Page 106 of The General's Gift
Heat prickled up Hawk’s neck. He shifted in the saddle, temper sparking. “I have over two hundred men. I can bring this castle down stone by stone.”
“You could certainly try,” Graves said smoothly, entirely unruffled. “But Cromwell himself failed. We’ve rations for months, and Rue will pour boiling toffee from the battlements. Your losses would be considerable.”
As if on cue, a faint metallic clatter rang out from within the walls, followed by the unmistakable hiss of bubbling liquid. Hawk inhaled—and by God, it was sugar.
Madness—true madness. He looked at the tower, and he could swear he saw her hair, just a flash of color against the gray stones.
His men shifted behind him, awaiting orders. But Hawk… Hawk felt the edge of a grin cut across his face. All teeth. This was her doing. Another of her plays. A Shakespearean test.
If she wanted playacting, he would play. If she wanted a storming knight, he would roar like a prince out of some medieval tale. He would mount her tower steps two at a time, voice shaking the rafters, until his lady was in his arms again.
For once, he would not resist her schemes. He would be her actor. Her partner. His chest was as light as the pennants flying above the battlements. If she had staged this farce, then she was still his Celeste—still laughing, still waiting, still daring him to join her world. He hadn’t lost her. He could ride as the conqueror, claim her, and never have to do the one thing that terrified him more than death—let her see him stripped of armor, all weakness and no defense.
Graves tugged his reins as if to retreat, smug as ever.
“Graves!” Hawk’s voice rang across the courtyard.
The captain paused, half-turning.
“Prepare to surrender.”
Celeste dipped her quill in the inkwell, blotting the page beside a diagram of a French-style drainage trench. She had underlined “irrigation” thrice and could not remember doing it once.
A bee floated in the open window, then darted away again. Below, the courtyard stirred, but up here in her tower, the air was still and green.
She had taken up gardening, she told herself, to make something useful in her exile. Something strong, rooted, patient. But she knew the truth. She had turned to seeds and soil because they did not remind her of war. Digging in the dirt made her feel less hollow. Watching plants bloom was better than waiting for a man who would never come. Who would rather send her to another than yield to his own feelings.
She reached for the next page. More on compost ratios. If she could just keep reading, perhaps the pain would break apart, like clumps of clay in the sun.
The breeze shifted, bringing the sounds from outside—a cheer? Laughter? A distant shout?
“He’s here!” Rue’s voice burst through the stillness. “Celeste, he’s here!”
“About time. I’ve been waiting for these tulip bulbs for a fortnight.”
“Who said anything about tulips?” Rue straightened her soldier’s jacket, cheeks flushed, eyes alight. “The general is here. They’ve ridden straight from the Peninsula. No rest. No stop. Right into the courtyard. The horses are still foaming.”
Hawk was back. Whole. Alive.
Celeste stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor. Her heart pulsed in her throat, and she pressed a hand to her middle, steadying herself. Warmth flushed through her, starting at her core, spreading to her cheeks, her scalp, her fingertips, like sunlight breaking a cold fast. She wanted to run to the window and see for herself.
He had come back.
But he hadn’t come back for her.
Her eyes closed. Heat spiked sharply behind her ribs, the pressure of containing her joy into a space too small to hold it.
Celeste’s hand crept to her lap, gripping the fabric of her skirt. “He must want his men.”
“Love, he brought the regiment to reclaim you,” Rue said.
“I’m sure he wants his household in order. You know how he prizes his routines,” Celeste’s voice felt thin like paper. “Tell everyone they may go back to him if they wish. I’ll not keep anyone prisoner.”
Rue crossed the room and poked her forearm. “He came for you. Don’t be daft.”
No, it was impossible. The curtain had already fallen on the play of the ballerina who surrendered everything to the brooding general. And she had no intention of reliving it. It had hurt too much.
Cautiously, Celeste returned to her chair. Chin trembling, she opened the book. The words blurred, then reformed. Organic matter, compost, and fertility.
