Page 32 of The General's Gift
Her brows lifted. “Where?”
He leaned his head back, voice flat. “A drainage ditch outside Badajoz. Rain up to my ears. Dead mule for company. I assure you, this is a feather bed by comparison.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she shifted under the blanket, watching him with those dancing eyes. “Tell me a story? Something to help me sleep?”
“No.”
“I could stay awake, listening to the nightingale…” Her lashes lowered, then lifted again. “But I would rather listen to your voice. Please?”
The word slid under his armor like a blade. She could have routed entire companies with that single plea.
“Fine. A story.” He growled low in his throat. “Once, there was a general who told his men to sleep. And they did. The end.”
A tiny smile curved her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. She exhaled, the sound soft and trusting. Hawk sat there, staring at her in the candlelight, telling himself he would remain only a moment longer. Just until he was certain she slept.
But the warmth of the chamber wrapped around him, and the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him. His own body, honed to outlast sieges, betrayed him at last.
His final thought was drenched in bitter irony. The general who never surrendered was holding the line in a lady’s bedchamber. And yet, when sleep overtook him, there was a smile on his lips.
***
Hawk jolted awake to a strangled cry. His hand shot to his side, reaching for the sword that wasn’t there. His blood ran cold—an intruder had breached the room, steel would find his throat, the enemy had followed him home.
He surged upright, lungs dragging for air, before the silence caught him. No bugle. No clash of sabers. No Spanish sky above him, only four walls, heavy curtains, the hush of his country house at night.
The light was faint. A single candle guttered near the bedstead. And there, curled on her side, Celeste whimpered, breath uneven, her fingers clutching at the sheet like a soldier gripping his musket in a storm.
With eyelids moving, she spoke words he could not understand, but felt their pain in his bones. She was having a nightmare.
He lowered himself onto the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. Slowly, he slipped an arm around her.
“Shhh. I’m here. I’ve got you,” he whispered, hoping his rough voice could convey some of the tenderness aching in his chest.
She was reliving something—he could feel it in the tension of her limbs and how her hands clutched at nothing.
Her body jolted against his chest, a muffled “No, no, please” breaking from her lips.
He could fight men. He could flank a regiment. But this—what enemy could he cut down for her now? He didn’t know what to do. So he drew her closer, gathering her against him, hoping that his strength would seep into her and help her battle whatever demons she was facing behind her eyelids.
“Easy,” he whispered, lips to her temple. “You’re safe. No one will touch you while I stand.”
Her eyelashes fluttered open. For a heartbeat, disorientation clouded her gaze. Then her eyes widened in recognition. They lay tangled close, breathing the same air. Hawk braced for a scream. He got a whimper, and her nose burrowed against his chest. Her feet found him suddenly—cold, quick—darting against his calves like a fish flashing for cover under a rock. The jolt of it stole his breath. He had an all-consuming urge to fold her wholly beneath him, to shield every trembling part of her under the hard weight of his body until nothing could touch her again.
He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Who hurt you, Little Tulle?”
She went still in his arms. “No one. No one would dare to hurt Lady Cecilia. She has the general who never surrenders as her fairy godfather.”
Fairy godfather. Christ. He was that damned thing, was he not? She turned from him, curling to face the wall, her back pressed to his chest. She could deny it, but he knew better. Something had marked her. But he swallowed the questions. Pressing would break her, and he was unsure he could bear to hear the truth.
He began to ease away, meaning to retreat to the chair, back to his fairy-godfather post. Distance meant order.
Her hand caught his—small, cool, too frail for his peace of mind. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”
The word lanced him. He gave in, lowering himself beside her. She turned into him, her cheek fitting beneath his jaw, her body curling against his chest. One arm slipped around her without thought, holding her close, her breath fanning warm over his throat.
The position undid him, sharpening his hunger—the weight of her pressed to him, the rise of her breast brushed his ribs with each inhale, the slender curve of her hip nestled against his thigh. Stay still, breathe, remember who she was and who he had to be.
He bent anyway, pressing his face into her hair. Lilac and warmth wrapped around him, dangerously sweet.
