Page 53 of The General's Gift
Celeste tried—in vain—not to stare at the illustration. Where was their clothing?
The man’s powerful arm angled—
The woman’s leg—
Heat coiled in her belly. She swallowed hard.
“I—I’m not certain,” she managed, her voice far too high, “but it seems they’re—well…” Celeste turned the book upside down. And that brought her face-to-face with the hero’s male endowments.
Her cheeks burned, and she shut the book with a soft thud. “I never knew a Shakespearean heroine could do that.”
No, truly. Where in the text had this been? Had Rosalind, beneath all that clever banter, been doing this? Had Beatrice, when she teased Benedick, secretly imagined this? Titania had certainly loved Oberon—but had she loved him… like this?
A fresh wave of heat flushed through her. “Er, Prue. Help me collect them. I will have to study them more closely.”
“All of them, Lady Cecilia?”
Celeste fanned herself. “Yes, dear. Every last one.”
Prue’s lanky arms strained to contain the pile of scandalous tomes. Celeste slid the illustrated book inside the Shakespeare folio she’d been reading, hoping the Bard’s formidable cover would hide such an indecent secret.
Just as they prepared to slip out, footsteps sounded outside. Celeste’s head shot up, breath stalling. If being seen were not tragedy enough, Prue’s slipper caught in the carpet, and she went sprawling. Books spilled everywhere. One fell open, displaying not one, but two heroines locked in a tight embrace. Prue lifted desperate eyes to Celeste.
“Under the table, quickly.”
As Prue dragged the last tome beneath the heavy oak desk, the door swung wide. Hawk strode in, blocking the light from the corridor—and dear God, Prue had been right. His shoulders were as wide as a cathedral’s door, and he was so awesome and fearsome and handsome and every-some that Celeste nearly swooned.
He scanned the room, eyes narrowing when they landed on her. “Celeste. There you are. Didn’t you hear the roll call?”
She stepped forward, just far enough to block his view of the desk where Prue’s skirts were visibly quivering.
“Oh, that?” she asked, blinking innocently. “I assumed it was some sort of military screech designed to frighten pigeons off the roof. Or possibly ballerinas out of hiding. Quite effective, if that was the goal.”
His brow arched. “It was meant to summon wayward wards to luncheon. Though next time, I might employ a bugle—or a search party.”
Her heart stampeded in her chest. The hero of theMerchant of Venusbecame Hawk vividly in her mind. What if she were the heroine? The idea made her legs go weak. She was certainly flexible enough, her brain supplied unhelpfully.
“You’re flushed.” He reached for her forehead, the calluses on his fingertips grazing her skin.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered. “I was only—”
“You have a fever.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll summon the physician—”
“There’s no need. I—I was reading Shakespeare.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“It was a very tense passage.”
He glanced at her wrist, then closed his hand around it. She imagined Hawk straining like the hero in the lithograph, muscles flexing, mouth parted…
“Your pulse is racing.”
“Passion—I mean, um, pressure! From…all the reading.”
“I won’t play games with your health, Celeste. You have a fever, and I will not have you collapsing on the road tomorrow.”
“What?” She blinked, panic rising. “You can’t cancel our trip to my father’s castle.”
