Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch Read Free

gaze and stepped away.
    A cold smile crossed Pitcairn's lips. He pried Proctor's hand open and pressed the hilt into his palm, then squeezed Proctor's fingers closed around it. The marine with the red whiskers chuckled as he clamped his rough fist over Proctor's hand. The knife edge gleamed in the sunlight.
    Pitcairn licked the blood off his thumb and held his arms open nonchalantly, stepping closer.
    Twisting his head from side to side, Proctor tried to talk through the big Scot's suffocating paw. He tried to push himself away, but his toes barely touched the ground. No jury would convict him for attacking a British officer, not under these circumstances—but he doubted any jury would believe his version of events.
    Pitcairn nodded to his men. The big Scot held him tight as Red-whiskers pulled Proctor's arm back and thrust the blade at Pitcairn's stomach. Proctor struggled to divert it, but the knife was already moving toward the officer's white waistcoat.
    Proctor's forearm felt as if it had slammed into stone. The tip of the blade snapped off, flying away to nick the sleeve of Proctor's jacket.
    Pitcairn stood there with his arms still open, one eyebrow curled up like a question mark.
    Proctor panted through the big hand clamped over his mouth. What had just happened?
    The circle of light glowed at Pitcairn's throat again. Proctor detected the outline of a chain at his neck and a medallion of some sort under his shirt.
    Pitcairn pried the knife out of Proctor's hand and returned it to William. “I'll replace it with a better one,” he promised.
    “There's no need, sir,” William mumbled.
    The big Scot released Proctor from his bear hug and shoved him aside.
    The door opened behind them, and Hannah stuck her head out into the alley. Seeing the expression on Proctor'sface, she glanced quickly up at the marines and said, “Has there been some trouble here?”
    “No, ma'am,” Proctor said. He tugged his coat back into place. “These gentlemen were just giving me a demonstration in the superiority of London knives.”
    She looked puzzled. Major Pitcairn said, “We were trading opinions. We both learned a few things.”
    “As long as all the gentlemen are satisfied and none of the other customers are disturbed,” she said, and then she tossed a plate of bones and garbage over the side of a small fence, where a pig roused itself from muddy slumber and starting rooting through it.
    The door closed behind her. Pitcairn studied Proctor judiciously. “It's essential for you colonials to realize that you can't hurt us.”
    “I had no desire to hurt you,” Proctor snapped. He would have added
before
, but he was still shaky.
    “You're full of spirit, but that spirit ought to be aimed against the French and Spaniards and other godless papists, not against your fellow Englishmen.”
    “My father fought against the French in the last war,” Proctor said. “We're not afraid of a fight.”
    “Don't be so eager for one either,” Pitcairn replied. “You are fools to think that you're better off without the empire. Spread that word among your fellows.”
    The big marine shoved Proctor aside, and the four of them peeled away to exit through the gate. Proctor turned away to go inside when a hand gripped his arm. It was William, the young officer, and he held his other hand open in a gesture of peace.
    “The knife was just tinfoil,” he whispered.
    Proctor snorted in disbelief. “Tinfoil?”
    “Yes, that's all,” he said. “A joke, no harm done.”
    Proctor shrugged his arm free from William's grip. “No, no harm done.”
    “We're all one people, Englishmen, no matter which side of the ocean saw our birth. There's no need for us to start fights with one another.”
    For people who didn't want a fight, they did an awful lot of provocation. “I don't recall starting anything,” Proctor said. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”
    His blood was still racing as he returned to the coffee-house, squeezing up against the wall to