Page 101 of The General's Gift
And Celeste.
He thought of her standing on the cliffs of Kent, tulle whipping in the sea wind, waiting for him. He turned to Wellington. Being in the vanguard for the pursuit was the highest honor that could be conferred on a general. His duty, and yet…
“Spain is free,” Hawk said quietly. “I’ve done my duty.”
The duke frowned. “You’d walk away now? You’re our sharpest blade, Hawkhurst.”
“Then find another blade, sir. Mine’s done.”
Silence stretched between them—interrupted only by the distant thunder of retreating guns.
Then Wellington nodded, once. “Will you take your regiment with you?”
“Yes. The 13th will escort the wounded to Santander. From there, we sail to England. There’s no glory left for them in France. They’ve done enough.”
A beat passed. Then the duke extended his hand.
Hawk gripped it, forearm to forearm.
Then, slowly, he turned his head—not to the French retreat, nor to the spoils of the field—but west toward the Atlantic.
He couldn’t see it from here. The hills and smoke and miles of wounded earth blocked the view. But the ocean was there, cold and constant, bearing ships and fate and letters never sent.
And across it—her.
He closed his eyes for the span of a breath.
Let her be there. Let her be waiting. Because his duty to bloodshed ended today, in this field. The only campaign worth fighting now was hers.
To bring her joy. To keep her safe. To love her well—and never retreat.
***
The camp was quiet. Tents flapped like exhausted lungs. The fires had burned low. The 13th’s standard drooped on its staff, bloodied and proud.
Hawk stood beside the supply train, boots planted in trampled earth, issuing clipped orders. They would break camp at first light.
He had just signed the last requisition when a courier rode up. The letter was sealed with red wax, and the crest of his London solicitor was unmistakable.
He cracked it open with his thumb.
Two lines in, he stopped breathing.
The marriage of Lady Cecilia Stratton to His Grace, the Duke of Leighton, has been formally contracted. The banns shall be read next fortnight…
The wind lifted the corner of the page. Something inside him—something vital—gave way, as if his ribs had spread to let the letter pierce deeper.
“Sir!” Nicki’s voice cut through the fog. He strode up, helmet tucked under his arm. “Why are we packing? York just sent orders to press the advantage. Pursuit into France—”
Hawk handed him the commission scroll without a word.
Nicki unrolled it, brow furrowing.
“You’re giving me a promotion?”
“You earned it.” Hawk’s voice was low. “At the ridge. You saw the breach. Took the flank. You led like a man. I spoke to Wellington. You can join the 10th Hussars—lead their vanguard in the pursuit. They ride in the morning.”
The 10th, Prince of Wales’s Own Hussars, was an elite cavalry regiment, known for dashing and aggressive action. Nicki’s eyes sparked with the thrill of war. Hawk knew it too well. He’d worn it himself, before Talavera had torn it from him and buried it in the Spanish mud.
