The Secrets Of Catie Hazard. Miranda Jarrett

hear more about his father. He’d been only a baby when his parents died and he remembered nothing of either of them. “I want to be like him,” he said wistfully, “’specially if he was like you.”

       Grandfather grunted “Ah, well, Richard was more like your grandmother, small and dark, the way her people were. You’re more pure Sparhawk. The green eyes mark you, lad, like it or not. Cat’s eyes, eh?”

       His smile was bittersweet as he rested his hand on Anthony’s shoulder, the weight heavy, but comforting, too. “There won’t be much I can do for you, Anthony. Your father was my youngest son, and by English law and entail there’s little to come your way.”

       “I don’t care,” said Anthony promptly, and at that moment he didn’t. “I’m a Sparhawk, and that’s enough.”

       Grandfather laughed “A good answer, that. But think well before you make such pledges. My father, and his father before him, were good, honorable men, strong men. There’s a responsibility to being in this family, you know, and it isn’t easy. In this valley, we’ve always been the ones to watch over those who can’t, to guard and treasure what we love most and believe in. Can you understand that?”

       Anthony squinted a little as he looked up at Grandfather. The setting sun was bright around the old man’s shoulders, almost like a halo. “I think I do,” he said slowly. “You want me to help everybody and keep them safe from the French and make sure we all can be free, loyal Englishmen, the same way that you do?”

       Grandfather laughed again, softly, and pride was warm in his eyes. “If you do half that much, Anthony, then you’ll do well indeed. Here, I’ve something for you.” He reached inside his hunting pouch and held out his open hand to Anthony. “A small trinket, I know, a bit of silver I’ve had fashioned for trading with the Abenaki, but still, it might serve as a reminder for you.”

       It was a small silver disc, polished and gleaming against his grandfather’s lined, worn palm. Etched into the silver was a fierce bird with spread wings, perched on a stick or branch and surrounded by tiny stamped hearts.

       “A hawk on a spar,” explained Grandfather as he traced his finger across the design. “A spar’s part of a ship’s mast, you know, or maybe you didn’t. A spar with a hawk. Spar-hawk, eh? There’s a pin on the back, too, so you won’t lose it.”

       Anthony held his breath as Grandfather bent to pin the silver circle to his hunting shirt. He’d never had anything so beautiful or so wonderful in all his life.

       “There now, Anthony,” said Grandfather. “Wherever you go, you look at this and you’ll always remember what we said this day.”

      Anthony slipped his hand inside his cloak and touched the same pin on his waistcoat, there where he always wore it. With time, the silver had grown scratched and flattened, but the magic of that afternoon—and the message—had never dulled.

      To be strong and watch over those who were weak, to guard and protect what he loved and treasured most—that was why he’d become a soldier in the first place, and why, too, he was here now. He must take care to remember that. With Ridley, he had let his reason and his judgment become clouded. He must not let it happen again.

      And yet, strangely, it wasn’t his grandfather’s voice that echoed in Anthony’s conscience now, or the sharp taunts that had come from Ridley, but a softer, more passionate voice.

       You truly have no shame, no loyalties, do you?

      He swore to himself, ordering the woman’s words from his thoughts. But what remained was the woman herself, the way the winter sun had gilded her face as she stood by the window, her bowed head framed by the squares of the panes. Catharine Hazard could deny whatever she wished. He was certain they’d met before, and not just in passing. He thought again of her neat ankles in the colored stockings, and how—

      Abruptly the gelding shied away at the sound of the musket shot, reduced by the wind to a dry, muffled crack, and Anthony pulled hard on the reins to wheel the frightened horse away from the sea. It was then that he heard the second shot, and felt the sharp, sudden bolt of pain rip through his upper left arm. Fifty yards to the west lay the dark shadow of low, scrubby pines, more than enough to shelter a man—or men— and their muskets.

      Anthony swore again, cursing his own carelessness as he struggled to control the terrified horse. He dug his heels hard into the gelding’s sides and bent low over the animal’s neck, striving to make himself as small a target as possible as he raced back toward Newport.

      Not that Anthony expected his assailants to follow. Rebels never did. Yet when at last he reached the town, he felt more relieved than he knew he had any right to, and he didn’t slow the gelding until Hazard’s swinging signboard was in sight.

      The groom was slow coming from the stable, sleepily shoving his shirt into his breeches as he trotted forward to take the reins. Anthony winced as he swung his leg over the horse and slid to the ground, the impact jarring like a bolt straight to his arm. He knew the wound wasn’t a bad one, especially considering what it might have been, but his sleeve was wet and clammy with blood and his knees felt weak, and he prayed he’d be able to walk across the yard to the doorway without keeling over facefirst onto the paving stones.

      Carefully he placed one foot after the other, holding his injured arm beneath his cloak as naturally as he could. If he wobbled now, the groom would merely believe he was in his cups, which was far better than letting the man spread stories about how the redcoat major had been fool enough to get himself shot.

      Anthony gritted his teeth from the effort, his forehead glazed with sweat even on this cold night. He was almost to the back door now, where his manservant, Routt, would be waiting for him in the kitchen. Routt would know what to do; he’d mended far worse than this.

      Inside the kitchen, Catie hurried to the window at the sound of the horse in the courtyard and peeked through the shutters. One flambeau was always kept burning for the sake of any late travelers, and by its dancing light she made out the tall shape of Major Sparhawk as he climbed from his horse. With a self-conscious shake of her skirts, she stepped back from the window and took a deep breath to calm herself. She’d been preparing for this moment all evening. So why, then, was she as nervous as a cat on coals?

      She heard him try the door, discover it locked, swear to himself and knock instead. She almost smiled at that muttered oath, for the very human irritation behind it made him somehow less daunting.

      “Who is it?” she asked. Though she knew full well who was there, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to make him wait that extra half minute.

      “Major Anthony Sparhawk,” he said, his voice rumbling deep through the barred oak door. “Damnation, woman, open the bloody door!”

      This time she frowned, not caring to have the oaths directed at her. It would serve him right if she left him out in the cold all night. But she had her promise to Jon to keep, and, setting her face in a smile she drew the bolt and swung open the door.

      “Good evening to you, Major,” she said pleasantly as he brushed past her with a rush of icy air. “Though, faith, ‘tis well past midnight. Do all you English officers keep London hours?”

      Anthony ignored her, in no mood or condition for banter. “Where’s my man?”

      She closed the door and stood beside it, her hand still resting on the latch. He was hatless, his neat queue torn apart from the wind in a way that left his golden hair loose and wild around his face, dashing and dangerous, enough to make her feel once again like a giddy seventeen-year-old girl.

      What Jon asked of her, she thought woefully, oh, what Jon asked!

      “Your Mr. Routt?” she repeated, as offhandedly as she could. “I sent him to bed.”

      Anthony wheeled around to face her, his long, dark cloak swirling around him. “You’d