At almost exactly that moment, Miranda managed to free the lid of her crate. What had seemed like eons of painstaking work with her small piece of wood at last paid off as the top and side parted a good inch. Wiggling around in the crate, Miranda got her back against the lid and pushed with her legs. With a heart-stopping creak, it came loose and lifted.
But before she could jump out and run, voices and lantern light emerged from the darkness, and she had to crouch again and lower the lid into place. Miranda nearly shrieked in frustration as she recognized Jem’s voice again. She had missed by moments! A few seconds sooner, and she would have been racing up the hill now and back to the house. It was almost more than she could bear.
Cautiously, she put her eye to the crack left between the side and top of the crate—and nearly gasped aloud when she found an expanse of blue cloth inches away. “This one’s not closed proper,” said a man directly above her, and rattled the lid of her crate. “Shall I nail it again?”
Miranda held her breath. It seemed to her the man must hear her heart pounding; it was like a bass drum in her ears.
“Don’t bother,” called someone further off. “We’ll have to open them for the frogs.”
There was a grunt of acceptance and a slight crunch of footsteps. Miranda waited a moment, then dared to look out again.
No one was so near this time, but the beach—she could see now that she was on the edge of the beach—was filled with crates and men, dimly lit by several lanterns. One man, Jem she thought, was standing at the edge of the water waving a lantern back and forth above his head. The smuggling ship must be about to arrive.
She eased up the lid very slightly, and was nearly caught when a man she hadn’t seen before peered out of the low bushes behind her. There were men all through the brush, she saw when she looked more closely. They seemed to be hiding, which was odd, but they certainly cut off her escape. Miranda leaned her head against the wood. Perhaps if she waited until the ship actually arrived, they would be distracted and she could escape.
* * *
“Did you see the pony trap?” Alan Creighton whispered to Philip on the hill above the smugglers’ beach.
“Yes. I don’t understand it.” They could not see each other’s faces in the darkness, but Alan could hear the worry in his cousin’s voice. “You don’t suppose there’s something wrong at home?”
“They wouldn’t go into the village tonight. Who was it? Could you see?”
“It looked like some of the servants. The cook.”
Alan gripped his arm painfully. “Warning them?”
“They knew nothing about it. I would wager anything that Forbes is trustworthy. He might have told them any time this past week.”
“But if they overheard?”
“We have been so careful,” objected Philip.
There was a silence. “I don’t like it,” said Alan then, “but we can’t call it off. If they’re ready for us, we shall just have to fight the harder. Waiting might let them escape altogether.”
“If they’re there at all,” replied Philip with sudden pessimism.
“They have to signal their ship, one way or another.” Alan gripped his arm again. “Time,” he said. “We’ll meet below.”
Philip returned his grip, and they separated to lead the two prongs of the attack on the beach.
* * *
Two lines of men crept through the darkness, cupping the narrow beach at the end of the small valley between them. They moved slowly, sliding each foot to keep from making noise, pausing on signal when their leaders hit a rough patch. Below, a small coasting vessel approached the shore, a swinging lantern answering the one Jem held, and lowered a boat over the side. Stealthily, two crew members rowed it into the surf. Three landsmen went into the water to meet it and help pull it in. Others moved toward the crates.
When Alan reached his position on the hill just above the beach, he gave the man directly behind him the prearranged hand signal and waited while it was passed along the whole line. His side was in place. He would give Philip another few minutes, then go in. He watched as a group of men unloaded several boxes from the long boat, then went to bend over the first crate below and examine its contents. After a moment, they stepped back and refastened the cover. It was heaved into the boat as they moved to a second. Alan shifted slightly. He wanted to hit before too much had been loaded. Philip must be ready.
Alan took a breath and raised his pistol. Pointing it straight up in the air, he cocked and fired. The report boomed from one side of the narrow canyon to the other, freezing the smugglers for an instant while Alan’s group cast themselves, shouting and firing once in the air, down the slope. He heard similar sounds from the opposite side, and grinned with relief.
The men on the beach dropped behind the crates there, and two or three pulled pistols from their coats. They fired, not in the air. “Take cover,” cried Alan in his battlefield voice. “We have them. Close in slowly.” He crouched behind a bush and crawled from it to another further ahead.
The two men from the ship broke from cover and ran to shove their long boat into the water. A shot rang out and hit one of them, but then they were out of the circle of lantern light and safely hidden by the waves. The boat moved slowly out to sea and out of range. At the same moment, someone on shore recovered his wits and all the lanterns were doused.
“Don’t move,” called Alan. “Let your eyes grow used to the darkness. They can’t see any better than we can.”
He gave them a moment, then shouted again. “Identify the man next to you. Keep close, and move forward.”
A shot whined past his ear, and he ducked and moved left. “Bill?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir,” murmured the man next in line.
“Is Dick behind you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
They moved. There was a half-moon obscured by racing clouds, and they could see well enough to stay together and make certain no one ran past them. They worked their way slowly down the valley, an occasional shot passing harmlessly over their heads. Once, Alan thought he heard someone move in a thicket to the right· But then a moor bird cried a sleepy protest, and he went on.
Soon, his men formed a half circle centering on the beach. They could see only a scattering of shadows where the crates rested, but they could hear the smugglers arguing with one another, though not the precise words they used.
Miranda, from her closer vantage, didn’t miss a word. “Sniveling cowards,” Jem was saying. “Bloody deserters. Where are they?”
“Slipped off into the bushes,” answered one of his mates. “Reckon they got away.”
“I’ll kill them,” promised Jem. “Every blasted one.”
“Don’t look like you’ll get the chance,” was the response. “Huh. That old woman was right.”
“Shut your trap,” ordered Jem savagely. “She set us up. Any fool can see that. I’ll kill her, too. I’ll kill them all!”
“You’ll have to get through these fellers first,” said the other. “And they don’t seem inclined to give way.”
Jem roared with rage and stood up. “Come on out, ye cowards. Sodding ’cisers. Boot lickers. Step out here and fight like men!”
A shot whizzed past his ear, and he ducked again.
“Hold your fire,” Alan cried from the other side. Miranda, in her crate, felt a thrill of hope and excitement. She had heard only voices before, and seen the smugglers take cover. Now she understood.
“Drop your weapons and come out,” continued Alan, “and you won’t be harmed.”
“No, only transported,” muttered a man near Miranda.
“We don’t wish to fire on you,” called Alan. “But you are outnumbered, and under arrest. Throw down your guns.”
Jem cursed, and shot his pistol in the direction of the voice. For a long moment, Miranda held her breath in fear.
“It’s no good,” Alan called then from a slightly different position, and she breathed again. “We have you. You can’t escape.”
“I’ll kill you anyway,” shouted Jem, and fired again. The men around him on the beach murmured and shifted about. They had no heart for a pitched battle.
“Most unlikely,” replied Alan, from much closer, Miranda thought. She heard Jem move from behind one crate, along the sand, to crouch behind hers, the closest to the bushes. When he cocked his pistol again, it was inches from her ear. She thought she could hear him breathing, and she froze to utter stillness.
Two of the smugglers broke from cover and ran toward the brush at the other end of the beach. Dark figures rose to grapple with them and bring them down. For a moment, there were stifled cries, then silence again.
“Give it up, Jem,” called Alan. Miranda thought he must be within arm’s length.
Miranda felt Jem shift against the side of the crate. And to her horror, she heard movements in the bushes on the other side. Alan was there. He did not realize Jem had come so close; he was trying to circle around and surprise him. Alan moved again, closer, and it was obvious Jem heard as well, for he shifted upward, ready to stand and spring. If Alan spoke again, the smuggler’s aim would be assured.
Another man lost his nerve and ran. He was captured by those on the right side of the beach.
“Another down,” said Alan. His voice was just on the far side of the crate. “You’re losing…”
As Jem moved, so did Miranda. The buttons of his coat clattered on the crate as he sprang erect, and the wooden lid rattled as Miranda shoved it straight up as hard as she could.
The lid hit something with a crack, and Jem’s pistol went off. In the next moment Jem and Alan Creighton were wrestling across the now-open box.
Miranda crouched again, heart pounding, and her hand encountered the small piece of wood she had used to pry off the lid. Without pausing to think, she picked it up and jammed it with all her strength into Jem’s dark waistcoat.
Jem cried out, and twisted to try to see his new attacker. Alan quickly landed a blow to the temple that knocked the smuggler out cold.
The beach erupted in chaos. The men Alan had gathered rushed to support his effort, and those remaining on the beach scattered in hopes of escape. The two factions met at the verge of the bushes and dissolved into struggling knots. But the smugglers were far outnumbered, and within minutes, they were all taken.
Alan took no part in this. As soon as Jem had fallen, he had swept Miranda into his arms, lifting her from the crate and holding her close against his chest. He did not even notice when Philip began directing the consolidation of the prisoners. “Are you all right?” he demanded. “Have they hurt you?” He kissed her brow, her cheeks, then her lips, hard.
It was some time before she could answer, breathlessly, “They didn’t know I was there. I hid.”
Two men came for Jem, dragging him over to the other bound smugglers. Neither Alan nor Miranda noticed.
“Hid?” echoed Alan, and she explained what had happened. His grip about her waist tightened as she spoke. He felt he could never let her go. “You are never ever to do such a thing again,” he commanded when she had finished.
“But I didn’t do anything,” she replied. “It was the merest accident that I…”
“Never,” he repeated. “I shan’t permit it.”
Miranda looked up at him, quite comfortable in the tight grip of his arms. “You won’t always be there to prevent me,” she suggested saucily.
“Yes, I will,” he assured her. “Always!” And he bent to kiss her again.
Behind them, Philip observed for a doubtful moment, then started the transport of the prisoners to the wagon they had waiting.