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straightened her clothing. She bent for the bed warmer, which presented another view of her glorious bottom. She made her way to the door.
    “Talk to the mistress first,” she whispered as she brushed past him.
    “What?”
    “If you ask the reverend, he’ll say no. But the mistress holds no hatred of Anglicans. And if she talks to him on your behalf, he’ll agree to whatever she suggests.”
    “Oh.” Then again when he understood fully. “Oh.”
    An impish grin crossed her face. “Then you may have me all you want, James Bailey.” She pushed past him into the hall.
    James leaned out to stare after her as she lifted her petticoat with one hand and held the smoking bed warmer with the other. She hurried down the hall to the stairs.
    Good Lord, that was a disaster averted. If he’d had her, the girl would have expected him to marry her and seen to it that he’d done so.
    He stripped off his boots, but he’d already changed his shirt and breeches before supper, and he kept them on. He climbed beneath the blankets. The bedding was still warm from Lucy’s work.
    He was too aroused to sleep and could do nothing but listen to the wind howling around the roof until Peter arrived about an hour later. The older man knelt to pray in silence before climbing into bed next to him.
    James sighed. At least the man would help conserve warmth. And yet.
    Blasted Praying Indian. Cursed Reverend Stone. Quakers and Puritans, damn them. Would the heavens really shake if James made Peter swap beds with Lucy Branch?

C HAPTER T HREE
    Prudence Cotton stood in the chilly, moonlit corridor with one hand on the wooden latch to the guest bedroom. Her other hand gripped five sheets of paper, folded and tied with twine.
    She listened. From inside came a gentle snore, followed moments later by a higher whistling sound. When she was certain that the two strangers were asleep, she lifted the latch slowly. It creaked, and she froze, wincing. A snort, a mumble, someone turning.
    When the noise settled, she pushed the door open. The barest stream of moonlight seeped into the room, like a reflection of a reflection. Her eyes adjusted to the dark shapes within. The bed held two lumpy figures sleeping peacefully, not so different from the children tucked into bed down the hall.
    Master Church, an Indian and a Quaker. Master Bailey, some sort of agent or spy from London. One provided spiritual danger, the other carried violence in his posture and had stared at her earlier with lustful intent. Yet thinking of them as sleeping children softened them in her mind. Not Church and Bailey, but Peter and James.
    Prudence peered into the dark corners of the room. There, draped over a chair, James’s cloak.
    She’d gone barefoot to quiet her movements, but the cold planks still creaked with every step. What if James sat up and challenged her in that arrogant tone she’d overheard downstairs? What would she say? Would he wake the house? She was in enough trouble as it was.
    The cloak was like none Prudence had ever encountered. Instead of a single, great pocket on the outside, the inner lining held sewn-up folds of cloth, others with buttons, and even a pocket inside of a pocket. One pouch held a purse, fat with coins.
    Silver was scarce in the colonies. Seemed each time a ship dropped off its goods, every shilling in Massachusetts departed with it. Even her husband had quickly found himself short of silver, although he’d arrived with a small fortune.
    Other pockets held lumpy objects, papers, even rings and medallions. All of it made her burn with curiosity, and she only just resisted the urge to take some of the items with her to examine later. Instead, she found a deep inner pocket, empty, and tucked her papers inside. With all the other things in the cloak, he might not notice it until he was on the road, riding west toward Winton. Good. Then he would take them out and read them when he was long gone from here.
    The men were still sleeping when Prudence