Free The Preacher's Bride by Jody Hedlund

his bulging middle and lower half dry.
    “Brother Costin.” The man nodded in greeting.
    “Come in, Brother Muddle.” John backed away and gave the man room to enter. He didn’t know Samuel Muddle well, but the man’s uncle had been a long-standing member of the congregation and had apprenticed Samuel when his parents had died.
    Samuel shuffled through the door and lowered his cape, making a puddle on the floor around him. His eyes sought Sister Whitbread. She met his gaze straightway, but John didn’t see any gladness or eagerness in her expression, such as would befit someone on the verge of marriage.
    “It’s nigh dark.” With one hand Samuel hefted at his breeches, which had sunk low enough that another few inches and they would be slipping all the way to the floor.
    He half hoped they did. Then Sister Whitbread would really have cause to hide her eyes in her apron.
    “With the evening growing late, your father and I began to worry. We thought it best I walk you home. We didn’t want you out alone under these conditions.”
    “Thank you. ’Twas thoughtful of you both.” She reached for a straw hat on the table. “But you shouldn’t have troubled yourself. ’Tis not altogether too late nor the distance too far.”
    “It will not be long until curfew.” Samuel nodded to the gloomy evening outside the door, illuminated by the dim light of John’s candle. “No maiden should be abroad at this hour. It’s not safe. Not in the least.”
    She looked as if she were about to argue with him further, but then she nodded curtly. “Very well.”
    Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a movement in the crack of the parlor doorway. Mary was awake. She had been sharing the room with the babe to tend to his needs at night, whereas he had taken to throwing a pallet on the floor in front of the hearth. The thought of sleeping in the room he had enjoyed with his wife sent him into despair. Letting Mary take over while he slept on the floor had been no hardship.
    Samuel cleared his throat and once more pulled up his breeches. “Brother Costin. I must ask that you allow Sister Whitbread to leave her duties as housekeeper much earlier in the evening.”
    John wanted to say he wished the maiden would leave much sooner too, but he held his rudeness in check. “Methinks I will certainly encourage her to leave earlier from now on.” He raised his brows at her.
    Without breaking his gaze, she put on her hat and began tying it underneath her chin. “Perhaps if Brother Costin will arrive home from his daily absences at an earlier hour, then I’ll be at leisure to depart sooner.”
    Her response was like a well-placed parry. Instead of backing away, she’d deflected his, which only stirred his craving for a battle of words. He stepped forward, ready to place another measured strike. “Thus when I’m late in homecoming, as will occasionally unavoidably happen, perhaps Sister Whitbread shall be all the hastier in taking her leave.”
    He grinned at his quick, witty response.
    Her eyes took on a spark. She too stepped forward, meeting his challenge with a strike of her own. “If Brother Costin is only occasionally late, he would know what his children need without his housekeeper having to stay late to inform him.”
    His grin widened. She was good. Even if arguing with him as her elder and as a man was out of line for a godly Puritan woman, she was adept with her words.
    As if realizing she was overstepping the bounds of respect, she turned and reached for a small jug on the table, but not before he caught sight of the red creeping into her cheeks. “Shall we be on our way, Samuel?”
    Samuel nodded, his mouth agape, as if he had wanted to join in their parley but had not had the slightest chance of getting a word in.
    She trudged to the door.
    “We are agreed, then?” Samuel tugged his dark beard. “You will let her leave earlier from now on—”
    “Of course, Brother Muddle,” John said. “I’ve never prevented