Page 57 of The General's Gift
She shot to her feet, eyes locked on the castle emerging before them. He sucked in a breath—any sudden movement and she’d tumble from their high perch.
Holding the reins with his left hand, he caught her around the waist and pulled her against him. Softness collided with strength. The curve of her body fitted against his as if she belonged there.
She gasped, her hands flattening against his chest. Her breath rushed against his throat.
The wind lifted the loose curls at her temples, but she didn’t notice. Her gaze was locked on that fortress.
“Is it mine?”
His pulse sped, and he should have returned her to her seat, but instead, he tightened his hold on her. “Not if you break your neck.”
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, barely audible over the wind.
What could she be seeing? Could she find beauty in that scar upon the land?
“I thought you said it was a mountain of bricks,” he said gruffly.
“But, my lord, it is made of stones.”
“It is hard and has a war-filled past.”
“When I look at it, I can see that it has weathered much, but I see a place of endless possibilities. I see a place of romance and rest. I see a future.”
Hawk closed his eyes against the fierce ache in his chest. “You see too much.”
Her castle. Her legacy. Celeste’s throat tightened, and she buried her face in Othello’s coat. Hawk stood in the courtyard, speaking in that authoritative way that demanded attention. Perhaps if she looked at him long enough, his confidence would brush onto her.
The steward, a serious-looking man with silver at his temples, nodded along, his deference clear. What was she doing here? What if they saw through her the moment she stepped inside? They would believe her to be a fraud. A ballerina, a girl who had spent her life on stage, weaving illusions out of silk and footwork. Celeste looked at the phaeton. If she pleaded a migraine, Hawk could take her back before she had to face these people.
Rue sniffed beside her. Celeste followed her gaze. Graves paced the moat’s edge like a man testing whether it could swallow a battalion.
“Don’t even think of pushing our poor captain into the water,” Celeste said, half in jest.
Rue barked a laugh and wiped her eyes with the heel of herhand. “If I did, he’d probably thank me for the discipline.”
“Oh, Rue, you love him. Why don’t you just go to him? Take Othello and invite him for a walk in the gardens.”
“I’ve buried seven uniforms. My hands are tired of stitching shrouds.”
Celeste’s heart pinched, and she touched Rue’s arm. “But you adore him. What does it matter if you lose him later? You’re already losing him now.”
Rue’s smile wavered. “Sweet girl, what do you know about fear?”
Celeste shut her eyes. What did she know? Nothing, perhaps. She had lived with fear for so long, yet could not claim intimacy with it. If she were truly friends with her fears, would they be so cruel?
“I know fear isn’t only a feeling. It lives inside us. And if we’re not careful, it seizes the reins and makes our choices. Then we’re not living anymore—we’re only existing.”
Rue studied her for a long moment, then swiped at her tears. “A walk with the dog?”
Celeste smiled and nodded.
Rue scooped Othello from Celeste’s arms and tucked the poodle under her elbow like a musket. “I’ll be damned if I let anyone take my reins.”
With that, she marched toward Graves.
“Ambrose, step away from the water,” she called, batting her lashes so fiercely that Celeste wondered if her fear was escaping through her eyes.
The captain stiffened. “If you’re having a seizure—”
