Harriet pulled harder. Still nothing happened.

Sighing, she pushed herself upright, shoving her hair out of her face. Wonderful. She held her hand before her, grasped the ring, and tugged—hard, wincing as she yanked. For a second, she thought it was slipping, but just as it moved, the ring seemed to tighten, to cling to her finger as if hanging on with all its might.

“Piffle!” Harriet said, alarm sifting through her. She rose and went to the washstand, rubbing soap on her finger, then pulling yet again.

Still nothing happened. A half hour later, after much tugging and muttering, Harriet realized the impossible—the blasted ring was stuck. She sat back on the edge of the bed and stared at her reddened finger. The ring didn’t seem too tight. Indeed, it turned easily right where it was. But every time she tried to pull it off, it seemed to tighten as if by—

She curled her fingers closed. “Nonsense,” she said aloud, as if to reassure anyone who might be listening. “My finger must have swollen a bit. That’s all.”

The words comforted Harriet some. That made perfect sense. Still, she couldn’t help but stare down at the runes that collected the light and wonder at the way her life seemed to be going lately. First she’d found the stranger, who had promptly kissed her, followed by Gower’s unexpected declaration, then the “captain’s” infuriating attitude…and now this. Stuck with a strange ring on her finger.

A ring that just might belong to that infuriating jackanapes.

The ring seemed to warm at the thought. Harriet narrowed her gaze at it. “Enough of that.”

She stood. Perhaps Cook would know how to get the blasted thing off. With any luck, a touch of butter would do the trick.

Muttering to herself, Harriet made her way to the kitchen, wondering as she did so where her brothers and sisters were—things seemed strangely quiet. As soon as she got the silly ring off her finger, she’d see what everyone was doing.

Harriet pushed open the door to the kitchen. The warm afternoon light streamed through the open windows and mingled with the scent of dried herbs.

“There ye are, miss!” Cook labored at a large wooden table in the center of the room, flour liberally dusted over her red apron. “I was just thinkin’ bout ye, I was.”

“Were you?” A rich aroma caught Harriet’s attention. “Mmmmm. What is that?”

Cook grinned, jerking her head toward a half dozen steaming pots. “Nothin’ but dinner.”

Harriet counted the pots. Seven. Last night, they’d had mutton stew and peas and some of Cook’s special crusty bread.

But this…it looked as if a feast was in the making. Harriet went to the pots, aware of Cook’s covert gaze.

One after the other, Harriet lifted the lids. The entire kitchen filled with a rich aroma that made her mouth water. “Dumpling stew, roast saddle of mutton with mint sauce, plovers’ eggs in aspic jelly, peas and asparagus—goodness! It’s not Christmas again, is it?”