Chapter 12
Robin grunted as he hoisted Jimmy Hall’s unconscious body over his shoulder. The man was heavier than he looked, all thick muscle and mean arrogance. Robin’s side throbbed where he’d taken a dagger swipe earlier, but he set his jaw and pressed on, one step after another along the moonlit track.
The village green was quiet, bathed in silver light. A pair of owls called to each other from the trees beyond the chapel, and the cold night air burned in Robin’s lungs.
In the center of the green stood the old stocks—weathered and long forgotten, half-swallowed by the grass. A relic from a more public sort of justice. Tonight, it would serve again.
Robin dropped Hall unceremoniously to the ground and pulled open the wooden device. With practiced hands, he arranged Hall’s limbs—arms through the top, ankles through the bottom—and slammed it shut. The wood creaked but held. He secured the latches with metal pins that still, miraculously, moved.
Hall groaned once, but didn’t wake.
Robin reached into his coat and pulled out the note—the one they’d intercepted earlier, bearing Hall’s rough script. “Keep your mouth shut and the goods safe, or your girl pays the price.”
He read it once more, jaw tight, then pinned it to the top of the stocks with his belt knife. Let the village see him for what he truly was.
A coward. A bully. And not above threatening a man’s child to keep his schemes running.
Robin stepped back, surveyed the scene, and nodded. It was a fitting end.
The journey back to the Angler’s Arms was agony. The adrenaline had faded, leaving only exhaustion and pain. His side throbbed with each step, and blood had dried stiff beneath his coat. His arm was little better, but still usable.
Just one more task tonight, he told himself. Then you can rest.
He reached the inn’s rear courtyard just as the first hints of dawn began to stain the horizon.
Inside, the taproom glowed warmly, firelight flickering through the leaded panes.
Robin pushed open the door and stepped into a scene that was oddly festive.
Justin sat at a long table, flanked by the men they’d both once sailed with—their old shipmates, now scattered but still loyal. The air smelled of roast meats, aged cheese, and fine French brandy—smuggled delicacies, seized during the raid.
Someone cheered as Robin entered, raising a cup.
“Look what the wind blew back in!” one of the men laughed.
Justin stood, a half-grin tugging at his mouth. “I take it Hall’s not going to be joining us?”
Robin sank into a chair and poured himself a small glass of brandy. “No. He’s taking in the night air. In the stocks. I left one of his own notes pinned to his chest for company.”
A ripple of laughter passed around the room.
“He’ll be the talk of the village by morning,” Justin said. “Good.”
Robin took a long drink, then sighed. “This is the end of it, though. Captain Moonlight’s had his last ride.”
Justin nodded. “We’ve unmasked ourselves, whether we meant to or not.”
One of the sailors raised his glass. “Moonlight or not, you two kept the right folk safe and gave the bad ones something to fear. That’s all that matters.”
The others murmured their agreement.
Robin looked around the room, weariness settling in his bones. “Thank you. All of you. But if anyone asks…”
“Never heard of him,” one sailor said with a wink. “Must’ve been a ghost.”
Robin smiled faintly.
“Aye,” he said. “Just a ghost in the moonlight.”
The taproom had quieted. Most of the men had either dozed off where they sat or stumbled up to the loft rooms offered by a grateful innkeeper. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floorboards, and the clink of bottles had dwindled to silence.
Robin and Justin sat in the corner, nursing the last of the brandy. The weight of the night pressed down on them—not just the skirmish, but the knowledge that something had ended. Captain Moonlight was no more. What came next was something neither had dared to speak aloud until now.
Justin broke the silence first. “We’ve no masks left, Robin. No more pretense. Feels strange, doesn’t it?”
Robin chuckled softly. “I thought you’d enjoy the quiet life.”
“I do. More than I expected. But…”
Robin raised a brow, inviting the words Justin hadn’t yet said.
“She’ll leave again,” Justin said at last. “Felicity. If I don’t give her a reason to stay. And I don’t mean throwing myself at her feet. I mean truth. A life built on something solid.”
Robin leaned forward. “Then build it. Stop waiting for permission from the world—or from her brother. You love her?”
“I do.”
“Then don’t let your pride be the thing that drives her away.”
Justin gave a lopsided smile. “Is that what you’re planning to do? Follow your own sage advice?”
Robin glanced into his glass, then back at his friend. “I am.”
“With Rachel?”
“Aye.”
Justin studied him. “That girl’s got steel in her bones.”
Robin nodded. “She’s braver than half the officers we ever sailed with.”
There was a quiet moment between them, not heavy, but full.
“You’re serious?” Justin asked.
“I am. I don’t know what form it will take yet, but I mean to find out. No more hiding behind the mask, even if I liked the freedom it gave.”
Justin raised his glass slightly. “Then to truth. And to the women who saw through us, even when we wore masks.”
Robin clinked his glass against Justin’s. “To the ones who never needed us to be legends—just honest men.”
Robin slipped in through the servants’ entrance at Normanton House just as the sun began to rise behind the downs. His limbs ached, his side throbbed, and his head was heavy with fatigue.
The night had stripped him down to bone and willpower, and now, with Captain Moonlight laid to rest, all he wanted was a bath, a bandage, and a bed he didn’t have to spring out of at the drop of a pistol hammer.
He collapsed into it moments later, not even bothering to draw the curtains.
It was not yet noon when the knock came.
He groaned.
“Go away,” he muttered into the pillow.
The door creaked open anyway.
Peter’s voice, annoyingly bright, drifted in. “Thought you might want to hear that the notorious Captain Moonlight has outdone himself again. Seems poor Jimmy Hall was found locked in the village stocks this morning—gagged, bruised, and pinned with one of his own threats.”
Robin moved, but not fast enough.
Peter stepped into the room—and stopped.
Robin had thrown the sheets off in the warmth of the morning sun, and the bruises across his ribs, the dried blood at his side, and the livid scratch across his collarbone told a story all their own.
Peter let out a slow breath.
“You idiot,” he said, not unkindly.
Robin winced and cracked one eye open. “You’re not going to ask?”
Peter just shook his head. “No need. I’ve known since the second week you were home. I chose not to know, but it seems now the choice is gone.”
Robin sat up slowly, wincing. “You always did let me get away with too much.”
“I always did,” Peter agreed, then paused. “Are you finished now?”
“Yes,” Robin said. Then he smiled. “But I’ve started something new.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve signed a contract on a small estate—two valleys over. Not grand, but prosperous. Peaceful. I mean to make it home.”
Peter’s brow arched. “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain vicar’s daughter?”
Robin said nothing.
Peter grinned. “Well, then. I hope she says yes.”
“I hope so too.”
Peter clapped him gently on the shoulder, mindful of the bruises. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Robin looked at him, hearing the double meaning behind the words—the secret of Captain Moonlight, yes, but also the deeper one: of the man Robin truly was, behind the mask, behind the uniform, finally at peace.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Peter smiled. “Get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“I feel worse.”
“Good. Means you're still breathing.”
Robin chuckled, and as Peter left the room, he allowed himself—for the first time in years—to rest. Really rest.
And to dream of a future that felt, finally, within reach.