Page 112 of The General's Gift
“Oh, hush,” she muttered, swiping at her cheek. “I’m simply allergic to all this romance.”
And with all the strategic precision of a woman who had spent far too long spying on romantic misadventures, she pulled him down by the cravat and kissed him. It was heated, ridiculous, and entirely uncalled for—and when she finally pushed him away, Graves was blinking like he’d been caught in cannon smoke.
“Just as I thought,” Rue said breathlessly. “Totally allergic.”
Prue clasped her hands over her mouth and sobbed, “They’re going to be lashed together in holy matrimony!”
Rue sighed. “God save us.”
And then she smiled and raised her voice for all to hear. “Let the record show—it’s not the general who never surrendered who won the day. It’s the girl who did. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do, isn’t holding the line, but laying down your arms and letting love charge straight through.”
The troopers cheered, and Rue wiped her cheeks. “And that is the last time I get sentimental. Makes me itch.”
Prue sat stiffly in her chair near the front of the garden, spine ramrod straight, prayer book clenched between white-knuckled fingers. All around her, sin bloomed like lilacs in spring.
The manor had been in a state ever since the general stormed the tower and emerged victorious, a conquered bride in his arms and hunger burning in his eyes. Rue had barked orders like a field marshal—requisitioning furniture, conscripting ribbon, and declaring martial law on boutonnieres. The cook had baked an entire pyramid of apricot tarts while sobbing into the dough.
Even the war veterans had gotten involved, fashioning garlands with the same determination they’d once applied to cleaning bayonets. And now they were all here, surrounded by flowers, doves, a lace-draped tea table pretending to be an altar.
But Prue would not be swept away. She would not be intoxicated by the scent of roses, warm pastry, and a man whose calves could support siege equipment.
Prue snapped her eyes to the front, where the general stood at the makeshift altar. His uniform clung to him like temptation,the brass buttons glinting with menace. He looked calm. Dangerous. Towering. As if the next thing he planned to conquer was the bride’s soul.
“I am not here to be seduced,” she muttered. “I am here to bear witness. As a chaste, upright woman.”
And yet, her eyes—traitorous, wanton creatures—found Thomas standing near the begonias.
And her knees trembled. God help them all. The ceremony hadn’t even begun.
Graves stood beside the general as best man, stern as an obelisk and twice as immovable. Rue was across from him in a dress that somehow managed to be both violently lilac and violently low-cut. She had declared herself the best woman, which meant she had shouted at the seamstress, threatened to gut the tailor, and chosen the gown based on how easily she could sprint out of it, should romance require violence.
They stood side by side like carved statues of chaos and loyalty, two people who had bled in battle and now planned to bleed in the flower arrangements.
Yes, there was no denying it. Love was in the air. Thick. Cloying. Pungent as lavender steeped in wine and lust. Her breathing grew shallow. She considered stopping her breath entirely to preserve herself from further corruption, but her body refused to cooperate.
A strangled pant escaped.
Oh, such weak flesh. Her lungs were practically conspiring with her thighs at this point.
The harpist plucked a trembling chord, and everyone turned.
Lady Cecilia entered the garden, floating on a sea of white tulle and starlight. A veil like morning mist clung to her shoulders. Prue had outdone herself with the crown of flowers atop her lady’s head. The bride moved like an angel descending upontemptation—and temptation was waiting for her at the end of the aisle, six feet and several inches of it.
The general did not smile. He smoldered. His gaze devoured her from hem to halo.
Prue hissed under her breath, “If this ceremony doesn’t burst into holy flame, then I question the entire theological order.”
Yet Celeste didn’t look like a sinner. She looked like joy personified.
The general took her hand.
Oh, no! He would say his vows. Prue was not ready for it and clutched the pew.
“You marched into my life like a campaign I never planned for. You turned my barracks into a ballroom, my rules into ribbons. You made color out of my discipline, music out of my silence, and a man out of a soldier.” The groom’s voice filled the garden.
“I once believed I was built only for war. But you—Celeste—taught me to want peace. I’ve conquered cities. Crossed oceans. Survived battles. But you… You were the siege that broke me. And I thank God for it.”
Chuckles and tears burst among the guests.
