Page 100 of The General's Gift
He had fought to keep her from breaching his walls. Yet here she was—seated in his tent, imprinted in his hands, written in his thoughts with some indelible ink. He was no general. He was Lysander and Demetrius, Helena and Hermia all in one—blind with desire, struck dumb by a flower he hadn’t even noticed blooming.
She had turned his fortress into a ballroom. Made his orders sound like flirtation. Brought chaos, and with it, life. And he, fool that he was, had called it weakness when it was strength.
He traced the last line, the one she had brandished from atop his desk, and dared to mock him for not understanding.
“Lord, what fools these mortals be?”
His mouth twisted, and something broke out before he could stop it. It came in waves, first a twitch of his brow, then a low,odd ache in his gut, until laughter shook his chest, spilled down his face in tears.
The aide-de-camp burst in. “Are you all right, General?”
Hawk swiped at his eyes, reached for the nearest glass, and took a pull. He gagged. “What the devil is this?”
“Posca, sir.”
“Throw it away. Reinstate the wine ration. Half.”
“Half, sir?”
“Half. And if I catch a drunk man tomorrow, it’ll be court martial.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone again, Hawk passed his hand over the play. Celeste had looked at him with those promise-colored eyes and believed he could be more than a general. A man who could laugh. A man who could be loved.
He wanted it with a hunger that left him unsteady. Yes, he was older, half his life spent under canvas roofs, marching through mud, sleeping with a saber for warmth. But Christ, he was tired of it.
He craved her chaos. The mischief in her smile, the unruly music of her laughter. Not order. Not silence. Noise, color, madness—all of it.
His chest clenched, pressure swelling until his breath came shallow. Outside, the cannons spoke—low growls rolling across the hills like thunder stalking its prey. The battle was coming. If he lived through it, he would return. To her. To the color she carried.
Now all he had to do was survive. One last time.
The field steamed with heat and blood.
Smoke shrouded the broken lines and shattered gun carriages. French colors lay trampled under hooves, their bearers either fled or dead. The air reeked of powder and singed wool, the cries of wounded men—English, Spanish, French alike—rising in waves beneath the caw of crows already circling overhead.
Hawk patted Oberon’s flanks. The stallion heaved from the charge, but he held steady under Hawk’s thighs. Below him, the field was madness—orders shouted, prisoners rounded up, men dragging comrades to safety.
Amid the chaos, one truth was clear. The French were running, streaming from the battleground like a severed artery. The road to Bayonne was choked with carts and wagons, and terrified infantry dropped their packs to flee faster. The cavalry’s charge had struck their flank. It was over.
The 13th wheeled around him now, boots muddy, sabers still dripping, cheeks flushed with the giddy violence of victory.
Hawk raised his arm, his voice cutting through the din likea saber slash. “Form lines on the ridge. Sweep the trees. No looting, no stragglers—secure the French cannons.”
Officers barked his orders down the line. Men moved, weary but trained, falling into formation with the precision he’d beaten into them over years of drill and blood. He saw Nicki dismount, mud spraying from his boots as he dropped to one knee beside a downed lieutenant, already signaling for a stretcher team.
Wellington rode through the haze, his sash torn, one boot black with powder. He reined in beside Hawk, his eyes sharp and glittering with the taste of triumph.
“You did it,” the duke said. “Damn you, you broke them.”
Hawk didn’t answer. His jaw clenched against the rush of emotion—pride, yes, but something darker underneath. Not joy. Not today.
Wellington pointed toward the Pyrenees, their blue edges smudged in the distance like a wound yet to bleed. “I want you at the vanguard,” he said. “Lead the pursuit. Cut them down before they regroup. Push them into France and break their will to fight again.”
France.
One more march. One more war. One more damn season of blood and soil and the ache in his knee that never left.
