Traitor to the Crown The Patriot Witch Read Free Page A

let another man pass on his way to the privy. He threaded his way through the crowd and returned to the table where Emily sat alone.
    “Where were you so long?” she asked. “And what's the matter? You look upset.”
    He slid into his seat. “I'm fine.”
    She reached under the table, her fingers finding his hand. He was looking over his shoulder at the back door when he felt her give his hand a little squeeze. “I think Daddy likes you,” she said.
    “Of course he likes me.”
    He had answered more than half distracted, still trying to understand what he had just witnessed. He realized he'd made a mistake the instant Emily's hand yanked free of his. She pushed her chair back and sat up straight.
    “It's nice to see that you're not
too
full of yourself,” she said. “Humility is such a rare trait in young men.”
    “I'm sorry, Emily, it's just … just …”
    “Just what, Mister Brown? Spit it out.”
    “It's just that it wasn't a tinfoil knife.” There. He'd spit it out.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The knife that British marine had, it wasn't tinfoil.” It had nothing to do with the knife, Proctor realized. Major Pitcairn had been wearing a protective charm about his throat. That's what Proctor had seen. It shone actively anytime the major was threatened, even by so little as a bump in the street. “It was magic.”
    “Magic?” Emily's face was puzzled, as though she were trying to figure out if he was joking.
    Proctor opened his mouth, but no explanation formed on his lips. He'd said too much.
    “Hannah said she saw you talking to Major Pitcairn,” Rucke interrupted, returning to the table with a plate of roasted chicken, which he thumped down on the table. “Dig in. She thought there might have been a problem, but I see that you're fine.”
    “I bumped into the major again,” Proctor said. “We talked about London and steel.”
    “Good.” Rucke squeezed his large body into his seat. “That's a smart lad. Always make use of all your connections. If you can sell beef to the beefeaters, you're well on your way to making your fortune.” He cleared his throat. “Emily tells me you serve in the colonial militia.”
    “Not just the militia, Daddy, but the minutemen,” Emily said. Though her voice was cooler than it had been before.
    “I don't understand the difference,” Rucke said.
    “The minutemen are required to do additional training,” Proctor explained. “We have to be able to scout trails, run longer distances, reload and fire faster. And we have to be ready to fight at a moment's alarm.”
    “It sounds like the sort of foolishness that takes time away from honest work,” Rucke said. “And it's the kind of thing that the rabble-rousers in this colony—Otis, Adams, Hancock, their sort—are using to raise up the folks against the royal governor. I'm concerned that you would be part of that, Brown.”
    Though she sat perfectly primly, Emily pressed her toe against Proctor's foot to let him know this was an important question to her father.
    Proctor pulled a drumstick off the chicken, tearing off a piece of the meat. “My father served in the militia, duringthe last war with the French and their Indian allies. They didn't have the minutemen then, but he was a ranger, which is similar. If I'm going to do anything, I want to do it to the best of my abilities, just like he did. And he'd be disappointed in me if I didn't do my duty to the colony as he had done. So that's one reason.”
    “And the other?” Rucke asked, following Proctor's example and tearing off the other drumstick.
    Proctor put the meat in his mouth and chewed it a moment to give himself time to think. He swallowed, saying, “All the men in my community belong to the militia. Not just in Lincoln, but in Concord and Lexington, and all the towns around. So it's a great means to reinforce connections. That's how I came to find out that old man Leary was interested in selling his farm.”
    Rucke chewed on his own