The gleam of the gold sovereigns in Cormac’s calloused palm was obscene in the clean, fragile light of the new day. Each coin was a tiny, perfect sun, mocking the dawn. They were English. Minted. The kind of money that never touched the hands of fishermen or tenant farmers unless it was payment for a soul. The air in the small hut, which had moments before been thick with the scent of their mingled bodies and the promise of a shared future, now grew thin and sharp with poison.

“Liam was a good lad,” Cormac stated, his voice a low gravelly thing, his gaze fixed on Finnian. “Quiet. Did his work. Never asked for more than his share.”

Finnian’s face was a mask of granite, the brief peace shattered. He took one of the coins, its weight heavy and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of Aisling’s skin beneath his hand moments before. He didn’t need to ask. He knew. “He was watching the upper trail,” Finnian said, the words clipped. “Alone.”

“His neck was snapped clean. Made to look like a fall in the dark,” Cormac confirmed, his own face a thundercloud. “But the ground was soft from the rain. He’d have broken a leg, an arm. Not his neck. And he wouldn’t have been carrying this.” He gestured to the gold. “This is King George’s blood money. Someone silenced him. Someone from our own.”

The unspoken truth hung between the two men, suffocating. The informant wasn’t some spy of the magistrate’s, cleverly inserted. The rot was within. One of the men who had shared their bread and their risk, who had drunk to their successes in The Piper’s Rest, had sold them all for a purse of English gold. Aisling, wrapped in the wool blanket, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. She saw the new weight that settled on Finnian’s shoulders. It was heavier than the threat of her father’s soldiers. An army you could see, fight, and flee. How did you fight a shadow wearing a friendly face?

“The watchtower,” Finnian said, his voice flat. “They’ll be gathering. We must go.” He looked at Aisling, his storm-grey eyes filled with a conflict that tore at her. He had just found her, only to be forced to doubt everyone else he had ever trusted. He reached out, his fingers tracing her jawline. “Stay close.”

The climb to the old stone watchtower was tense. The beauty of the morning, with the sea a placid turquoise and the gorse flowers like drops of sunshine on the green cliffs, felt like a lie. At the tower, the remnants of Finnian’s crew were assembled, perhaps twenty men, their faces etched with relief and exhaustion. But as Finnian and Cormac approached, a murmur of unease rippled through them. They saw the grim set of their leader’s jaw.

Finnian didn’t waste words. He stood before them, Cormac at his side, and held up the leather purse. “We were betrayed,” he announced, his voice carrying with cold clarity. “The magistrate knew our plans because one of us told him. Liam found out who. And for his trouble, he was silenced.” He let the purse drop to the ground, the coins spilling into the damp grass with a soft, sickening clatter. “He was paid with this.”

A wave of shock and denial washed over the men. Curses were muttered, angry protests voiced. Each man looked at his neighbor with a new, sharp suspicion. The easy camaraderie of the pre-dawn hours was gone, replaced by a mistrust that was as tangible as the stone tower behind them. Aisling watched from beside Finnian, her heart aching for him. She scanned the faces, searching. She saw anger, fear, confusion. But she didn't know these men, not really. She couldn’t read the subtle tells of their history together. She was still an outsider.

A wiry man with anxious eyes named Declan stepped forward. “It cannot be, Finnian. We are brothers here.”

“And one of our brothers is a Judas,” Finnian countered, his gaze sweeping over every man, missing nothing. “Until we know who, we trust no one completely. We cannot stay. The magistrate will tear this coastline apart stone by stone to find us. He will have bounties on our heads by noon.” He looked at Aisling then, a silent acknowledgment. Her father’s fury would be doubled by her own defection. “We need one last run. A big one. Enough to buy passage, to set every man here up with a new life, far from the King’s reach. Captain Renaud will help, but his price for a voyage to the Americas will be steep.”

“A run now?” Cormac asked, incredulous. “With a traitor in our midst? It’s suicide.”

“It’s our only choice,” Finnian replied. “We do nothing, we’re picked off one by one. We run now, we’re penniless fugitives. No. We do what we do best. We use their greed against them.” His eyes found Aisling’s again, and this time there was a question in them. She understood. He was fighting his battle, and now she had to fight hers.

She stepped forward, the blanket clutched around her, the man’s shirt a flag of her allegiance. The men’s eyes fell upon her, their suspicion now tinged with curiosity. “My father,” she began, her voice clearer and stronger than she expected, “is a man of patterns. Of logic. He believes he is smarter than you because you are… what he is not. Uncouth. Unruly.” She paused, letting the sting of the insult land. “He failed last night because his plan was too simple. He expected you to bring the cargo to the pub. He will not make that mistake again.”

She looked at Finnian. “Where would the traitor tell him you are going next? What is your most reliable cove? Your safest route?”

“Blackwood Bay,” Cormac supplied immediately. “It’s treacherous, but we know the tides better than anyone.”

“Then that is precisely where you will not go,” Aisling said firmly. “The traitor has sold him your strengths. We must use your weaknesses. The place you would never risk a valuable cargo. The place he would never expect you to be.”

A slow smile touched Finnian’s lips, the first genuine glimmer of warmth she had seen on his face since the discovery of the gold. It was a look of profound pride. “The Widow’s Maw,” he breathed. It was a jagged inlet, a ship-killer, a place they used only in the most dire of emergencies for moving a single man, never cargo. It was unthinkable.

“It’s perfect,” Finnian declared, his energy returning, the commander taking over once more. “He’ll have his men thick as fleas at Blackwood Bay, waiting for us. The traitor will confirm it. We’ll send a decoy boat that way. The rest of us will take the longboats to the Maw. Captain Renaud will meet us there at high tide, two nights from now. We’ll load the last of the French silk and brandy. It will be enough.” He looked at his men, his voice a rallying cry. “It’s the most dangerous gamble we’ve ever taken. But it’s for our freedom. Are you with me?”

A hesitant cheer went up, the men’s fear momentarily burned away by the audacity of the plan. They had a purpose again. But as they dispersed to make preparations, the suspicion remained, a foul undercurrent beneath the surface.

The next two days were a blur of strained whispers and frantic, hidden activity. Finnian moved with relentless energy, but Aisling saw the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he watched everyone, trusting no one but her and Cormac. He and Aisling spent the nights in the cramped hut, their bodies finding solace and a desperate, fierce comfort in each other, but their sleep was haunted. During the day, she proved her worth a dozen times over. She knew the patrol schedules her father favored, the formations his soldiers used. She was not a warrior, but her knowledge was a weapon he had never possessed before.

On the second night, a sliver of moon hung in a sky full of cold, indifferent stars. The air was still and frigid. Aisling stood beside Finnian on the headland overlooking the Widow’s Maw. Below, the sea surged into the narrow inlet, crashing against jagged rocks with a sound like breaking bones. It was a terrifying place.

“The decoy is away,” Cormac murmured, joining them. “They’ll be seen approaching Blackwood Bay within the hour.”

“And the trap will be sprung,” Finnian finished. “And our traitor will believe he has won.” He had insisted that every man, himself included, be part of the final run. The traitor had to be among them to be caught.

As they began the perilous descent to the water’s edge, longboats hidden in a sea cave, Aisling felt a prickle of unease. Something was wrong. “Declan,” she whispered to Finnian. “Where is he?”

Finnian scanned the group of men hauling the boats. The wiry, anxious man was gone. A cold dread, sharp and certain, seized Finnian. “He’s not with the decoy crew. He was supposed to be here.”

At that moment, a lantern flared on the opposite cliff of the Maw. It flashed a signal. An answer came from further down the coast. It wasn’t a trap at Blackwood Bay. The decoy was the trap. The real ambush was here.

“He played us,” Cormac snarled. “He knew you’d choose the unexpected.”

Before Finnian could give an order to scatter, a voice echoed from the rocks above them. “Don’t even think of it, Finnian.” Declan stood there, a pistol in his hand, silhouetted against the moonlight. And he was not alone. From the shadows around him, a half-dozen red-coated soldiers emerged, their muskets leveled at the smugglers below.

“Declan! For the love of God, why?” a man in the boat shouted.

Declan’s laugh was a bitter, broken sound. “Love of God? God wasn’t there when my brother took a soldier’s bullet on a run Finnian swore was safe! He spoke of brotherhood, but it was his ambition that killed my kin. His pride!” He gestured with his pistol. “The magistrate offered me more than gold. He offered me vengeance.”

“So you’d see us all hang?” Cormac yelled, his hand inching toward his own pistol.

“Don’t be a fool, Cormac,” Declan warned, his pistol steady. “It’s over.”

From behind Declan’s position, a new figure appeared. Tall, ramrod straight, his face an emotionless mask of authority in the moonlight. Magistrate Blackwood.

Aisling’s breath caught in her throat. Her father’s cold eyes swept over the scene, dismissing the smugglers as mere criminals. Then his gaze landed on her, standing beside Finnian. For the first time, she saw a crack in his iron composure. A flicker of disbelief, of profound, personal pain. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a glacial fury.

“Aisling,” he said, his voice carrying on the cold air, each syllable a chip of ice. “Step away from the traitor.”

Finnian pushed her slightly behind him, his body a shield. “She’s not with you,” he called out.

“She is my daughter! She is blood of my blood! She will be shown mercy for her foolishness,” the magistrate declared. He looked directly at her. “This is your final chance to save yourself from his fate. Come to me. Now.”

This was it. The moment of her final, irrevocable choice. Her past and future stood on opposing cliffs. She looked at her father, the man who represented order and law but whose heart was cold stone. Then she looked at Finnian, the outlaw who had shown her what it meant to be alive, to love with a fierce and untamed passion.

She stepped out from behind Finnian, her head held high. The blanket fell from her shoulders, leaving her in the smuggler’s homespun shirt, a banner of her new loyalty. “No,” she said, her voice ringing with a strength that astonished even herself. “I am not your daughter anymore. My blood may be yours, but my heart, my soul… they are his.”

She saw the finality of her words strike her father like a physical blow. The last flicker of hope in his eyes died, leaving only the chilling emptiness of duty.

“So be it,” he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. “Take them all.”

But Aisling’s defiance had bought them a precious second. And Finnian never wasted a second. As the magistrate gave his order, Finnian let out a sharp, piercing whistle—a signal she had never heard before. In response, a rocket soared into the sky from further out at sea. Not from where they expected Captain Renaud’s ship, but from behind the magistrate’s position.

From the clifftops above the soldiers, dozens of dark figures rose from the gorse and heather—the rest of Finnian’s men, armed and waiting. They had not sent a decoy boat. They had sent a decoy crew on foot, while the bulk of their force circled around, a plan within a plan that only Finnian and Cormac knew.

The soldiers, caught between the sea and a new enemy above, were thrown into confusion. Declan spun around, his face a mask of disbelief. In that moment of distraction, Cormac fired. Declan cried out and crumpled to the ground, his pistol clattering on the rocks.

“To the ship!” Finnian roared, grabbing Aisling’s hand. He didn’t run for the longboats. He pulled her toward a rope ladder she hadn’t seen, hidden against the darkest part of the cliff face, leading to a ledge above. As musket shots echoed through the Maw, Finnian’s men descended upon the soldiers, a chaotic, desperate battle erupting in the moonlight. They weren’t trying to win. They were trying to buy time.

Finnian and Aisling scrambled up the ladder, her lungs burning, her hands raw. Below, the fight was short and brutal. She saw her father, his face contorted in rage, trying to rally his disorganized men. Their eyes met one last time across the chaos. She saw no recognition, no lingering fatherly affection. She was just part of the enemy now. She turned away, her heart breaking and healing all at once, and followed Finnian along the ledge.

They ran, hand in hand, along the cliff path, away from the sounds of the fight. After a mile, they saw it. Anchored in a sheltered, hidden cove, was Captain Renaud’s ship, its sails dark against the sky. A boat was waiting on the shore.

As they were rowed out across the black water, the sound of the battle faded, replaced by the gentle lap of the waves. They climbed aboard the ship, the deck solid beneath their feet. Captain Renaud, a weathered Frenchman with kind eyes, simply nodded. “I had a feeling you would require a swifter departure, Monsieur.”

Finnian clasped the man’s shoulder in thanks. He turned to Aisling as the crew raised the anchor and the sails unfurled, catching the night wind. The ship began to move, gliding silently away from the coast of Ireland, away from the life she had known, from the father she had lost.

She stood at the rail, the salt spray on her face, and watched the cliffs of her homeland recede into a dark line on the horizon. A profound sadness settled over her, for the father she once loved and the life that could never be. But as Finnian came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest, the sadness was eclipsed by a powerful, unshakeable peace.

“Are you sorry?” he asked, his voice a low whisper in her ear.

She leaned her head back against his shoulder, watching the first hints of grey lighten the eastern sky. She thought of the cold, stifling drawing rooms, the empty pronouncements of law, the life that had been a cage of gilded silk. Then she thought of the wild freedom of the cliffs, the warmth of the fire in the hut, the taste of his kiss in the storm. “No,” she whispered, her voice certain. “I have never been less sorry in my entire life.”

He tightened his grip, his lips brushing her hair. “I have nothing to offer you,” he said. “No home. No name. Only a future we have to steal, one day at a time.”

Aisling turned in his arms, her hands coming up to cup his face. She looked into his eyes, grey as the sea at dawn, and saw her entire world reflected there. “Then we shall be the most accomplished thieves the world has ever known,” she murmured, and rising on her toes, she met his lips in a kiss that tasted of salt, and sorrow, and the brilliant, breathtaking promise of the new day rising before them.