Free Crow Hollow by Michael Wallace Page B

didn’t answer, he added, “Those bells weren’t for me, they were for you. I’ll wager you ran off, didn’t you?”
    “I had no choice.” She took a deep breath. “Pray, pardon me. You’re angry, aren’t you?”
    “Not at all. I’m delighted. I thought I’d be traveling all night with this dour Quaker. Now I’ve got a beautiful, charming woman, instead.”
    “If I thought you were serious, I would be highly offended.”
    He laughed. The situation was delightful, or would be, if not for the increased danger he’d put himself in.
    The coach hit a rock and would have thrown them from their seats if they hadn’t been packed in so tightly. Peter let out a small groan as he resettled himself.
    “Are you all right, Master Church?” Prudence asked.
    “Call me ‘friend,’ please. And lying is never right. Let thy language be plain, thy words unadorned and without deception.”
    “No, he’s not all right,” James said. “He’s very ill.”
    “Then why did you take him out?”
    “To save his life. Someone is trying to kill him. Maybe me too.”
    “But aren’t we in danger breathing his bad air?” She stopped. “Wait, what do you mean?”
    “He was fine until we got to Boston. Suddenly, he’s taken ill? I asked in town this evening. There’s no fever in Boston at the moment, no plague or pox.”
    “Maybe he picked it up on the ship and it’s only manifesting itself now.”
    “No. We lost several souls on the journey, but nobody for weeks.”
    “But he’s an Indian,” she protested. “You know how they suffer our ailments.”
    “Ten years in England without so much as a cough, isn’t that right, Peter?”
    Peter groaned.
    “There were two others with him, a Pequot and a Narragansett,” James continued. “They both died in England. But not Peter. He even survived the miasma of London. Then the crossing. Still nothing. So now, we arrive under the Stone roof and twenty-four hours later he’s dying.”
    “Oh, please. Don’t say that. I couldn’t bear it.”
    Prudence fumbled in the dark and a moment later had her cloak off, which she reached over James to wrap around Peter, who slumped against the door on the opposite side of the coach.
    Now she was shivering too. James opened his overcoat and offered to share it with her.
    “No, no, I couldn’t. That’s not proper.”
    “As you wish.”
    “But how will getting him out of Boston save him? If he took bad airs under our roof, it’s in him now. He’ll either fight it off or die.”
    “He didn’t take any bad airs. He’s been poisoned.”
    Prudence stiffened. When she spoke, it was in a low, chilly voice. “You are mistaken, sir.”
    “Give it some thought, you’ll see.”
    “No, it’s impossible.”
    She fell silent after that, resisting James’s attempts to draw her out. So much for his hopes of improved company.
    Peter slipped into a delirious sleep, where he muttered in what must be his native tongue. Once, he said something and Prudence drew in her breath, and James realized that she understood at least some of what the Indian was saying. He wondered how much she’d picked up in her captivity.
    They continued in silence for a good stretch, the coach rattling down the bone-shaking road, a little faster than a man could walk. James tucked his head against his shoulder and tried to sleep. A few minutes later, Prudence slumped against him. She was icy cold and didn’t resist this time when he shared his overcoat with her, making sure not to touch her more than necessary. Silly woman, he should let her freeze if she was that offended by the contact.
    It was after midnight when Woory banged on the door and told James to come out. The coach was stopped, the horses stood blowing and snorting. Woory said they’d hit a deep rut while going up a hill and become stuck. He’d already tried to push, but without success.
    “Can’t scarcely believe you slept through it,” Woory grumbled.
    James climbed over Prudence, who groaned and