Page 113 of The General's Gift
“From this day forward, I will be your shield when storms gather, your calm when chaos rages, your steady hand when the world spins too fast. I vow to learn the rhythm of your laughter, to cherish your tulle dreams, and to spend my life proving that this soldier—your soldier—was made not for war, but to love you.”
Chin trembling, Lady Cecilia looked at the little paper she had spent the entire afternoon writing. The speech was so pretty and talked about duty and love and lifelong promises. But she lowered the cards.
“You saw me, Alexander. You saw the Papillon I dared not show even to myself. You cradled my trembling wings and gave me back the courage to fly. I love you today, and I will loveyou always. If you will have me, I will give you Shakespeare’s laughter, a general’s duty, and all the love my aching heart can hold.”
Alexander Hawkhurst, that towering monument to masculinity, looked at his bride as if every cannon in England had fired at once and blown the battlefield from beneath his boots.
Prue’s fingers tightened around her prayer book. Mercy preserve her, the man’s eyes were doing unspeakable things—soft, hungry, devoted things—and all in front of a congregation!
Then he reached for Lady Cecilia’s hands, and, bowing, he kissed them as though they were holy relics he would guard with his life.
Just as Prue was beginning to suspect she might be… moved (and therefore susceptible to wicked influence), the devil himself arrived.
Thomas slid beside her, smelling of clove, sunlight, and audacity. When his thigh brushed hers, she jerked upright like a nun touched by an apparition.
“You look ravishing today, my delicious scourge.”
Prue looked heavenward. “May the archangel Michael smite this man and his devil’s tongue.”
He chuckled, and it warmed her in extremely non-liturgical ways.
The ceremony moved forward. Prue pressed her lips together, determined to fast through it. She had already purged her emotions this morning with cold water and two psalms. Yet here she was. Eyes damp.
She dabbed them furiously. “No! Moisture is the gateway to romance. Once one weeps, one weds!”
Next to her, Thomas took her hand—took it, as if it were his. Her soul attempted to leave her body via her ears. While she wastrying to yank it away, the general kissed his bride. It was not chaste. It was not holy. It was deliriously improper.
The crowd erupted in cheers. White doves flew. Othello barked. Someone wept into the wedding cake.
And Thomas kneeled. “Ten times I’ve asked, my forbidden fruit. Ten times you said no and ran away to flog yourself. I repeat my question for the eleventh time. Marry me. I can even flog you myself if you wish.”
Prue leapt to her feet, skirts tangling around her like spiritual bondage. “You foul tempter. My flesh is weak and burns, but I will not give in!”
When she spun to flee, Lady Cecilia caught her gaze. She was holding the bouquet. A mischievous smile lit up her ladyship's gaze, and then she lifted her arm and flung it at her.
It landed squarely in Prue's chest, a divine judgment wrapped in lavender ribbon.
The crowd gasped.
Thomas beamed.
Prue sank back onto the pew, defeated.
“Very well,” she breathed. “But no fiddles at the reception. Music makes me… loose.”
Thomas’s lips brushed her cheek.
Prue clutched her prayer book. “My cheek, sir! That is sacred ground!”
Groaning, Thomas made a sound in her ear that would have had her excommunicated in three dioceses. Something in her broke—perhaps, more truthfully, something burst gloriously free. The prayer book slid from her lap and thudded to the grass.
She seized his lapels, yanked him forward, and consumed his mouth like a starving nun at a forbidden feast.
“Forgive me, Saint Chastity,” she murmured between kisses, “but this is no longer a spiritual struggle. It is a siege—and I must take the fort!”
The fire crackled low, casting a restless glow over the chamber. Hawk paced between the hearth and the bed. He could marshal an army with less mental preparation. She was so young. What if his experience swallowed hers whole before she had the chance to explore her own? On the eve of his departure, he had been too rough. He had demanded too much of her, driven by the ache of leaving her, but now, he had to go slow.
A discreet clearing of the throat cut through his thoughts.
