Chapter 11
Who’d have thought that sitting and waiting could be so nerve-wracking?
Rachel shifted in the straight-backed chair in Justin’s bedroom, pressing a hand to her stomach to quiet the uneasy flutter there. The air was still, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards sound like thunder.
Beside her, the lamp burned low, its wick turned down to conserve oil, casting long, slanted shadows across the walls.
She glanced at the bed. Mary lay curled beneath the blanket, one arm flung over her head in deep, untroubled sleep. Rachel envied her. The girl had been through so much—yet now, at least for a few hours, she was safe.
Rachel had tried to distract herself with one of Justin’s books—something about the Napoleonic campaigns—but the words had blurred after the first chapter.
She’d closed it nearly an hour ago. Since then, it had been only the tick of the mantel clock and the occasional pop of the fire downstairs to keep her company.
Then—movement.
Her heart leapt.
A faint light swayed outside the cottage, just beyond the shutters.
She rose and moved carefully to the window, lifting the edge of the curtain an inch. Her breath caught—then released.
It was her father. The lantern in his hand bobbed with his measured pace as he walked the narrow track from Dr Standish’s house, as he did every time he stayed later than expected.
Her father.
Typically, she would have been the one waiting up for him. Had he assumed she was already asleep? Or would he check her room and find it empty?
She should have left a note. Something—anything. Staying with a sick parishioner would have done. Not quite the truth, but close enough not to burden her conscience.
But now… perhaps something closer to the truth was better.
Justin’s cottage stood less than a hundred yards from the parsonage. If she hurried, she could reach the house before her father noticed she was gone, explain something believable and mostly true, and be back before Mary even stirred.
Resolved, Rachel snatched up her cloak and tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to disturb the girl’s sleep.
She unlatched the door and stepped out into the cold night.
The wind nipped at her cheeks. She locked the door behind her, pocketing the key, and started toward the parsonage at a brisk but quiet pace.
She was only a dozen paces from the gate when a shape stepped out from the shadow of the hedgerow.
A man.
He grabbed her arm hard enough to make her gasp.
“Where is she?” he snarled.
Rachel’s blood ran cold. Her pulse roared in her ears. She tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.
“Don’t think to lie to me, girl. I know she’s not at the inn.”
Rachel squared her shoulders despite the fear climbing her throat. “Let me go, Mr. Hall.”
Hall started at the sound of his name on her lips. Rachel tugged her arm and almost had it free, but his grip firmed again.
“You’re going to take me to her,” he hissed, “or I swear, you’ll both be sorry.”
Rachel barely had time to scream.
Hall’s hand clamped over her mouth, hard and unrelenting. His other arm snaked around her waist, dragging her back into the shadows. She kicked, twisted, tried to scream again—but the pressure of his grip, and the glint of a knife catching the moonlight, stopped her cold.
“Don’t struggle,” he hissed in her ear, voice controlled, sober, and all the more terrifying for it. “Tell me where she is.”
“Rachel!” The call came from the direction of the vicarage.
Rachel’s mind reeled. She clawed at Hall, her fingernails catching his face. A lucky strike—he grunted, and his grip loosened. Rachel wrenched free and stumbled back.
“Father!” she screamed, throat raw.
But Hall was quick. He lunged and caught her again, this time with the blade pressed against her throat.
“You’ve got one more chance, girl.”
Rachel froze. The steel kissed her skin. Her eyes darted to the road, willing her father’s lantern to appear sooner, faster—
A sudden crack split the air like thunder.
Hall jerked, stunned, the knife falling from his grip.
Rachel hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her lungs as she landed beside the unconscious Hall. For a heartbeat, she lay stunned, cheek pressed against the cold earth, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Her fingers brushed damp grass—and Hall’s sleeve.
She flinched, but the man was utterly still.
Then a shadow fell over her, and a gloved hand reached down.
Her gaze travelled upward—from the familiar scuffed boots to the tailored coat, to the scarf and hat silhouetted against the moonlight.
The breath she’d lost caught again in her throat—not from fear, but recognition.
Robin!
He crouched beside her and, with the utmost care, helped her upright. Her hand lingered in his just a moment longer than necessary. She gave the faintest nod, and his grip softened.
“Rachel!” her father’s voice called again, closer now.
Lantern light bobbed into view, then flared across the scene as the curate hurried into the lane, eyes wide with panic. He stopped short when he saw her.
Then his gaze lifted to the cloaked stranger at her side.
His expression shifted from fear to alarm, and then to something far harder to place. Protective fury, certainly, but layered with something else. A dawning suspicion.
“You,” he said hoarsely, his hand tightening on the lantern. “You’re Captain Moonlight!”
Rachel stepped between them, raising her hands.
“Please, Father. Wait.”
The Reverend’s voice was taut, firm. “A masked man standing over my daughter with a pistol. What in God’s name is going on?”
Rachel looked from her father to the man beside her. “He’s not the threat. He saved me.”
It took a moment for the Reverend to see what she meant. Then his eyes dropped to the figure crumpled on the ground.
“Is that—Jimmy Hall?”
“Yes,” she said. “He was waiting for me. Demanding to know where the innkeeper’s daughter was.”
Her father’s brows knitted tightly. “Hall? He’s one of the newly-appointed Excisemen. I spoke with him just last week. He seemed... overzealous, perhaps, but not violent. Was he drunk?”
Rachel’s mouth twisted. “He wasn’t drunk. He was... prepared. He knew what he was doing.”
The Reverend looked again at Hall—then slowly returned his gaze to the masked man.
Captain Moonlight hadn’t moved. He stood slightly apart, silent, observing.
Then, in a voice Rachel knew was deliberately altered—low, gravelly, disguised—he spoke.
“Is everyone safe?”
Rachel understood. It wasn’t a general question. It was his question, meant only for her. Meant to ask if Mary Blunt was still hidden, still protected.
“Yes,” she said, holding his gaze through the shadows. “Everyone is safe.”
The captain nodded—just once—and then began to step back, his eyes flicking to the dark hedgerows, the forest beyond.
“Wait,” the Reverend said, voice still edged. “You—you can’t just disappear. There’s a matter of law—”
“Father,” Rachel said firmly, stepping closer to him. “Please. Let him go.”
He looked at her for a long time, eyes flicking over her face. She could see the questions in them—the rising suspicion, the deep unease, the growing awareness that his daughter had been somewhere, somehow, caught up in this for longer than he knew.
But he said only, “Is he... truly a friend?”
Rachel nodded. “Yes. He’s kept more people safe than you’ll ever know.”
Her father’s jaw worked for a moment. Then he lowered the lantern slightly and said, “I suppose... I should thank you, sir.”
Captain Moonlight tipped his hat ever so slightly, then turned, disappearing into the mist without a word.
Rachel stood in the quiet that followed, only the crash of distant waves breaking the silence.
Her father exhaled. “There’s much you haven’t told me, Rachel.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“Then you’d better begin atthe beginning and let our friend here finish what he’s started.”