Page 44 of The General's Gift
A flush rose from her neck to her cheeks, and she gripped the reins. “Why should I fear my fairy godfather?”
He released the tulle as if the mesh were made of hot coals and stepped back.
Why indeed? Because the fairy godfather wanted to devour her.
The sprawling estate rolled by their side in soft green grass. Birds chirped and bees buzzed, and Celeste fluttered. Yes, fluttered atop her mount, and thank goodness dear Titania was so agreeable and didn’t mind her white-knuckled clutch on the reins. Sighing, she peeked at the general. The sun caught in his silver hair, broad frame silhouetted against the endless blue sky, and he sat astride his stallion like a figure carved from legend.
She had to be the worst stage director to have cast him in the “fairy godfather” part. He looked every inch the male lead in a heroic play…
The thought struck her so suddenly, so violently, that she ached for her notebook, for ink, for the desperate need to break into verse. Was this what Beatrice felt when she realized Benedick was not just a man to be bested, but a man to be loved? Or Rosalind, when Orlando’s poetry no longer made her laugh but blush instead?
Her gaze flitted toward Hawk, and her breath caught. Things were happening too fast. Yesterday she had danced her first waltz and bantered with a general… only for him to prove to becaring and leave her utterly overwhelmed.
Could it be that she should have cast the general as her prince? Oh, dear. She could not be trusted with such a tremendous twist. Where were Louise and Helene now? She needed to speak with them. To learn their opinions. It was not easy to pretend to be unflappable Lady Cecilia when her heart was beating in her throat and her whole life might be about to change… again.
The sun glowed on his broad shoulders, his thighs flexing with each powerful movement of his horse. She lifted her gaze from his legs to his face. On impulse, she batted her lashes like the actress who played Beatrice did, which made the audience swoon.
Hawk frowned. “Do you have something in your eye? Don’t stick your boots all the way into the stirrup. Just the ball of your foot. If you fall, you don’t want the horse to drag you, do you?”
“Do I?” she echoed, exasperated. Why must he ask questions now? When she was trying hard to make crucial decisions?
“No. You don’t. Are you feeling well? You seem distracted.”
He maneuvered his horse closer to her. Their knees brushed, and something happened low in her belly, a deep pull. Unaware of her predicament, he reached forward with his large hand.
Celeste stopped breathing. This might be the hand of her prince, and he was about to touch her.
“You should hold the reins with your thumbs up.”
She nodded dumbly. Her hand in his lost all capability of movement. The heroines in her books spoke of yearning in perfect sonnets—moonlight, poetry, sighs. But this was not delicate. This was a riot in her blood, a fever.
“I’ve adapted the plan for this summer,” he said.
Celeste swallowed, throat suddenly parched. “I think I’m doing the same…” And he had no idea how much.
“After our talk yesterday, as your general—your guardian, I will devise a series of short encounters with members of themale sex. They will be supervised, and you won’t be at risk. Like any fear, the remedy is to get used to the cause in small doses.”
Her pulse spiked. He gazed at her with barely concealed concern—perhaps even pity. As if she were still just Papillon, trapped in that dressing room, a coward in need of drills and remedies.
Celeste twisted the reins and looked away. “Doses of men. That sounds romantic. I will have to decline.”
“I understand that speaking about the past might be painful, but you have to visualize what happened like a battle wound. If it is not healed, it will fester.”
“So my soul is a regiment in need of drilling? You will protect me. Is that not enough?”
“As your guardian, I want you to marry and be happy. If that is to happen, you cannot panic every time you near the groom.”
Her groom? Another man. A sharp heat flared in her chest, spreading through her limbs like wildfire. If he were her prince, would he be so eager to send her away into another’s arms?
“I tire of this conversation. I thought we came here for a riding lesson, not a general’s harangue.”
She pressed her heels into the horse’s flanks. The mare surged beneath her, muscles bunching as she leapt into a gallop. Celeste clung to the reins, her fingers tight, her pulse tighter. The wind tore at her, whipping her hair into wild ribbons.
The countryside blurred—rolling fields of green and gold streaked past in flashes, hedgerows and distant stone walls nothing but fleeting ghosts. The saddle rocked beneath her, the horse’s stride relentless, and still, she pushed forward.
"Stop! You’re charging into enemy fire with no idea which way the cannons are aimed—galloping straight into disaster with no bloody sense of your line!"
What was he talking about? Then she knew. A hedge rushed closer. Wild energy coursed through her veins. Papillon wouldhave cowered, but not Lady Cecilia. If he would not see her, then she would force him to. Leaning forward like she’d seen Rue do, she gave the mare a sharp squeeze.
