The Candle at Fairlight Cove. The Winchelsea Veil, #1

Fairlight Cove, October 1818The lantern swung wildly in the wind, its flame guttering as the French cutter lurched toward the rocks. The sea roared like a living thing, black and furious beneath the moon. On the cliff above, three men held their breath, their false beacon glowing like a wicked star."Steady, " one whispered. "She's coming in."Below, the ship's crew shouted in French, their voices thin against the storm.
The cutter struck the rocks with a sickening crack. Wood splintered. Men tumbled into the churning water. On the shore, smugglers surged forward, dragging crates and barrels across the shingle. Tobacco. Wool. Rum. The night was chaos - shouts, splashes, the thunder of hooves as customs men charged down the slope. Samuel Larkin stumbled across the beach, searching the shadows."Thomas!" he shouted. "Thomas, stay in bed, lad! Stay home!"But the wind swallowed his voice.
A small figure appeared at the edge of the rocks - barefoot, shivering, eyes wide with fear."Dad?" Thomas whispered. Samuel saw him too late. A horse reared. A lantern swung. A scream tore through the night. And the sea, indifferent as ever, swallowed the sound.