kit, dressed all in black and with an old tricorn hat jammed onto his head. Had he seen her?

She sat down on the bed, heart hammering. No denying they were smugglers. Kit and his uncle must be in league with the locals, or even organizing them.

Her excitement died, extinguished by harsh reality. Smugglers weren’t just the romantic figures in books like Moonfleet; they were desperate criminals who wouldn’t think twice about silencing someone they thought had been spying on them. Especially not when the spy in question had no relatives or friends in the world. How easy would it be to erase her from history with one crack of the neck? She could almost feel Jago’s strong hands on her throat…

Downstairs, the front door banged. She jumped back into bed and pulled the covers up to her nose, closing her eyes and trying to steady her frantic breathing. Footsteps creaked on the spiral staircase, paused for a moment, then padded down the short landing to her door. Outside, they halted.

She fought to quieten her breathing, her whole body shaking. Was it Jago or Kit? Would Jago kill her in her bed if he knew she’d seen the pack ponies laden with contraband, or would Kit, unwillingly, she liked to think, do his bidding for him? Would she never get the chance to warn him there was a traitor in their midst?

The door creaked open.

She lay still.

Nothing. Whoever occupied the doorway didn’t come into the bedroom but stood there for a long minute. Oh please, let it be Kit, not Jago. Perhaps she’d better shift a little. She made a sleepy noise and stretched her legs out. Would that convince him? Unless of course he’d seen her as clearly as she’d seen him.

The door creaked closed.

Was he inside the room, still watching, perhaps holding his cravat in his hands, about to strangle the life out of her? On Jago’s orders. Were smugglers that ruthless? Was Kit that ruthless?

Nothing. She made another sleepy movement.

Still nothing.

Outside, the ponies’ padded hooves shuffled across the cobbles and out of the yard. The gate creaked shut behind them. Someone would have looped that rope over the gatepost to make the yard secure.

She lay motionless, ears straining in the darkness, the sweat of fear sticking the borrowed nightdress to her back.

Muffled voices out in the yard. Male voices.

“Better lock the shed.” Jago’s deep, gruff grumble.