Miranda Jarrett - The Secrets Of Catie Hazard

“I do not—”

“No, you do not and you did not,” she said sharply, her eyes flashing. “Or will you pretend that you didn’t know your uncle was on your general’s list of rebels to be taken prisoner? At least his true friends saw to it that he escaped in time, he and Mistress Sparhawk and their last daughter Rachel. At least now they’re safe from you.”

Anthony listened, considering how much of her raving to believe. In Boston and on Long Island he’d seen himself how cunning the rebels could be at manipulating emotions with half-truths for their own purposes, and Mrs. Hazard could well be doing exactly that

He had not heard from his uncle or his cousins for years, but given the mails between old England and new, that was hardly unusual. As soon as he learned that the regiment was bound for Newport, of course he’d thought of his relatives there, but it was inconceivable that a gentleman as intelligent and respected as his uncle Gabriel would have let himself be swayed to support treason.

For whatever reason, then, the Hazard woman was lying. But what the devil did she hope to gain by doing so?

“My uncle and his family would never have cause to fear me,” he said, carefully watching Mrs. Hazard’s face. “He must know that, but if you tell me where I might find him, I’ll be happy to reassure him and my aunt myself.”

Instantly the woman’s face shuttered against him. “Forgive me, Major Sparhawk, but in truth I cannot say.”

“Cannot,” he asked, “or will not?”

“Either one amounts to much the same thing, doesn’t it, Major?” She smoothed the sleek wings of her hair with her fingertips, making sure no loose strands trailed from beneath her cap. “Now, if there’s nothing more you’ll be requiring from me, I have other matters to tend to.”

She left him by the window, her head bowed to avoid meeting his eyes as she began to close the door after her.

“One last question, Mrs. Hazard,” called Anthony, and reluctantly she looked back. He smiled slowly, almost teasingly, holding her attention for a fraction longer than was necessary.

“Mrs. Hazard, ma’am. You’ve been so good as to house my men in your attic and my junior officers in your lesser rooms, and you’ve been especially kind to grant me this splendid chamber for my own use. But where, ma’am, will that leave you to lay your own weary head this night?”

“Your concern touches me, Major Sparhawk. Where shall I sleep?” She smiled with an insolence that challenged his own. “In my own bed, behind a locked door, with a loaded musket on the pillow beside me. Good day to you, Major. And may the devil rot your red-coated soul in the black hell you deserve.”

The door clicked shut, and Anthony smiled. If she wanted a battle from him, then a battle she’d get. He’d make her his second, more personal, Rhode Island campaign, another chance to subdue another rebel. And before he was done, he meant to make her surrender every bit as complete.

An hour later, her heart still beating too fast, Catie watched from the window of her bedchamber as Anthony Sparhawk finally left the tavern with two other officers, his unpowdered golden hair gleaming in the moment before he settled his hat. With a muffled groan, Catie closed her eyes and sank into the nearest chair, and wondered at the impossibly cruel trick that fate had played upon her.

At least she’d had some warning from the young lieutenant. If she’d walked into the front room to find him there without it, she felt sure, she would have fainted dead away from the shock. He was, if anything, more handsome than she’d remembered, his face more ruggedly masculine, and the easy, inborn charm that had been her undoing so long ago was there still, too.

A week ago, she would have laughed at anyone who told her that Anthony Sparhawk would come back into her life. Didn’t she have more than enough Sparhawks in it already?

It was Gabriel Sparhawk who had long ago loaned Ben the money to buy Hazard’s, with the stipulation that the tavern serve only Sparhawk rum, and even after her husband paid back the debt, Gabriel had remained involved with the business as a silent partner. After Ben’s death, Catie had come to regard Gabriel as a friend, as well, a trusted and powerful business advisor who helped make certain she could keep the tavern in her name. With his support, she’d been able to prosper where most other widows would have foundered and failed.

But she’d gained more than mere bookkeeping from the Sparhawks. Through the example of the old captain’s wife, Mariah, Catie had learned to speak and act like the gentry, and to match her manners and clothing to theirs. Soon more and more of the tavern’s customers had been gentry, as well, drawn by curiosity and the Sparhawks’ recommendations and won by Catie’s hospitality.

Yet not once in all that time had either Gabriel or Mariah mentioned a nephew named Anthony, and Catie had secretly rejoiced. It made perfect sense: Anthony had chosen to be a soldier, and soldier’s lives were notoriously short.

But not, it seemed, short enough. What were the phenomenal odds that Anthony Sparhawk’s regiment would be among those sent to subdue the American colonies, and then, even more unlikely, one of the three sent to invade Newport? Before this, the island had been considered impregnable, protected by nature and defended by the fort on Goat Island, and no one had seriously thought the British would even attempt to take the best harbor in New England.

But dare they had, and, worse yet, they’d succeeded, and now here she was, with Anthony Sparhawk beneath her roof. Once before, he’d come close to ruining her life, and now—Lord, he could bring her whole careful world crashing down around her.

With trembling fingers Catie unfastened the locket from her bodice and opened it. Inside one half lay curled a wisp of her daughter’s silvery baby hair, tied with a red thread, while on the other was the portrait Catie had had painted of Belinda two years ago, on her fifth birthday. The artist had perfectly captured the little girl’s serious smile and the wide green eyes that looked upon the world with a wisdom beyond her years.

So much like her mother, everyone said, the very image of Catie. Ben had always laughed and said what a blessing it was that his darling Belinda hadn’t favored her father instead.

But Belinda did favor her father, thought Catie miserably. Lord help them both, she did, more than anyone could ever have dreamed possible.

“Mrs. Hazard, there be—Oh, forgive me, mistress, but the door was open.” Self-consciously Hannah ducked her head, giving Catie time to compose herself. Hannah had worked for Ben Hazard long before he hired and then wed Catie, and the older woman’s cookery was one of the main reasons that he had prospered.

“No harm done, Hannah,” said Catie as she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron and forced herself to smile. “’Twas my fault, leaving the door ajar like that. With all these wretched Britishers underfoot, I’ll have to change my ways, won’t I?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Hannah with obvious relief. Though she was at least thirty years Catie’s senior, Catie was the mistress, and mistresses were supposed to be the strong ones that everyone else depended upon.

But where, thought Catie unhappily, was she supposed to turn for comfort?

“Yes, indeed, Hannah,” she said, closing the locket with a soft click to repin it to her bodice. “There are many things that must change, whether we wish them to or not.”

Hannah’s glance followed the locket. “You’re fretting over your little girl, aren’t you?” she said sympathetically. “I’m sure Miss Belinda’s worrying over you, as well. But you did right to send her away, mistress. A house full o’ rough men’s no place for a sweet angel like Miss Belinda.”