скачать книгу бесплатно
The Secrets Of Catie Hazard
Miranda Jarrett
A Widow With A SecretThough Catie Hazard had never forgotten the youthful soldier to whom she had given her innocence years before, she had never expected to lay eyes on Anthony Sparhawk ever again. Especially not as an officer of an invading army!That he might recognize the country girl from his past, behind the refined widow she had become, was bad enough. But what would happen if the British major ever discovered the daughter she had kept so carefully hidden, with the emerald green eyes of a Sparhawk?
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u5e97fbc0-22ba-55f2-a8df-3529e43de5a1)
Praise (#ud39abe6a-b802-5094-bed1-fca82ac70eef)
Excerpt (#u29fa85f3-fd89-5e3d-9e23-e8459d9e4059)
Title Page (#u21c5500a-7c65-5ffe-8e1e-f6d4321ea3d8)
About The Author (#u7294d679-f9c0-5c51-9948-362992a239e4)
Dedication (#u5558a32f-d3d8-5f65-8583-cf191e75b0cf)
Chapter One (#ubc1cc89f-1616-50b8-a42a-480df62f38eb)
Chapter Two (#u8949e58b-6a8d-5bcf-b690-7cc568ee8686)
Chapter Three (#u8eaa58b9-7c78-5fca-ac22-6e3c65105535)
Chapter Four (#u2e87045c-6cd1-5d3d-8422-e9f226061722)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Further praise for the author—
Sparbawk’s Angel
“Ms. Jarrett successfully mixes genres to bring forth an unusual, delightful, and precious reading experience. 5
s.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“This reviewer can’t wait to see where Ms. Jarrett takes us next!5
s.”
—Booklovers
“Miranda Jarrett performs magic in this very special romance. 4½.”
—Romantic Times
“…lighthearted and utterly charming romance…”
—The Paperback Forum
“…another delightful Sparhawk book…”
—Rendezvous
1996 RITA finalist Reviewer’s Choice Award Winner,
Sparhawk’s Lady
“…a hero to die for and a heroine who is his perfect match. Another keeper.”
—award-winning author Theresa Michaels
“…a splendid story, superbly written. 5*.”
—Affaire de Coeur
One kiss, she told herself.
One kiss to let herself pretend she was seventeen again. She swayed against Anthony as she opened both her lips and her soul to him.
“Catie.”
Slowly she opened her eyes, bewildered and bereft. What would make him stop now?
“Catie, look at me,” he said. “I do not know how it can be possible, and yet it must be so.”
He searched her face, and the first wisp of fear began to curl in Catie’s stomach. “Years ago, the night before I sailed for London, there was a girl I met in a tavern near the water.”
“You are mistaken, sir.” Catie jerked free, her heart pounding.
Relentlessly he followed. “A little serving girl afraid of her own shadow and still unaware of what her pretty face could do to a man.”
“No,” said Catie, her eyes wild as she backed away from him. “No.”
“Yes, Catie,” he said softly. “You are that lass.”
The Secrets Of Catie Hazard
Miranda Jarrett
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MIRANDA JARRETT
was an award-winning designer and art director before turning to writing full-time, and considers herself sublimely fortunate to have a career that combines history and happy endings, even if it’s one that’s also made her family regular patrons of the local pizzeria. A descendant of early settlers in New England, she feels a special kinship with her popular fictional family, the Sparhawks of Rhode Island.
Miranda and her husband—a musician and songwriter—live near Philadelphia with their two young children and two old cats. During what passes for spare time she paints watercolor landscapes, bakes French chocolate cakes and whips up the occasional lastminute Halloween costume.
Miranda admits herself that it’s hard to keep track of all the Sparhawk family members, and she has prepared a family tree to help, including which characters appear in each book. She loves to hear from readers, and if you write to her and enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope, she’ll send you a copy of the family tree along with her reply. Her address: P.O. Box 1102, Paoli, PA 19301-1145.
For Angela, Deborah, Margaret and Karen,
the cream of the crop of the sixth floor,
and most especially for Tracy,
who never believed that Yankee love stories
were an oxymoron.
With much respect and fondest wishes
Au revoir, guys.
Chapter One (#ulink_e3111651-87c7-519d-8bd7-60226194c747)
Newport
Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations
June 1767
All evening long the gold-haired gentleman had been watching her, watching her as surely as a hawk watches a rabbit, and there wasn’t a thing, not a blessed thing, that Catie could do to stop him.
No matter that he laughed at the ribald jests his two friends were telling, or raised his tankard in their noisy toasts, or roared his approval of the blind fiddler’s tunes along with the others crowded into the Crossed Keys tonight. Through it all, Catie felt the man’s green-eyed gaze always on her as she moved among the tables, trailing her, following her, never leaving her for an instant.
And, with all her heart, Catie willed him to stop. Couldn’t he tell she wasn’t like other serving maids? Her kerchief was tied modestly high across her bodice, her hair drawn back tightly beneath her cap. She didn’t whisper her name to the sailors at her tables, and she didn’t make plans to go out walking along the wharf with them in the moonlight. She didn’t squander her wages on strong drink and fripperies like the others, but instead sent as much as she could spare back home to her mother on the farm. She was a good lass, always had been. No one could say otherwise, or accuse her of being bold or slatternly.
Until now.
She swallowed hard and tried to concentrate instead on not dropping the four empty tankards clutched in her hands. Yet still she could not quite look away from the table nearest the fire. In all her seventeen years, she’d never seen a gentleman like this one, with his gleaming blond hair and his even white teeth and the fine linen ruffles at his cuffs, falling just so over his wrists. Not that he was a dandy or a fop. His face was tanned too dark for that, his shoulders were too broad and the hands below those ruffled cuffs too large and strong.
“You can just put your eyes back into your foolish head, Catie Willman,” snapped Rebeckah as she shoved Catie aside at the bar, pushing her tray of empty tankards forward to be filled by the keep first. “Them handsome gentlemen ain’t for the likes o’ you.”
After a year of serving the tables beside Rebeckah, Catie knew better than to try to push her way in front of the older woman, just as she knew she’d waited a moment too long to defend herself.
“A cat may look at a king, Rebeckah. There’s no sin in that.” But even to Catie’s own ears, the retort sounded wistful, not defiant, the way she’d intended, and the nervous little shrug of her narrow shoulders didn’t help, either.
And Rebeckah wasn’t a merciful woman. She squinted at Catie scornfully and laughed, showing the gaps between her tobacco-stained teeth.
“Kings, y’say? Fat lot you know of it, Miss Priss!” she taunted. “Right royal rogues is closer to the truth, come here tonight to take their sport among the common folk, a pox on the three o’ them. Handsome as sin and twice as wicked, and all the gold in their pockets won’t make them Sparhawks better than they are.”
“Sparhawks?” echoed Catie faintly. Even on the backwater farm where she’d been born, they’d heard of the Sparhawk family. The Sparhawks were Newport gentry, shipowners and captains, who lived with their fine, beautiful ladies in grand houses at the other end of town. No wonder she’d never seen the gold-haired man here before. She couldn’t help stealing another glance his way.
But this time he caught her. He cocked his head back a fraction, just a fraction, and smiled, slow and lazy enough to make Catie’s cheeks flame and her mouth fall open in a silent O of amazement.
Rebeckah shoved her again, this time hard enough that Catie nearly dropped her tankards. “I told you to quit your gawking, you silly little cow!”
Catie yelped, her side smarting where the other woman’s elbow had jabbed her. “And I tell you he was the one to stare at me first!”
“You?” Rebeckah’s brows shot up with cruel disbelief. “One of them Sparhawks fancyin’ a rabbity little chit like you? The only man ever looks your way, Miss Priss, is old Ben himself!”
Automatically Catie’s gaze darted to the front hall, where the tavern’s owner sat perched on his tall stool to greet the customers. Master Hazard was old, nearly twice her own age, with wispy auburn hair that trailed beneath his curled snuff wig and hands that always seemed damp when he brushed against her.
“Oh, aye, that’s your admirer,” continued Rebeckah relentlessly, leaning closer so Catie wouldn’t miss a word. “An’ even old Ben only smiles your way on account o’ you being so eager to work yourself to the very bone.”
“That’s not true, none of it!” cried Catie. “And I swear to you, Mr. Sparhawk has been watching me, all night, too!”
But still Rebeckah’s barbs struck painfully close to the mark. Why should she believe what Catie said about the fair-haired gentleman, when Catie could scarcely believe it herself?
Rebeckah’s eyes were glittering with malicious triumph. “Then prove it. Go to him now an’ ask if he wants his glass refilled. If he’s been oglin’ you, he’ll welcome the chance to see you close. Go on, show me.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Catie hastily. “Besides, that’s your table, not mine, and I wouldn’t—”
“Go on, Miss Priss,” goaded Rebeckah. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll cross old Ben. Unless you’re scared. Unless you’re lying.”
Her heart pounding, Catie thumped the empty tankards onto the counter and spun about, her striped petticoat swirling around her ankles. If she hesitated for even a moment, she’d lose her nerve, and she couldn’t afford to do that. Swiftly she threaded her way among the tables and chairs, smoothing her apron with quick, anxious fingers as she went, heading directly to the table where the green-eyed gentleman waited.
He watched her come, his expression remaining almost languidly charming, while her own cheeks grew hotter still. She stopped before him with awkward abruptness, and barely remembered to bob the hint of a curtsy. Her heart was racing, and her mouth was so dry she prayed she’d be able to speak at all.
And at the last moment, to her horror, she realized she couldn’t. She swallowed convulsively, opened her mouth, and nothing, absolutely nothing, came out.
