Page 49 of The General's Gift
Hawk swore and tugged the reins, slowing the stallion to a stop. With an arm wrapped around her middle, he pulled her into his lap.
She let out a small, broken sound—the kind that punched straight through him.
“Shhh,” he murmured.
She buried her face in his coat. And sobbed. Silent sobs that shook her slim frame. The kind of weeping that came from deep inside, from a place that had been holding too much for too long.
Hawk tightened his arms around her, stroking up her back. He could barely deal with her laughter and her defiance. But this—this undone, fragile girl, she unraveled him.
He should’ve taken her home before facing the troopers. He shouldn’t have exposed her to his world. He had no excuse. He had failed her again.
“You were never in danger. Those were my men. I recruited each one.” More importantly. He knew himself. If any had dared lay a finger on her, they would’ve lost it and the entire arm.
“I know. I feel safe with you… It’s just—I trust you, and my heart kept drumming. I trust you, and my breathing was ragged, and my stomach hurt. I trust you and dread coiled right here.” She made a fist and pressed against her chest.
“I trust you, but my body betrays me. How pathetic is that, my lord?”
Hawk closed his eyes. The hole she made in his chest ached.
“Call me Alexander.”
She shifted, pulling back just enough to look at him.
Her lashes were wet, her cheeks damp, her lower lip trembling. “Why?”
“You trust me with your safety. I will trust you with my name.”
He forced the words into shape. Told himself it was not surrender, not the raw urge to give her everything she asked. A concession, nothing more. A commander’s strategy to steady frightened troops. He repeated those words as he kissed her forehead and willed himself to believe in them.
***
The fire cast flickering shadows over the walls, the embers glowing low and sullen, much like the thing simmering inside him. Hawk pushed away the pen. No point in trying to work while she slept on his couch. Celeste curled into herself, his coat swallowing her frame, one hand tucked under her cheek, a tangle of curls bright against the battered upholstery. Utterly unguarded, utterly alone. She should be laughing, waltzing, choosing ribbons—not curling into herself, seeking safety in a man who had failed her.
Hawk stood and walked to her.
What will I do with you, Little Tulle? I can’t stay close to you, yet I can’t seem to command my legs to leave you.
One curl had fallen across her lips, shifting slightly with each exhale. His hand itched to brush it away. He should leave her to rest, step out, clear his head. He should not be standing here, staring at her like some lost fool who had forgotten his duty. One touch. Just to brush it away. Just to—no.
He would not add fuel to this reckless attachment. He was her guardian. Her protector. And that had to be enough. He had one goal—help her to heal. And he would see to it.
A knock on the door. Hawk exhaled sharply, already irritated. The door creaked open, revealing Graves’ expectant face.
“About time, Captain.” Hawk shifted, blocking his view.
But Graves saw her anyway, and his eyes almost bulged out of his sockets. “She is sleeping on your couch? Everyone knows itis off limits. You bled two pints into that upholstery. Declared it your battlefield trophy. You once assigned stable-mucking duty to the Marquess of Worcester for brushing lint off that cushion.”
Hawk cleared his throat. “That was a deliberate provocation. And Worcester deserved it.”
“Is Lady Cecilia ill? Should I summon a doctor? The regiment’s new surgeon is still on duty. That said, perhaps we should avoid favoritism. When I took ill last winter, I was given a mug of hot water and told to walk it off.”
Hawk’s fingers flexed against the doorframe. “She was tired.”
When they arrived at the house, she had been half asleep. If he had not been holding her close, she would have slipped under his horse’s hooves. He suspected the emotional afternoon had drained her, and despite sleeping with the maid close by, she still had to be having nightmares.
Graves frowned, his arms folded over his chest. “So are most of us, sir. Yet we remain vertical. If her room’s uncomfortable, I can require the maid to make the necessary arrangements.”
She was comfortable where she was. And woe to the man who tried to move her.
