The Secrets Of Catie Hazard
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?
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Further praise for the author—
Sparbawk’s Angel
“Ms. Jarrett successfully mixes genres to bring forth an unusual, delightful, and precious reading experience. 5
—Affaire de Coeur
“This reviewer can’t wait to see where Ms. Jarrett takes us next!5
—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.”
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.
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.
