Page 33 of The General's Gift
He brushed his lips over the crown of her head—chaste, a gesture fit for a fairy godfather. At least that’s what he told himself. The fire in his chest knew otherwise.
“Now sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll guard you. If the nightmares come, I’ll chase them away.”
Afaint rasping came from the door.
“My lady, it’s near ten. If you don’t rise, the general will flog us all,” the maid’s voice hissed through the wood. “And you know that my flesh is weak.”
Hawk’s eyes snapped open. Years of campaigning had honed him to wake at the scrape of a rat in the trenches—yet dawn had marched past him. A surge of alarm hit his chest. He had missed reveille in his own damn house.
He turned his head.
Celeste slept, lips parted, breath feathering against his chin. Her feet were still nestled between his legs, and her hands held his shirt. All in all, he was a prisoner of her slumber. Light spilled over her cheek, gilding her skin until she seemed carved of sunlight—untouchable, fragile, and entirely too close.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, and his chest ached—bloody ached. What happened to you, Little Tulle? Why the nightmares?
For one dangerous heartbeat, he forgot discipline. Forgot curfews, timetables, propriety. He savored her weight, drinkingin the impossible peace of her sleep, as though the world outside did not exist.
A fresh volley of knocks rattled the door.
“Lady Cecilia!” Mrs. Archer’s shrill voice invaded the room. “Up with you this instant, or the general will finally tan your hide.”
The maid gasped. “I can see it now—his manly hands striking her tender flesh, the heat radiating like a furnace—Oh saints preserve us!”
Hawk glared at the door, thanking those saints for reminding him to lock the door last night. What the devil was wrong with these women? He had seen more sanity in a pack of rabid wolves. Brushing his forehead, Hawk turned to his side. Celeste was looking at him, eyes soft with sleep and something else. Damn him if it was not humor.
Yawning, she stretched like a lazy cat. “I overslept again. Oh, but you did it as well. I guess I’m safe from your manly hands,” she said, giggling.
Safe? That was because she didn’t know how his manly hands tingled to caress her lips until he brushed away the laughter and replaced it with a moan.
Cursing, Hawk flung back the covers and swung to the floor. Boots. Where the devil were his boots? He found one near the settee and shoved it on, but the other was presently being gnawed by the cursed poodle.
Hawk grabbed the other side and tugged, but the tiny beast refused to let go. Gritting his teeth, Hawk was forced to engage in a most inglorious hand-to-hand combat. Othello was nothing if not a worthy opponent, growling, shaking his head, and nearly displacing the ridiculous tulle bow atop his head. Still, he kept his jaw clenched, leather clasped between its fangs, tail wagging as if this were the grandest battle of his life.
“The mighty general wrestles his foe. The beast snarls. Who will claim the leathered prize?” Celeste’s voice was amused, as if she were narrating a play.
He shot her a flat look, teeth gritted, muscles straining.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid the poor dear has a terrible fondness for shoes.”
“I have a fondness for brandy,” Hawk growled, “but I don’t bite the French over it.”
Finally, Hawk wrenched the boot free, straightened, and crossed to the window. After opening the shutters, he unhooked the drapery.
“You can’t mean to go down the window! You will hurt yourself,” Celeste whispered, sitting on the bed.
Hawk caught a glimpse of trim ankles, and desire shot through his overly rested body. He forced himself to look away.
“I have scaled the fifty-foot walls of Burgos,” Hawk muttered. “A dog and twelve feet of stone will not be my undoing.”
A furious knock came from the door. “Lady Cecilia, the general will come here, see if he won’t, and his tanning will leave marks!”
“I cannot breathe. The vision is too much!” There was a scuffle, a thud, then the maid’s voice, faint and tremulous: “His hand upon the coverlet, his gaze falling on my mistress in dishabille—oh Lord, strike me down before I swoon entirely!”
“Do you see what you’ve done now, Lady Cecilia? Prue is receiving a spirit here!” Mrs. Archer said.
Hawk groaned. His house had become a bedlam. There was no other explanation.
“I think I’d better see to my maid before she combusts in the corridor and sets it aflame. And it would all be your fault,” Celeste said.
