Miranda Jarrett - The Secrets Of Catie Hazard

“Sir,” said Anthony. It was the only possible answer.

“Sir yourself, man, and listen to me.” Impatiently he drummed his thick-knuckled fingers on the top of the desk. “You know I trust you, Sparhawk. You’ve been with me for more years than I care to count, damn me if you haven’t, by my side through all the worst of this wretched campaign. Breed’s Hill, Long Island, especially that miserable showing at Lexington—not once have you given me cause to doubt your loyalty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Anthony stiffly, already guessing what was coming. “Thank you, sir.”

“Why else d’you think I’ve made you my adjutant here, eh? But there’s plenty of others here who say otherwise, and I can’t say I fault ‘em for it.” He leaned forward, his gaze shrewdly appraising. “You don’t want me in this house, do you, Major? You’re thinking I don’t belong here. You’re thinking I’m taking the place of that blackguard uncle of yours, and you’re thinking of him instead of your king.”

“But, sir, I can—”

“No, sir, you hear me out,” ordered Ridley, each word crackling with authority, and antagonism, too. “I was sent here to put down this rebellion, and I mean to do it. But, by harry, how can I be expected to subdue these damnable colonials when I’ve someone who sympathizes with the bloody rascals in the fore of my own regiment, eh?”

Anthony inhaled sharply. “Are you challenging my honor, sir, or my loyalty to my king?”

“What, and have it said that I’d called out one of my own officers?” retorted Ridley. “I’m too clever for that nonsense, Sparhawk, and so are you. But what else will people think, eh? This town as much as belonged to your people, scoundrels that they are, yet you turned your back on them as pretty as kiss-myhand. Who’s to say you won’t do the same to us in return?”

Anthony lunged forward, the rank between them forgotten as his long-simmering temper finally boiled over, and he struck his fist down hard on the desk, inches away from the general’s face. “ I say it, and to hell with the man who dares say otherwise!”

“How dare you—”

“Sweet Mary, Ridley, if you slander me and then can’t explain your meaning any better than that, then I—”

“Remember yourself, Sparhawk!” barked Ridley. “At once, sir!”

The order shattered Anthony’s anger, years of training racing to silence him. Orders were to be obeyed; every good soldier knew that.

So what the devil was he doing now? Two steps behind him the general’s sentries had rushed through the door with their muskets raised, the gleaming barrels aimed at him, at him, and in that horrible moment he realized how close he was to facing a court-martial and the end of everything he’d worked so hard for.

Breathing hard, he jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned and shook his head in disbelief, appalled by what he’d done. Once again he’d lost control. To threaten his superior before witnesses, to raise his voice and bellow like a madman—for the sake of this one insane minute, his career might be over and done, and his life with it.

He drew himself up as tall as he could, his eyes staring impassively ahead. “Forgive me, sir. I do not know what came over me, but I give you my word that it will not happen again.”

“The devil it won’t.” Furiously Ridley glared at Anthony as he waved the sentries from the room. “Your unforgivable behavior here only proves that I’m right to doubt your allegiances.”

“But sir, I assure you that—”

“I want none of your assurances, Sparhawk,” snapped the general, his face purple above his neckcloth. “I want your loyalty. Now you watch yourself, watch every last bloody step you take. Because I’ll be watching, too, and next time, an outburst like that will break you. Do you understand me, Major Sparhawk?”

“Perfectly, sir,” said Anthony, and this time, when he bowed to take his leave, the general didn’t stop him. “Good day, sir.”

But instead of feeling relief at having escaped the punishment he deserved, Anthony continued to smolder with anger as he stalked through the still-empty streets. By the time he reached Hazard’s, he felt close to strangling with blind fury and frustration. The winter sun had set, and supper, such as it was, would be served soon, but the very notion of sitting down to dine with the other officers was more than he could stomach. Instead, he turned to the stable in back, ordering the black gelding that he’d brought from Boston to be saddled.

“Now what shall I fetch for the others. Major?” asked the groom, trying to look around Anthony and out the door into the yard. “How many more do you reckon be riding wit’ you?”

Anthony swung himself up into the saddle. “There are no others,” he said, gathering the reins in his fingers. “I’ll be riding alone.”

The man stared up at him, openmouthed with surprise. “Alone, sir?”

“Alone,” repeated Anthony curtly, and turned the gelding’s head toward the street.

He understood the groom’s surprise. He carried no weapon beyond his dress sword, and even half-hidden by his cloak, his uniform coat, glittering with lace and polished buttons, would stand out wherever he went. For him to travel unattended on this island was risky enough; to do so after dark was madness. But tonight Anthony was mad, or close to it, and as soon as he reached the edge of town he let the gelding have his head, urging the horse to race wildly into the darkness.

He headed south, then west, following the curve of the coast as the road became little more than a worn path. The way hadn’t changed over the years, and he followed it effortlessly, without having to consider his route. Overhead, pale clouds scudded across the stars and the silver moon in the icy-clear winter sky. The wind was cold here, near the sea, as cold as it had been when they landed, two days before, but tonight Anthony scarcely felt it.

At last he came to the last of the land, a rocky outcropping called Damaris Point, jutting into the sea, and he jerked the tired horse to a halt. Here he was alone; here, at last, he could think.

Damnation, he was English. How could the general say otherwise? Since he left the colonies, he’d come to think and act and feel like a true English gentleman, one born in London’s shadow, instead of in a house of peeled logs on the banks of the Connecticut River. He had learned to prize the neat, well-drilled precision of a line of soldiers in battle over the strike-and-run Indian fighting he’d practiced as a boy. He had put aside the rough ways of the frontier and instead perfected the hard-edged confidence of an officer in the most powerful army in Europe. His honor was his guide, his king his master, and in his well-ordered London world, that had always been everything.

Yet he was still a Sparhawk, too. He couldn’t deny that, either. Staring out beyond the rocks and waves, Anthony pulled off his hat and stuffed it beneath his coat, letting the salt-filled wind from the water whip against his face and clear away the confusion in his thoughts.

Of course he’d been shocked by the news of his uncle’s treachery. How could he not have been? In those early, homesick years, he’d written to his Newport relatives as often as he could, whenever he heard of a ship bound for the colonies. But because he moved so often with his regiment, he had had no permanent address of his own where they in turn might write to him. Without replies, his own correspondence had dwindled and then finally stopped. Otherwise, he might have known of his uncle’s dangerous inclinations, and wouldn’t have been taken so completely by surprise.

Aye, surprise, that was it. His uncle’s decision to embrace the traitors’ cause was unfortunate, even lamentable, considering it had brought about his ruin, but that was no reason for Anthony to destroy himself, too. His duty was to protect the decent, loyal subjects of the king and to subdue the rascals who’d broken the peace of the land. If that included his uncle, then so be it. His duty to the crown must come first, and the rest would follow. That was what his grandfather had taught him so long ago, and his grandfather had always been right.