Page 119 of The General's Gift
He swore softly and swept her into his arms, heedless of the spilled tea and shards of porcelain.
“I need to check on Louise,” she protested, glancing toward the open door where her friend had vanished.
“I’ll send someone after her,” he said, already striding for the stairs. “You, my love, are going to your room.”
Celeste clutched at his coat, breath shallow. The house seemed to blur around them—the crash of servants, the echo of orders barked down corridors. She felt his heart pounding against her side, steady and fierce.
Perhaps this was how every war ended, she thought dizzily, not with drums or flags, but with a cry of life about to begin.
***
Hawk gathered Celeste into his arms, heart hammering like a battle drum. The corridor tilted, the world narrowing to her shallow breaths against his throat. Fear clawed at his chest, but he smothered it beneath command. There was no room for panic on a campaign. Not when lives depended on him.
“Rue!” His voice cracked like a musket shot down the hall. “Hot water and clean linens—move!”
The military woman snapped a salute and raced to obey.
He turned the corner, boots striking the floor in cadence. “Graves, ride for Dr. Whitby. He’d better be here in a quarter of an hour or I’ll shoot him.”
“Thomas,” he barked, not breaking stride. “Fetch the midwife and no one enters without my leave.”
Prue crossed his path, eyes wide. “Oh saints, is it happening? I can help! I’ve read about it—well, not that part, but the aftermath!”
“Pour a glass of brandy,” Hawk ordered, striding past her with Celeste in his arms.
Prue gasped, hands flying to her chest. “At once, my lord! Shall I take it to her ladyship’s chamber?”
He stopped just long enough to give her a look that could have silenced a regiment. “No. It’s for you. Drink it in one swallow, woman. I don’t want you fainting on me now.”
Prue blinked. “But, my lord, spirits before noon?”
Celeste managed a breathless laugh against his shoulder. “Do as he says, Prue. Consider it medicinal courage.”
They all scattered. Thank God for soldiers, even the civilian kind.
Celeste stirred in his arms, her breath catching as another wave gripped her. “You’re… marshalling your troops.”
The tremor in her voice flayed him. He forced a rough smile, the kind he gave men before the charge. “A campaign worth winning,” he muttered, lowering her to the bed, his hands trembling only when she couldn’t see them.
The door burst open. The midwife swept in, skirts rustling. She smelled of camphor and command, and Hawk nearly saluted her out of reflex.
“Out, my lord,” she said briskly, already rolling her sleeves. “This is women’s work.”
Hawk straightened from where he knelt by Celeste’s side, the old stiffness returning to his knee. He left one woman to fight this battle alone. He would not make the same mistake.
She barely looked up. “It will only distract her. Men faint.”
“A cavalry officer never faints.” The words were steel. “And he never stays in the reserve.”
The woman huffed, muttering something about generals and fools as she inspected Celeste. “My lord, this–”
Celeste stirred, her hand finding his wrist, her voice fragile between contractions. “Let him stay.”
The midwife hesitated, caught between duty and the force of the man looming beside the bed. Then, with a resigned exhale, she nodded once. “Then stay out of my way, my lord.”
“I can do that,” Hawk said quietly.
Hours or days could’ve passed. The noises of the household had faded into a blur—footsteps, hurried voices, the rattle of basins. Hawk stood useless at the foot of the bed, hands clenched as though the right command could steady her breathing.
