Chapter 10
Robin’s horse galloped beneath him with smooth, rhythmic power, the moonlight carving silver shadows along the path ahead.
The wind rushed past, tugging at his cloak, and the salty bite of the nearby sea filled his lungs with every breath. He kept his eyes forward, posture low and balanced, guiding the gelding with the ease of a man who knew every tree, every fencepost, every deceptive hollow of the Sussex countryside.
Rachel’s face flickered across his thoughts—her hand trembling slightly in his, the taste of her kiss still warm on his lips. He forced himself to push the memory aside. There would be time for that later.
He hoped there would be time for that later.
As long as Justin’s deception held, Mary’s disappearance wouldn’t be discovered—not yet. Rachel’s part in it would remain unknown, her position safe. That was the only thought that steadied his heart now.
The girl was in good hands. But Justin… Robin gritted his teeth. His friend’s absence gnawed at him. He should have returned by now.
Still, there was nothing to be done. He couldn’t go back. Not now. The mission had to go forward, with or without his friend.
The crossroads north of the Angler’s Arms loomed ahead—an unassuming fork where the old Roman track met the smuggler’s lane that wound toward the sea.
Here, the cart would pass, hauling contraband up from the coast and into Hall’s domain.
If Robin was right, they’d be using the quieter, inland route.
Hall wouldn’t risk the main roads, not with talk of customs men sniffing about.
Robin dismounted swiftly and led the horse into a copse of trees.
He crouched low behind the brambles, pistol in hand, eyes trained on the road.
His breath came slow and steady, and he counted each one as the minutes passed.
The waning moon was no more than a sliver—but the stars looked down, bright, cold, and relentless in their watchfulness.
Nearly one o’clock. The tide would have turned.
The only sounds were the wind in the trees and the crash of waves breaking against the rocky headland below. But then…there! Faint at first but growing clearer. The jangle of a bridle. The low creak of a cartwheel struggling against a rut.
Robin tensed.
He rose from cover, stepping out onto the road with confidence and a booming voice trained by years of command.
“Stand and deliver!”
The cart stopped abruptly. Two figures froze on the driver’s bench, eyes wide, hands lifting as instructed. For a moment, Robin thought it would be simple.
Then one of the men—burly, thickset—narrowed his eyes and spat. “It’s just the one. Take him!”
Robin had only a moment to react. He fired his pistol—not at them, but at the ground beside the cart. The shot sent a sharp crack through the air. The harnessed horse panicked, rearing and breaking the traces, throwing both men from the bench in a tangle of limbs and curses.
The first man hit the ground hard, rolling and groaning as his head struck a rock. The second recovered faster, drawing a dagger from beneath his coat and rushing at Robin with a growl.
Robin had no time to reload. He tossed the pistol aside and drew the blade from his belt.
The two men clashed in a brief, furious dance, blades catching the moonlight.
Robin took a shallow cut across his left arm but ducked low and slammed his shoulder into the man’s gut, knocking the wind from him.
The man staggered. Robin pressed the advantage, pinning him to the ground with a knee to his chest. The man struggled, and Robin earned another slash—this one across his side—but he gritted his teeth, struck the knife from the man’s hand, and wrested a length of rope from the cart.
With swift, practiced hands, he tied the man’s wrists behind his back. Just as he rose, the other man—the one who had struck his head—began to groan, lifting his head groggily.
Robin didn’t hesitate. He located his pistol, crossed the space in two strides and brought the butt of his weapon down sharply on the man’s skull. The groan stopped.
Breathing hard, blood soaking through his shirt, Robin dragged both men to a nearby tree and bound them tightly. He gagged them for good measure and shoved their own cloaks over their faces for concealment. They’d live, but not comfortably.
He stepped back, surveying the scene, checking again for movement along the road. Nothing.
And yet... something was wrong.
He frowned.
Neither of the men was Hall.
He cursed under his breath.
The real mastermind hadn’t been in the cart at all. Which meant...
“Damn,” Robin muttered.
He vaulted back onto his horse with a wince. The slice on his side stung with every breath, but he had no time to tend it. If Hall wasn’t part of the transport, then he must already be at the inn. Waiting for the shipment to arrive. Coordinating. Watching.
And now—possibly realizing his men weren’t coming back.
Robin pushed the horse hard, galloping toward the Angler’s Arms. The wind cut against his cheeks like ice, but his mind was racing faster than the hooves beneath him.
The whole operation was unraveling faster than he'd planned.
If Hall caught wind of what was happening—if he even suspected that Mary was gone—it wouldn't just be Robin and Justin in danger. Rachel, Mary, even the innkeeper himself—they were all exposed.
He urged the horse faster.
He would stop Hall. Whatever it took. He just prayed he wasn’t already too late.
Robin’s side ached as he slipped through the narrow path that led from the bluffs to the hidden cove beneath the headland. The pain was sharp, but he ignored it—tonight, they would put an end to Hall’s games, and nothing short of a bullet would stop him now.
The moon cast a silver sheen on the waves below, and in the shallow water of the cove, the contraband boat had already arrived. Smugglers moved like shadows along the shore, unloading casks and crates with quiet urgency. No torches. No idle chatter. They were good—well-practiced.
Too good.
Robin crouched low behind a stunted gorse bush, hand already reaching for the small mirror in his coat pocket. The soft rustle of movement came from the path behind, steady and practiced. He didn’t turn—he knew that gait.
“Late, as usual,” came Justin’s voice, dry as ever. “But I see you’ve started without me.”
Robin grinned, despite the tension. “Had to warm things up.”
He turned and saw not just Justin, but six more figures melting from the darkness—grizzled, watchful men. Old shipmates. Men who owed Robin and Justin, or simply couldn’t resist a cause worth fighting.
As the group crouched behind the ridge, Robin angled toward Justin.
“Lady Felicity would tan your hide if she knew you were out here.”
“She might,” Justin agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting. “But I’d rather face her temper than sit this out. Besides…” He glanced toward the glow at the inn’s windows. “We are nearing the end of Captain Moonlight, are we not? This might be our last ride.”
Robin passed him a second mirror. “Then let’s make it count.”
He raised his voice just enough for the others to hear. “We ready?”
Justin nodded. “We keep it quiet. Rope in as many as we can before steel sings. But if it does, we end it quick.”
“Right,” Robin murmured, and gave the faintest flash with the mirror.
The men fanned out, splitting into pairs, navigating around the edge of the cove. Robin and Justin moved together, each step sure-footed, guns loaded and cocked ready. They waited until the next crate touched dry land before making their move.
Robin stepped into the open, pistol raised. “Hands where we can see them. Captain Moonlight requests your company.”
A moment of shocked stillness. Then chaos.
Two smugglers lunged for their weapons. Robin fired—one shot to the sky, not to kill, but to scatter. Justin was already in motion, slamming one man to the ground while another sailor wrestled a second into submission.
More men joined the fray. A knife caught the moonlight, and a blow landed against Robin’s ribs. He grunted and countered with a brutal elbow that sent the man staggering. Ropes flew, boots scuffed in the sand, and shouts were muffled by fists and force.
Within moments, it was over.
Ten smugglers lay bound in the shallows or slumped unconscious. The boat, loaded with tobacco, silk, and brandy, remained beached on a small stretch of sand.
Justin rolled his shoulder and offered Robin a half-smile. “I’d say that went well.”
“Suspiciously well,” Robin muttered.
Because something was off.
No sign of Hall.
Robin stalked through the subdued prisoners, scanning faces. None were familiar—none bore the smug sneer, the cruelty he had come to associate with Jimmy Hall.
“Where is he?” Justin asked, coming to the same conclusion. “He should be here. This was his shipment.”
“I don’t think he came.”
Robin’s voice was low, cold. “He sent them. But he stayed in the shadows.”
Justin looked toward the bluff, eyes narrowing. “You think he knew?”
“I think he’s cleverer than we gave him credit for.”
Robin scanned the cliffside, heart thudding. Hall wasn’t foolish—he’d never place himself in a fight he could watch from afar. And if he’d guessed something was amiss...
“We’ve cut the legs off his trade,” Robin said, “but not the head.”
Justin nodded grimly. “Then we find him. Before he starts growing new ones.”
The wind shifted, bringing the scent of the sea and something else—smoke, faint and acrid, from the direction of the inn.
Robin’s stomach turned.
“Come on,” he barked. “Mount up. He’s not here... because he’s already made his move.”