Page 103 of The General's Gift
He walked to the bed.
Lying atop the counterpane was his regiment coat. The one she had adjusted into a riding habit, laughing that it made her look like a soldier.
He pressed it to his face. Her scent was gone. The energy that had brought him back from countless battles, the tossing Atlantic journey, and the heavy marching sapped out of him. No hero’s welcome for him. Not tonight. Not ever.
This summer, he was given a gift. At first, he thought it a white elephant—an unwanted burden forced on him out of duty to Philip. Wrapped in tulle, chaos, and complication, she was something he neither wanted nor understood.
Then she breached his fortress, laughing, scattering order to the winds. Like a Trojan horse, she had conquered his discipline, his silence, his command of himself.
Too late, he saw the truth. She was no burden, no Greek offering meant to crumble his defenses. She was the greatest gift a man could ever receive—laughter, chaos, and joy. The promise of a romantic comedy she so loved. Happiness.
And now the gift was gone.
***
Hawk closed his eyes. Fool. He had lost the most crucial battle of his life by handing the prize to the enemy without even fighting.
The clock struck the hour. It was luncheon time. He had a regiment of hungry and tired men outside, and yet, he could not force himself to care. Her bed, so soft, called to him. He looked at the downy pillows. He would lie there, just for a minute, or the bloody rest of his life.
A volley of metallic blows ricocheted through the walls, ringing as though a whole arsenal of swords had been dropped at once.
The sound had come from somewhere below. Drawing his pocket pistol, he left Celeste’s room. The corridor stretched long and dark. He moved silently through the empty rooms until, outside the pantry, he heard tin clattering.
Robbers in his own house.
Hawk shouldered the door open.
A gasp. Another loud crash.
Miss Prudence Templeton stood in the middle of several felled cooking utensils. She blinked up at him, arms overloaded with macaroons, tarts, and—was that a pineapple?
“General Hawkhurst,” she breathed, eyes wide. “I was... conducting a spiritual inventory.”
Hawk pocketed the pistol. “Your arms are filled with sweets.”
“Oh, but General, sugar is the devil’s bait. I was... removing it from circulation. One macaroon at a time. For the salvation of the house. And my flesh.”
“Where is she?”
The maid stiffened. Her eyes darted like a cornered nun. “I... I don’t know whom the generalissimo is speaking about.”
His voice dropped. “Lady Cecilia.”
She pressed a hand to her bosom. “Never heard of her.”
Hawk took a step forward. “What happened here?”
“Cease, sir! You shall never pry the secret from my breast—not with blade, fire, nor divine inquisition! I would sooner lash myself to a bedpost and flog the truth from my own flesh than betray my mistress’s trust!”
“Did she marry Leighton?”
She gasped so violently her knees buckled. “Marry that—that slick duke? Certainly not! Like me, she has now sworn off the evils of the flesh. We are sisters in sanctity! The temptations of firm arms and gleaming thighs shall not claim us!”
Hawk closed his eyes. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him, and for one reckless beat, he let himself believe that she was still his to fight for.
“Then where is she?”
The maid staggered back, clutching the pineapple like a crucifix. “I—I cannot say! I am bound by a vow.”
