Free The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Page A

she was not alone in knowing him to be dangerous. Even so, she could not help herself bridling at the young man’s presumption that she should do as he said.
    ‘Why, thank you kindly for you advice, but I am afraid of no man.’
    ‘I did not think for one moment that you were,’ said William.
    *   *   *
    Later that same afternoon, Bess took Margaret down to the shore to collect shellfish. They descended the twisting path from the cliff top and stepped onto the beach. The tide had turned an hour before so that the rocks were pooled with water and bristling with all manner of crustaceans. Bess and Margaret unbuttoned their boots and left them on a dry rock. Margaret’s feet slapped onto the wet sand as she ran ahead, a soft breeze tugging at her braided hair. Bess followed her sister, basket in hand, stooping to fish cockles and whelks from the pools. Above them, gulls swooped low, raucous and bold. One or two alighted on the beach and hopped after the girls to see what might be had.
    ‘Look! Bess, a crab. A great big one!’ Margaret stood knee-deep in a pool, snatching at the sandy water she had stirred up in her excitement.
    ‘Be still, Margaret, he will hide from you in all that caddle.’
    Bess quieted the girl and they peered into the settling water.
    ‘I see him!’ Margaret was irrepressible. She began to laugh and soon had Bess giggling loudly too. Both girls squealed as they splashed their hands into the pool after the crab. Margaret squealed even louder when she caught it. Bess plucked it from her and dropped it into her basket.
    ‘I’m going to find another!’ sang Margaret as she danced on to the next pool, her waterlogged shift and skirt clinging to her skinny little legs.
    Bess straightened and watched her go, enjoying the leisure and simple happiness of the moment. The beach was long and wide, a tawny crescent stretching as far as Batchcombe Point. On the other side of the promontory, the beach changed. A strange combination of tides and currents and layers of rock decreed that beyond Batchcombe the beaches in the area were not of sand but of smooth pebbles, large ones at the near end, each bigger than a goose egg, dwindling to sandy-colored damsons a mile farther on. Bess let the hissing of the lapping waves lull her into a gentle daydream. She noticed something now, at the far end of the beach, just at the water’s edge. It was a dark shape, too distant to be clear. As she watched, she could see that the shape was moving slowly toward her. She half closed her eyes, shading them with a hand, straining to focus. Now she could see it was a figure. A man, dressed in dark clothes with a wide-brimmed hat. He walked with purpose but seemed barely to advance across the wet sands. Bess heard Margaret chattering behind her about tiny fish, but she felt compelled to watch as the man drew slowly, slowly closer. She could not be certain, but she believed she knew who it was. The somber clothes, the tall stature, the methodical, assured movements. It was Gideon Masters. What could he be doing here on the beach? He had no basket or fishing rod. Bess could not imagine him a man to wander idly by the sea. He continued his approach, so that she began to make out his stern features and realized he was looking straight at her. She was transfixed. She licked her dry, salty lips and noticed that her breath had shortened. She remembered what William had said. Something bad in that man. Was that why she felt like this?
    ‘Bess, come here, help me catch these little fish. Daddy will be so pleased! Bess, come now!’
    Bess tore herself from the object of her fascination, turning to answer her sister.
    ‘A moment, Margaret, don’t frighten them away before I get there.’
    She peered back down the beach, part of her hardly daring to look, expecting to see Gideon only paces away. But he had gone. The beach stretched out empty before her. Empty and undisturbed. She ran forward, searching the sand for footprints, but