The Secrets Of Catie Hazard. Miranda Jarrett

from her stepfather to keep an arm’s distance between herself and men who’d drunk too much, but by edging away from one Sparhawk she’d moved closer to the first, the fair one they were calling Anthony. Before she could protest—before she noticed, really—he’d taken her hand and begun lightly tracing his finger along her bare arm, from her wrist to the inside of her elbow and back.

      “She’s merely displaying inestimable judgment of my true worth, that’s all, cousin,” he said, his lazy, green-eyed gaze never wavering from hers as his touch trailed across her skin. “As well as proving beyond question why the ladies smile more favorably in my direction than in yours. Isn’t that so, pet? Ah, a lass as wise as she is lovely.”

      She knew she should pull her hand free. With any other man, she’d have done so already.

      But not with him. The gentleness of his touch disarmed her, the feather-light caress across her skin leaving her speechless with startled pleasure.

      “Alas, sweet child, I’m not your lordship, or anyone else’s, either,” he continued. “Merely plain Anthony Sparhawk, of Franklin County in Massachusetts Bay, and these two worthless rogues are my cousins Jonathan and Joshua. Your servant, ma’am.”

      “Nay, but I am the one serving you!”

      He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that warmed Catie even over the din of the taproom. “It’s only an expression, sweet. A politely meaningless turn of phrase. Though I’d be most honored to turn the tables—ah, another expression, eh?—for so pretty a serving lass.”

      Confused, Catie looked away, down, as the immaculate linen of Anthony’s ruffled cuff fell across her own red, rough little hand with its bitten nails. It was all nonsense, him calling her pretty and lovely, the sort of claptrap drinking men always said in taverns when the rum was doing the talking. She wasn’t lovely and never would be. But oh, from a man this gentle, this charming, this beautiful, how she wished it were true!

      “’Ere now, Catie, where’s our rum?” demanded an irritated male voice behind her. “Or be you too busy playin’ patty-hand with them fancy cockerels t’ serve us honest laborin’ men?”

      There was nothing gentle about the hand that suddenly snaked around her waist now, yanking her away from Anthony and nearly off her feet. Zeb Harris was a regular customer, a hawser in the shipyard, and he and his four friends all roared with laughter as Catie stumbled, barely catching herself on the edge of their table.

      “Off with you, you little hussy, an’ fetch our rum,” growled Zeb as he smacked her backside. “Else I’ll complain t’ Master Hazard.”

      “Oh, n-no, Zeb, you needn’t do that!” stammered Catie hastily, at once humiliated and contrite and strangely close to tears. “I’ll fetch it right now, I promise. ’Twas wrong to keep you waiting, Zeb, and I vow it won’t happen again!”

      But as she turned to hurry to the bar, she ran instead squarely into the broad chest of Anthony Sparhawk. Lord, she’d no notion he’d stand so tall, nearly a head more than herself.

      “Oh, sir, forgive me, I didn’t mean to—”

      “Hush now, no harm’s done,” he said, smiling as he gently steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “Far mightier foes than you have tried to do me in, and I always prove remarkably hardy. And mind you, no more apologies, either.”

      Mutely Catie nodded. The light pressure of his palms was as oddly unsettling as his fingertips had been on her wrist, yet once again she felt incapable of pulling free.

      “Enough of your dawdlin’, you lazy little hussy!” roared Zeb impatiently. “Now leave your fancy boy be till later, an’ fetch my rum!”

      Catie felt Anthony tense, though his face didn’t lose its smile as he looked over her head to Zeb. “The lady,” he said pointedly, “doesn’t wish to hear your insults, any more than you deserve her attentions.”

      In an instant the taproom fell silent. Every eye was turned toward Catie and the two men, every ear strained to hear Zeb’s reply.

      Zeb shoved back his chair as he rose to face Anthony. “Catie Willman ain’t no lady,” he said belligerently. “She’s a ha’penny rum-shop wench that’s paid t’ do as I say. An’ you’ll keep your fine nose out o’ my say-so, if you don’t want it broken.”

      “Shall I now?” asked Anthony with a mildness that fooled no one. “And here I was going to offer you the exact same advice.”

      Trapped between them, Catie looked frantically from Zeb to Anthony and back again, her hands twisting in her apron as she felt the hostility flaring on either side of her. The two men were matched in height, but Anthony, in his blue superfine jacket and embroidered waistcoat, was a gentleman, and what could such a gentleman know of tavern brawls? Zeb’s muscular arms were larger from toiling in the shipyards than most men’s thighs, and his strength was combined with both a notoriously short temper and a fearsome long knife that everyone in the Crossed Keys knew well to avoid.

      Everyone, that is, except the Sparhawks. The two dark-haired cousins had come to stand behind Anthony, their good-natured drunkenness vanished as they curled their hands into fists at their sides. The tables around them had emptied with an unimaginable speed, with men clambering over chairs and benches to find a safer place—something Catie wished she could do, as well.

      “You must not do this, Mr. Sparhawk,” she said urgently, drawing herself up as tall as she could to appeal to Anthony. “I’m just as Zeb says, a serving lass, nothing more. I’m not worth this!”

      “Hidin’ behind the chit’s petticoats, are you now, my lord?” taunted Zeb, mimicking Catie. “’Feared you’ll soil yourself, are you, my lord?”

      At last Anthony’s smile vanished, his dark brows coming together in a single line as he guided Catie to the side and out of the way.

      “Mind yourself, pet,” he ordered, swiftly shrugging his arms free from his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair. “This will be but the work of a moment.”

      “But Mr. Sparhawk, sir, you’ll—”

      “It’s Anthony, sweet, just Anthony. None of this mistering between us.” The quick, fleeting grin, almost boyish, was for her alone, as was the selfmocking wink. “Not now, and certainly not later.”

      “Anthony, is it?” taunted Zeb, shifting back and forth on his feet in anticipation. “Ah, Anthony’s such a right manly name!”

      From the corner of her eye, Catie saw Ben Hazard come trotting across the room, his round face puckered with anxious concern. No wonder, thought Catie— they all knew how dearly the last fight Zeb began had cost the tavern in broken crockery and chairs. And if the board that granted the keepers’ licences learned that a party of Newport’s finest young gentlemen had been injured here in a brawl, then the Crossed Keys could be ruined forever.

      “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” cried Ben, his hands outstretched in his most conciliatory manner, to include both Zeb and Anthony. “Surely we can consider other, more peaceful ways to settle this dispute, eh?”

      With a frown, Anthony glanced his way, and in that fraction of a second of inattention Zeb lashed out, his huge bunched fist flying through the air so fast that Catie shrieked. But though Zeb was fast, Anthony’s reflexes were even faster. Suddenly Zeb buckled over, his arms flailing ineffectually as he gasped for breath, Anthony standing over him with his legs widespread and scarcely a single gold hair disarranged. With an indignant roar, one of Zeb’s friends seized a spindleback chair and swung it at Anthony, who twisted and ducked as Jon Sparhawk lunged forward. Amid the crash of splintered wood, the three of them toppled to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms and legs, knocking over a table and sending spoons flying and bottles and plates shattering.

      “Catie, here!” shouted Rebeckah, dodging forward to grab Catie’s hand and pull her clear. “Quick now, come with me!”

      She shoved Catie over the counter of the