Page 77 of The Duchess Games

Captain Davignon was sailing away, and she could not blame him. If the revenue men caught him they would claim his cargo and saw his boat in three. If the French found him, he was done for. If the British Navy spotted him, it would be worse yet.

But he was made of sterner stuff and had always treated her mother well.

He dumped the cargo overboard before leaving, giving her one last chance. Without the women of the village at her back, she’d never bring it to shore. In minutes Juro and his men would come charging down the slipway to steal it all.

Not in this lifetime or any other.

Margie was the first to reach the barrels, bobbing like corks. Cat charged in after her, the cold water soaking into her pants, pulling at her bare feet, whipping pebbles against her ankles. They dragged it to shore, panting for breath.

Together they swam out, pushed the barrels and casks closer to the beach, pushed and pulled to get them on the shore. Arms cramped with exertion, lungs burned. Lowenna went under, shoved by a barrel caught in a wave. Demelza pulled her back up.

She’d never pushed so hard in her life. Nor been in equal danger of drowning.

She loved every moment of it.

The promise of self-sufficiency, of comfort. Vindication.

And then Matthew was there, taking the heaviest barrel before it could sink her. She spat out sea water. “Let me carry this. I’m not useless, you know,” he said.

“I never thought you were!”

“I can do this. But you can do the rest. The dreaming and the planning.”

“And the bossing.”

“That too.”

She let him take the weight of it, and then took the weight of the next one, Margie at her side. By the end they were drenched and sweaty and smiling from ear to ear. A heap of barrels and two casks sat on the pebbles, full of promise.

The next part was even trickier.

Hiding the contraband was of utmost importance. Without the water to aid them, without tubmen to carry the barrels over dry land, they had to get creative. The casks went into the caves. She’d let Ambrose and his brother have first crack at the brandy. There wasn’t much and it would need to be let down some to be drinkable.

The rest of it, the oilskin-wrapped tea, the fine lace, it would need to be moved immediately. Some of it would fit in the cellar under the cottage, but it would be the height of reckless to hide it all in one spot, especially with Juro on her heels. Lowenna had a cellar and Margie’s sister-in-law had married a merchant with a fine house with a priest’s hole still accessible under the stairs. Demelza had trunks full of old dresses that had belonged to her grandmother. Lace would lay nicely between them until Cat arranged for suitable transportation.

They had baskets filled with lace, jars of tea, bottles of over-proof brandy from the casket that was leaking. They raced through Little Crumpet, Matthew keeping an eye out for revenue men not currently dancing under the chandeliers of Penhallow. If they were about, they did not stop them. Women bustling by with baskets weren’t even noticeable.

Cat would have danced a jig if she wasn’t so tired.

Bone-tired.

Loving it.

There was enough profit to be had to buy food, even some luxuries. Every woman who had helped her, Granny included as she had sent out the word to the women, would receive a cut. If Juro’s lads came back they would get five guineas, same as any muscle. But they’d wasted their chance at a proper cut. Juro would get nothing at all.

When she got back to the pub, the door was open. Granny sat with her pipe, grinning. “Ambrose kept them inside as long as he could. He threatened to ban them from the pub forever if they broke his windows. And then he claimed the back door was stuck and wouldn’t let them by.”

Ambrose would also get a cut.

“You look smug as three cats in a creamery,” Granny said. “It suits you.”

Cat’s arms were like jelly. “It does.”

“Best get back to the big house before Juro makes trouble.”

“I can handle him.”

“Aye, you can.” Humphrey cawed once from the roof, fluffing his feathers. “On with thee.”