Page 22 of The General's Gift
She shrugged one shapely shoulder. The kind of shoulder that could send a battalion into rebellion. “Then I shall improvise.”
He arched a brow. “Improvise?”
“A heroine must,” she declared, chin tilted in theatrical pride. “When scripts fail, one must rely on instinct. Wit. Courage. Timing. A little confusion only makes the love story better.”
Confusion lost battles, got men killed. Yet she spoke of it like a virtue, as though surrender to whimsy were strength instead of folly. Hawk said nothing, too caught by how her lips curved around each word, shaping chaos into something perilously compelling.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “But you digress, sir. I promised I would make you stop brooding.”
Before he could answer, she plopped the folio open as if it were holy writ, smoothing the worn page with reverent fingers. “Do you know A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
He crossed his arms. “When one is busy fighting a war, there is no time for dreaming.”
“How terrible. But don’t fret, I will mend this now.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Midsummer is a tale of foolish mortals who wander into an enchanted forest and fall in love with the wrong people, thanks to a mischievous fairy with poor aim and no sense of consequence. There are potions, anddisguises, and declarations that make no sense… until they suddenly do.”
“That sounds chaotic,” he said dryly.
“Utterly.” She glanced at him, her smile softening. “It’s also ridiculous and magical, but in the end, everything untangles. Lovers are reunited. Fools are forgiven. And even the queen of the fairies learns to laugh at herself.”
She tapped the page lightly. “This scene here, when all the men are enchanted and chasing the wrong girl, is my favorite. Are you ready?”
He set down his pen, wary. For a French invasion? Absolutely. For whatever she meant to do next? He had growing doubts.
But wards, he was discovering, cared not for rules of engagement, and before he could draw a breath, she had started her absurd performance. One moment girl, the next, some lovesick fool calling on goddesses. Eyes shining, she swept across the room, skirts and shadows tangling. She rhapsodized to the rafters, then spun on an invisible rival, hands clutched at her chest, voice breaking in mock despair.
What in God’s name was this? Lovers shrieking at one another in the woods? Half the words contradicted themselves, and the rest were nonsense about cherries, donkey ears, and flower juice. It was anarchy disguised as poetry—men and women surrendering to passion, jealousy, and their own foolish whims.
Hawk’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair. Every instinct urged him to halt this madness, restore silence, re-establish order. But another part of him—the same reckless part that had reached for her hair—was perilously close to yielding, just to see what she would do next.
Gathering the hem of her skirt with one hand, the folio in the other, she climbed onto the chair before his desk, and then atop the desk as if it were a stage.
The very definition of madness. And if he sat there spellbound, it was because this might soon turn into disaster.
“Lady Cecilia,” he said with growing unease.
But she mouthed “Oberon” to him, eyes alight, chin high, voice ringing:
“What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite,
And laid the love juice on some true love’s sight!”
Her voice rang out, full of purpose. By God Almighty, she was magnificent.
She held the final note, chin tilted high in triumph, and then looked at him expectantly.
He released all the air from his lungs. “That was—ludicrous.”
She grinned. “Yes, but you are smiling, my lord.”
Indeed, he was…
“I assure you,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his coat, “it’s a reflex. The sort one has when watching chaos unfold in a perfectly ordered room.”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point.”
He frowned. “The point of what?”
“The madness, the mix-ups, the insults and absurd passion—it’s not about sense, it’s about folly. About how love turns mortals into fools.”
