Page 21 of The General's Gift
His jaw locked. He pushed the thought aside, forcing his gaze back to the map as if neat borders and inked rivers could shield him. Grief was an indulgence. Everyone carried absences, some heavier than his. Everyone kept to their post. Everyone did their duty.
“Lady Cecilia, I—”
“Please,” she cut in softly. “Call me Celeste.”
His brows drew together. “That would not be proper. Your name is—”
“I know what my name isnow,” she whispered. “But I grew up as Celeste. And everything is changing so fast. If everyone calls me Cecilia all the time, I fear I’ll go mad. I have to know that at least you know who I really am.”
Tears brimmed in her expressive eyes. To give in to such demands was not in a general’s best interests—and yet, he could not refuse her while she looked at him like a soldier begging for mercy.
“Only when there is no company,” he said, and his voice came out hoarse.
She beamed, brushing her tears away. A small sound escaped her, half laugh, half sigh, and lodged itself under his ribs like shrapnel.
Still smiling, she stepped back, skirts whispering against the floorboards, and drifted to the shelves.
“May I?” she asked.
“Of course.” His reply was crisp.
Distance restored, Hawk told himself. She had her tulle. He had his maps.
She turned her face to the books, humming, fingertip grazing the leather spines. It was a wonder that the old tomes did not blush at such a tender caress.
He bent again over the peninsula, pen poised. Lines of rivers, ridges, troop movements. He forced his attention on them, demanding discipline of his own hand. But the figures swam. Her hair had caught the lantern once, and now it burned behind his eyelids.
She tugged a folio from the shelf. “Perfect. Just what we need.”
Hawk glanced up from his maps. We? How in the world could his needs ever coincide with hers?
“Whenever I’m sad—”
“I am not sad,” Hawk said. “A general has preoccupations.”
Her lips quirked. “And when I’m not sad but preoccupied… do you know what I do?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I am certain I am about to find out.”
A bright smile. “I turn to my dearest confidante.”
Confidant? A man, then. Some intrigue from London? His gut tightened.
“And who is this fortunate gentleman?” he asked, his tone as dry as the desert.
“Why, Shakespeare, of course.”
Shakespeare. She gave her devotion to a dead playwright. At least the man could not answer her back.
Her brows lifted when he scoffed. “You don’t believe me?”
She placed her fists on her hips and stared at him. “The Swan of Avon has taught me to make fun of difficult situations and lighten the heavy ones. Even in the darkest hours, he finds laughter. Always, there is some light.”
Hawk studied her—the quiet curve of her mouth, the way her words rang with conviction. What darkness had she known, to cling to borrowed humor? Whatever it was, he had not been there. He had failed in his duty.
Still, he could not help but admire her resilience and creativity, but this lightness, this whimsy, had served her so far, but not anymore. She would have to grow out of them. A sensible English wife could not live in a romantic comedy.
He leaned back in the chair. “And what will you do when life does not follow a playwright’s cues?”
