Page 108 of The General's Gift
From above came war cries, the thud of feet on battlements, the unmistakable splat of fruit against stone. Someone was shouting French insults.
He smiled, despite himself. Her world would be his again.
Hawk took the tower stairs two at a time, breath burning in his chest, his pulse hammering with anticipation. Any moment now, he’d find her—his queen of mayhem, wreathed in ribbons, cheeks flushed from battle-play, ready to spar with him until he swept her into his arms.
Panting, he reached the chamber door, and pushed inside.
Celeste sat apart at the far end of the room. He drank her greedily, as a man denied water for too long. Her bowed head, her lashes shadowing her cheeks, the line of her mouth—every detail was a torment of beauty. He had missed her. God, he had missed her, and standing there now, he could not fathom how he had borne the emptiness at all.
Only then did he notice her posture, straight-backed as if carved into place. A book lay open in her lap, its leather cover so dark and solemn it looked like it had been chosen to banish humor. Her gown was plain, stripped of tulle, her hands still upon the pages. She frowned as she read, her lips pressed together.
The riot of jeers and laughter drifted faintly from the courtyard below, echoing up the stone like the revelry of children at play. Yet it might as well have come from a different world. Celeste did not laugh. She did not even look. She flipped a page, as if each line of print weighed more than all the racket behind her.
He stood there, breath stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat. If he failed now—if she turned from him for good—what then? He could face another French charge, another night on campaign, another scar split open. He could survive all that. But to lose her laughter forever would finish him more surely thanmusket fire. Better the mud in his teeth, a saber through his chest, than the thought of life without her.
The truth struck hard, straight to the gut—he was part of the mayhem, but she was not. He had stormed the stage, ready for comedy, ready to conquer. And yet—the heroine was no longer playing.
Celeste could not concentrate on soil like this. Despite the closed window, the siege noises invaded her sanctuary. It was all she could do to stay still. She pressed her fists against the book, but there was no hope while he was there, leading his men against her castle.
Footsteps clattered in the doorway. Rue again, with news she didn’t want to hear.
Celeste did not look up. “Please. I need silence. I’ve told you—”
“If you wanted quiet, you should not have declared war on me.”
Her head shot up. It wasn’t Rue.
Hawk filled the arch like a storm held at bay by stone. His arms were folded, forearms drawn taut beneath the sleeves, a stance that bent the air to his command.
War on him? How could anyone hope to survive? He was the image of a war god made flesh, epaulets for his armor, silver hair for his helm.
She couldn’t look at him. Not when her heart was already threatening to split her chest with its pace. She stared downat the book still open on the desk. The lines swam, black ink bleeding onto the page.
“The servants followed me of their own free will,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on a root system diagram. “I didn’t force them to come.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said.
His voice was lower than she remembered, frayed at the edges, as if something inside him had been dragged over stone. The sound curled through her, unwanted and too welcome, and her grip on the book tightened until the paper crinkled.
Her eyes remained downcast. “You once told me the castle was impregnable.”
She heard the soft thud of his boots across the rug. The boards creaked faintly beneath his weight. He came closer. Closer still. She saw the dirt on his cuffs, the stain at his collar. He no doubt had traveled through hell and refused to rest.
Then, without warning, her book lifted from her grasp.
“Agriculture?” he asked, his tone caught between confusion and disbelief.
She blinked. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap. Before she could find her voice, he reached into his coat. Her body stiffened, ready to receive another cruel document from the solicitor.
But then he pulled out a small, worn volume. Her breath stilled.
“I brought you better reading material.”
He placed it on the desk.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Her copy. The spine was slightly frayed, and the cover still bore the faint smudge of cocoa powder she had spilled on it months ago.
