Page 56 of The General's Gift
The team of matched blacks tossed their heads, eager for motion. Right. He glanced at Celeste as she fluffed her skirts and settled Othello by her side. Mrs. Archer had taken her position with the practiced gravity of a battle-hardened sentry. Across from them, Graves sat stiffly, as though he expected an ambush at any moment.
Hawk gathered the reins and gave a flick, the leather taut in his grip. The phaeton lurched into motion. He kept the horses in check with the same steady authority with which he had guided countless cavalry formations—firm, unyielding, but never harsh.
While the Kent countryside opened before them, Graves kept his mouth shut. Hawk looked at him pointedly, but all he did was blush, perhaps in a silent battle with the widow.
Celeste cleared her throat. “Tell me, Captain, do you enjoy the theater?”
Graves blinked. “The theater?”
“Yes, the stage, performances, grand declarations of love under moonlit balconies...” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I imagine a cavalry officer must have a touch of the poet in him.”
Hawk kept staring ahead. Graves had the touch of a poet indeed. The poet had touched him so hard that he never recovered. Was that what she wanted? A serenader?
Graves cleared his throat. “I am afraid I am more familiar with the battlefield than the stage, my lady.”
Celeste sighed. “But surely a soldier is capable of passion! Sweeping a lady into his arms, claiming a kiss beneath the stars—”
Graves fixed her with a blank stare. “Madam, a battlefield is no place for kissing.”
“I’m not talking about an actual battlefield.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw Celeste rolling her eyes. Damn it. He was almost rolling his eyes himself. Could Graves be any more oblivious? At least Celeste was not afraid of him. That had to be a victory.
Graves frowned. “Then why bring soldiers into it?”
Poor man, Hawk felt sorry for him. Perhaps after this ride, he’d have to cure Graves of his fear of ladies.
The chaperone rapped Graves with her fan. She certainly wielded it with more flair than a saber. “Lady Cecilia, this is pointless. Captain Graves has fought in all his lordship’s battles. I saw them all. And he will never know when to stop.”
Graves stiffened.
“This man is so enamored with his own duty that a woman could parade naked in front of him and he would rather fight a Frenchman than look her way.”
Graves looked profoundly offended. “The 13th Regiment only stops, madam, when Napoleon is defeated.”
Hawk twisted the reins. What was he doing here? Graves was right—they didn’t belong here. As soon as the order came, they would embark for the Peninsula again, for a campaign that might well be their last. No matter what, they would do their duty. And this—Celeste’s colors would be changed for the greys of ashes and powder.
The hum of insects faded into the background, and a peregrine flew over their heads, its cry mournful.
Celeste’s smile dimmed. “Can you speak about my father’s castle, my lord?”
Hawk exhaled and hoped his voice didn’t sound as monochromatic as he felt. “The cliffs make it nearly unassailable. A natural fortress. No army could storm it from the sea, not without breaking their ranks against the rocks below. The landward side is walled thick with stone, reinforced in the last century against siege warfare. Any who attempts to take it would have to breach the main gate, but that would be suicide. The entrance is narrow, forcing an invading force into a bottleneck. A handful of marksmen could cut a battalion to ribbons before they reached the threshold.”
He flicked her a glance, arching a brow. “You could hold this fortress with twenty men and a week’s worth of powder.”
“Sounds like a stiff mountain of bricks.” Celeste turned to him, the wind catching a loose tendril of her hair.
He flicked the reins, guiding the horses with precision. “It was built for war. Its walls have seen blood, fire, and steel.”
“Poor walls… I wonder if they would not rather see peace.” She sighed deeply, and her gaze got lost in the view, her hand caressing Othello’s furry head.
She didn’t seem excited about her heritage. He couldn’t blame her. War was no setting for a lively girl. Just like it had not been for her mother. Better if she understood that they didn’t belong in the same place. She belonged in the salons and ballrooms, and gardens, and everything fairy tale and pure. But where he belonged, there were no happy endings.
A gloomy silence accompanied them for the last mile.
The road curved sharply, rising with the land. Hawk adjusted the reins, and the horses picked up speed. The castle emerged from the mist-laden horizon like a phantom of war. A fortress of stone and shadow, hewn into the Kentish cliffs as if time itselfhad been forced to march around it. A true Norman keep—built for war, not beauty.
Hawk glanced at Celeste, waiting for her disappointment. “Your father made renovations to the inside.”
