Nessa could not tell if the heat pooling behind her eyes were tears of frustration or mortification. The charm had failed. Or she had failed the charm. Not that it mattered—either way, she felt wretched.
The day had been a miserable, bitter failure. Mostly.
Because there had also been that kiss.
Or more properly—or improperly—kisses, plural. A long lovely series of kisses that made her breath catch and her belly sigh with pleasure even now, when she knew that Harry was more interested in the free trade and their caves than in her.
Her solitary path along the line of the cliffs toward home brought her near enough to the witch’s cottage that she could not avoid the widow, who stood in her patchy, overgrown garden with her hands on her hips as if she had been watching and waiting for Nessa to arrive.
“Mistress,” Nessa greeted her, for there was no possibility of passing without doing so.
“Well?” The old woman beckoned her nearer. “Are you going to tell me?”
Nessa didn’t want to—it mortified her that anyone might know of her disappointment. But of all the people in Bocka Morrow, perhaps the Widow Pencombe was the one person she might tell without worry that it would be bruited across the village common. “It failed,” Nessa admitted before amending her words. “I failed.”
“What do you mean?” The old woman grew indignant. “Did he not make love to you? For you’ve the look of a girl who’s been kissed long and well—your lips are swollen and your cheek are chafed pink with the fellow’s rough skin and whiskers.”
Nessa could feel her face flame pinker still. “Yes, he did kiss me.”
“Aha!” The witch clapped her hands in glee. “It was a rare, strong charm I made you.”
“Yes, but…”
“But what?”
“He didn’t eat it all. He didn’t like it, the seed cake. It was rather…bitter.”
“Ha!” The old woman cackled. “You didn’t think true love was going to go down easy, did you? You didn’t think you could take the sweet without the bitter?”
Nessa had hoped so. Even if she hadn’t thought it would be easy, she never thought true love would be so hard.
“You young lovers,” the widow complained. “In your own way more often than not. Stop fretting and worrying about what will happen next—it will all come out with the turn of the moon. What is meant to be is meant to be—the charm can only enhance what is already there.”
Nessa hoped there was something there—something beyond curiosity about the smuggling. She turned for home, already making a mental list of all the things she would need to do before supper to keep from the scolding that was undoubtedly waiting for her.
“Miss Nessa,” a voice from the other side of the hedgerow interrupted her thoughts.
It was Cods, the inconvenient curate, hurrying himself away from some unwanted task. “Do I perceive that you’ve just come from the witch’s house?”
As Nessa’s path clearly came directly from the cottage, there was no point in lying. “I have come from the Widow Pencombe’s.”
Cods was instantly all dire apprehension. “You must take care, Miss Nessa. The woman is—”
“Kind. And skilled with herbs,” Nessa finished for him.
“If you are in need of such skill,” he countered, “why do you not visit the apothecary in the village?”
Nessa almost smiled. Clearly Cods had not yet arrived at the realization that the apothecary was run by women very much like the widow, including her niece, Brighid. “Because the Widow Pencombe is poor and has a far greater need of my pennies than the apothecary.”
“She has no claim on your charity,” Cods condescended to instruct. “She does not attend divine services—she is a nonbeliever. Her sort should have been banished from this village long ago.”
“Thank you, Mister Coddington.” In her present state of disappointment, Nessa did not want to parse the meaning or necessity of charity with the curate. “But I would rather err on the side of generosity.”
Cods looked down the length of his nose at her—even though they were of a height and he had to tip his head back to do so. “I had not thought you so ungrateful, Miss Nessa, as to resent a correction from a person with a far greater experience of the world than you. My advice was kindly meant.”
“Mr. Coddington.” Nessa drew herself up stiffly, or as stiffly as possible whilst she was so filled with frustration and disappointment, and probably had hit her head harder than was good for her. “If I have no great experience of the world, perhaps it is because I am forced to copy out sermons when I could be doing something more edifying, if only my father’s curate made time to do his own job.”
Her salvo delivered, Nessa stalked off in a fury of unhappy, burning indignation. But the ridiculous, stupid man did not have the consideration to wait a moment before resuming his own journey toward the manse—he dogged her footsteps all the way home.
It was no wonder she was called into her father’s study within minutes after her arrival. “Oh, Nessa. There you are,” her father said, as if he happened upon her purely by accident, as if seeing her were always surprise. “Mr. Coddington mentioned that he saw you out with young Lord Harry Beck.”
Damn Cods and his nosy, always-in-the-wrong-spot-where-he-was-not-wanted ways—he had seen even more than he had let on. “He is Captain Beck now, Papa. You must be very proud of your former student—he has done very well for himself in his career.”
Her father was momentarily diverted. “Yes. All those maths he was so very good at came in handy in navigation.” He turned to stare out the window and stroke his chin in contemplation, as if he were trying to think of what next to say. “You seem to take a great interest in young Lord Harry.”
“Do I?” She refused to feel guilty. “He is a friend of long standing. As are many of your current and former students.”
“Do you go sailing in Black Cove with all my former students?”
“No. But I used to do.” Before her father had stopped her from most of the teaching—and left her to correcting the improperly taught lessons. “And Captain Beck is just passing a few days’ time in the parish while his father visits Castle Keyvnor.”
“Yes, the reading of the old earl’s will. I imagine I’ll go up myself on the day. I’ve had a notice there’s a small bequest for the church’s roofing fund. But that is neither here nor there.” He pinned Nessa with a look. “I think it best if you watch him—use his fascination for you once again.”
Alarm spread like pinpricks along her skin. “Again?”
“Yes. Keep him out of the way and away from the trade. Just as you used to do.”
Nessa felt as if she had been doused by a cold bucket of shame—she did not know when she had felt so thoroughly and utterly manipulated.
“Watch him,” her father repeated. “But no more—don’t do anything stupid like pine after the man, Nessa. That would never do.” Her father shook his head as if the very idea were preposterous.
Nessa had to agree. It was not only preposterous, but dangerous. Because she knew exactly what pining after Captain Lord Harry Beck had already led to.