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“Good day to you, lass,” he said, saving her from herself without a hint of mockery. “Or good evening, considering the hour.”
“Whichever Your Lordship wishes,” she said, finally finding a reedy, breathless voice to pass as her own. “That is, in truth it’s night, but if it pleases you to call it day, then so it is.”
She hadn’t thought it possible to blush any deeper, but after that half-witted speech she found she most certainly could, sinking deeper into mortified misery as her whole face burned, clear to the tops of her breasts.
But still he didn’t tease or ridicule her. Instead he merely nodded, the lazy smile that curved his lips meant for her alone. “What an agreeable creature you are,” he marveled softly, “willing to turn night into day and back again merely because I wish it”
“Aye, Your Lordship.” She wasn’t sure what else was proper. This close to the firelight, his eyes were greener than she’d realized from across the room, shadowed beneath the sweep of his lashes—green cat’s eyes, and she the little mouse with the racing heart, caught in their spell.
“Might I bring Your Lordship more rum?” she asked at last, struggling to return the conversation to the more usual topics. Surely she’d convinced Rebeckah by now. The sooner she left this table, the better. “Or is it something finer Your Lordship’s drinking this night?”
“‘Your Lordship?’” repeated the next man at the table, one of the two younger, black-haired, and quite drunk Sparhawks. “Your ruddy Lordship? Damnation, Anthony, no wonder you’ve been eying this wench all evening!”
Instinctively Catie moved back. Long ago she’d learned 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 bar and scrambled after her, slamming the grate back down for extra protection.
“Zeb and the others will kill those gentleman, I know it!” cried Catie as she and Rebeckah crouched together on the floor behind the bar, listening to the barrage of oaths and grunts and breaking wood.
“Nay, they won’t, not by half.” Unperturbed, Rebeckah eased the cork from the bottle of brandy she’d filched from the bar and drank deeply. “Gentry or common-bred, most men be the same as curs in the street when it comes to a good scrape.”
“But they’re—”
“No, they ain’t,” said Rebeckah flatly. “I told you them Sparhawks’d come down here for a bit o’ sport, an’ by Mary, they found it with Zeb an’ his lads.”
Unconvinced, Catie wrinkled her nose and tried not to imagine what was happening to Anthony Sparhawk’s beautiful face. She’d seen too many fights not to.
Rebeckah cackled and poked Catie in the side. “But what the devil were you about, setting that gentleman off like that?”
“I did no such thing!” said Catie indignantly. She shielded her head with her arms as an empty bottle struck the grate above them and bits of slivered glass showered down. “I only went to that table because you dared me! You saw how it was!”
“Oh, aye, else I never would have believed it. Plain Miss Priss teasin’ them Sparhawks into takin’on Zeb.” Rebeckah shook her head as she took another long swallow of the brandy, then frowned as she cocked her head toward the door. “There come the watchmen. That’ll put an end to th’ sport for tonight, and us left to do the tidyin’.”
At the sound of the harsh wooden rattle carried by the night watch, the sounds of the fight abruptly ended, replaced by running footsteps and shouted warnings as the combatants—and the customers—fled. Quickly Catie rose to peek through the grate, eager to see how Anthony had fared.
“That pretty man be long gone,” said Rebeckah, rising more slowly as she recorked the brandy and slid it into her pocket with a fond pat. “Nor will he show his face round here again. His sort never do. Nay, by morn he’ll forget he was even here, save for the bumps an’ scrapes.”
Forlornly Catie saw that Rebeckah was right. The taproom was empty, the floor littered with splintered furniture, puddles of spilled drink, and smashed dishes. Even the tavern’s most prized possession, the colored engraving of the king, swung crazily from its single nail over the fireplace. Catie tried to tell herself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t matter, but, miserably, she knew she was lying.
“Best forget him, same as he’s done with you,” advised Rebeckah philosophically. “Besides, you’re headed for trouble enough. Here comes ol’ Ben, an’ he don’t look pleased.”
One look at Ben Hazard’s furious face, his cheeks livid and his thin lips pressed tightly together, and Catie knew with a sinking feeling that Rebeckah was right once again.
“Rebeckah, go to the kitchen and fetch cloths and pails to clean up this wretched mess,” he ordered with an angry flick of his hand. “Nay, Catie Willman, you stay. I’ve words to say to you.”
With obvious relief, Rebeckah scurried off, leaving Catie to face Ben’s wrath alone. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, sir,” she began uneasily, “and if that’s what—”
“For God’s sake, girl, have you no wits?” With disgust he pulled off his wig and slapped it on the counter. “This—this shambles is the least of my trouble this night! I thought we had an understanding, Catie.”
“An understanding, sir?” said Catie faintly.
“Aye, Miss Cate, and don’t pretend we didn’t. Before this, I’d believed that by your interest in this trade and your willingness to work at it you would be equally willing to share the profits, as well as the toil.”
“Forgive me, Master Hazard, but I do not—do not follow you.” It was exactly, horribly, as Rebeckah had predicted, the only role for plain, dutiful Catie Willman.
Ben sniffed and scowled and twisted his mouth to one side. “How can I make it more clear, Catie? A tavern needs a woman’s eye to make it respectable and prosper, and I judged you able to fill that role. I’ve grand plans, Catie, enough to make us both proud. But the wife of a tavern owner must be a sober, hardworking woman, and after tonight—”
“The wife?” repeated Catie, her voice turning suddenly squeaky. “But you haven’t asked for me, any more than I’ve agreed to accept you!”
“If I haven’t spoken before this, it was because I did not feel such idle words were necessary between us.” Impatiently he thrust his fingers through his wispy hair, still matted flat by his wig. “Be honest, Catie. What better offer are you likely to have?”
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. If she was honest with herself, the way Ben asked, then she’d have to admit that his offer was a handsome one, a chance to improve her station far beyond what she’d dreamed when she ran away from her stepfather’s farm.
Yesterday, even this afternoon, Ben’s offer would have been enough. But that would have been before she heard the sweet, empty praise of Anthony Sparhawk, and discovered how much her poor, parched heart ached to hear such words again, sweet words meant for her alone.
And with no answer she could bring herself to speak, she turned and fled. She ran through the taproom and the kitchen and out the back door to the yard, and she didn’t stop until she reached the well, to lean against the rough bricks.
She didn’t want to be sober and plain and capable, and she didn’t want to work her life away as Ben Hazard’s wife. She was only seventeen, and she wanted to be pretty and merry and praised by a gentleman with golden hair and red silk flowers on his waistcoat. She wanted—oh, Lord help her, she didn’t know what she wanted, and with a muffled sob she buried her face against her forearm.
“Did they blame you for that foolish row, pet?” asked Anthony softly. “’Twas hardly your fault that we Sparhawk men regard such scrapes as entertainment.”
Startled, Catie swiftly raised her head. He was standing there in the shadows on the other side of the well, his jacket and waistcoat gone, one sleeve of his fine linen shirt torn in a strip from the shoulder.
“Mr. Sparhawk!” Self-consciously she rubbed away her tears with the heel of her hand instead of taking the handkerchief he offered. “Oh, dear Lord, look at you! Are you hurt? I can take you into the kitchen and—”
“No, lass, I swear I’m none the worse for wear.” He stepped into the moonlight to show he’d no hideous bruises or blackened eyes. “And for the last time, it’s Anthony, not Mr. Sparhawk.”
“Anthony, then.” She frowned and clucked her tongue with dismay. “But look what’s become of your beautiful clothes!”
“Ha! Old rags, not to be missed.” Dramatically he held his arms out straight at his sides so that the tattered fabric fluttered in the breeze. “You know, I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
She hoped the shadows hid her flush of pleasure. He had come back, no matter what Rebeckah said, and he’d come back to see her. “Why did you take my side against Zeb?”
“What, because you’re a serving girl in a sailors’ tavern?” He let his arms drop back to his sides and walked around the well to join her. “Ah, that you must blame on my grandfather’s teachings. His own chivalrous inclinations were wonderfully universal, an indubitable doctrine I espouse as my own, as well.”
To her shame, she hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d just told her. Such grand language the gentry used!
“But why?” she asked hesitantly, praying another question would not displease him. “Why me?”
“Because I wished it, pet. Because you’re fresh and pretty, with marvelous, solemn eyes that shine like polished pewter.” He was studying her intently, almost frowning, like an artist composing a painting. “You color most charmingly, too, you know, especially by moonlight.”
“But I’m not pretty,” she protested. “It’s very gallant of you to say that foolishness about my eyes, but I know they’re just gray, just as I know my face is too round and my hair’s drab and straight. I know I’m plain. Everyone tells me so.”
“Then everyone may go to the devil.” Gently, easily, he drew her close, guiding her arms around his waist. “Someday you’ll be more beautiful than all of them put together.”
“But I—”
“Hush now, and listen to me.” He cradled her face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. “The loveliest flowers are often the ones that take the longest to blossom. I can see the promise of real beauty in this charming little face already, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
For an endless moment, Catie let the sweetness of his words wash over her, before she forced herself to break away. “We can’t stay here. Someone may see us from the tavern.” Someone like Ben Hazard, she added mentally. How she’d hate for him to spoil this moment with his grumpy face! “Come, across here to the stable.”
Shyly she took his hand. Anthony Sparhawk wasn’t like the other men from the tavern that she’d always avoided. He was a gentleman, and he had defended her against Zeb. How could she not trust him?
“I was born on a farm,” she explained as she led him across the shadow-filled yard to the stable that shared the well with the Crossed Keys, “and when I cannot bear the city crowds and noises any longer, I come here to be alone with the beasts. Mr. Freeman— he’s the ostler—he understands, and lets me come and go as I please.”
Carefully she unfastened the latch and slipped inside, pausing for Anthony to follow her up the ladder to the loft. Her feet slipped deep into the mounded hay, the fragrance musty and redolent of summer. She knelt beside the narrow window and looked out at the harbor and the ships at the moorings.
“When all the sails are furled like that, I think the masts look like trees,” she said dreamily, the breeze from the harbor cool on her cheeks. “A whole magic, silvery forest on the water.”
She heard the straw rustle as he came to kneel beside her. “How old are you, pet?”
“Seventeen,” she admitted, hoping he wouldn’t think her a child. “But I’ve been working in Newport on my own since last spring.”
“That makes seven years between us. Was I ever as young as you, I wonder?”
She turned and smiled. “Of course you were,” she said. “Seven years ago.”
“Of course.” Gently he tugged off her white linen cap, letting her fine, pale hair spill over her shoulders. “In the morning I’ll be sailing in one of those ships for England. After years of fighting the French for king and country, my grandfather’s at last seen fit to reward me with a lieutenancy in a real regiment. My commission’s waiting in London.”
“London?” said Catie unhappily as she shook her hair back from her eyes. He might as well have said the moon. “When will you come back?”
“Ah, that only God in His mercy can answer. One year or ten, or maybe not at all.” He spoke with such a brave melancholy that it tore at her heart, and impulsively she slipped her arms around him, eager to take the sorrow from his blue eyes.
“You must not talk that way,” she said fiercely, pressing her cheek against the fine linen of his shirt. “You will come back, I know it.”
He sighed, letting his hands settle around her waist to hold her against his chest. “A good soldier’s life isn’t his own, pet, and he never knows when it may be forfeit.”
“But that’s so sad!” cried Catie, pushing herself back so that she could search his face. With all his grim talk of war and soldiering, she had meant to comfort him, but she was the one who felt safe here, his arms around her making a special haven in the warm, fragrant straw. “How can you bear to sail from home, knowing you may not live to return?”
With infinite care, he slowly traced the bow of her upper lip. “You can help me bear it, sweet,” he said, his voice deep and low. “Give me a memory to take with me.”
He kissed her then, as lightly at first as his touch had been, brushing his mouth across her lips until they parted willingly for him. If he wished to take the memory of her kiss with him into battle, then she’d give it gladly. How, really, could she not?
