Page 59 of The General's Gift
But no one looked down on her. Instead, they beamed, even gasped. Whispers floated to her: “Her ladyship’s daughter. Our lady, returned at last.” Smiling, she loosened her death grip on Hawk’s arm.
He placed a hand on her back, guiding her deeper into the castle. They stopped in a long gallery of portraits. Hawk gestured to one.
“This was your mother, Lady Angélique Stratton, née Angélique Conté. She was the heir of France’s most prestigious family.”
“She is so beautiful. Did you meet her?”
“Yes. That was how I recognized you. You share the same colors.”
That lady was her mother? All her life, Celeste had cursed her red hair, how it betrayed her in every crowd. And yet here was the woman who had given her such looks.
“How was she?”
“She was her age’s most celebrated beauty. There was not a single peer who was not in love with her.”
“And she must have enjoyed the attention.” Celeste brushed her fingers along the gilded frame.
“Not all men are predators, Celeste.”
She leaned closer, needing his warmth. He did not pull away.
“You are even more beautiful than she was. And you deserve the same deference, the same devotion.”
Celeste drew a sharp breath and turned to the next painting. “This must be my father.”
Behind her, Hawk’s voice deepened. “Philip Stratton, Marquess of Faversham.”
“I never let myself think of them. Not past wondering why they left me in a boat with strangers. Why—”
“Know this, Celeste. Your father loved you more than anything. When your mother left for France, he was in India. Hereturned as soon as he could, but too late. News of her death broke him. Yet he kept searching for you, though the odds were dismal.”
Her eyes closed. The words burrowed deep, searing bone and heart. She had told herself she was a foundling without past, without claim, without future.
I never knew them. But they knew me. They loved me.
“On the day he died, he made me your guardian. In the worst battle I ever fought, he would not let me charge until I swore to find you.”
These were her parents. A mother whose beauty she mirrored. A father who had carried her name through fire and blood, who had loved her across the world.
She had a past. And if she had a past, then—God help her—she might dare a future. Her parents had loved her, provided for her. And they had given her something better than a castle.
Celeste rose on tiptoe and kissed Hawk’s lips. His skin carried the warmth of the Kentish summer.
Hawk gripped her shoulders, holding her back. His eyes were tormented. “I was your father’s best friend. He chose me to protect you. Can’t you understand how this is impossible?”
“Don’t you see?” Celeste whispered. “My father may have left me estates, but his greatest gift was you.”
Hawk stared at her, at this beautiful girl who looked at him with promise-colored eyes. If she saw romance in a fortress, what could she possibly see in him? A gift? Him? She was the gift. A tulle-wrapped gift. A gift he dared not touch. Dared not believe it was his.
She frowned, her gaze searching the gallery. “What is this noise?”
Hawk stilled. What noise? The cannons? Those had to be the thumps of his heart. But there was something else. The wind moaning over battlements. How many nights had he stayed guard in his youth, listening to the wind, and kneeling on the ground to hear the enemy approach?
Hawk tucked a fiery strand under her ear. “That’s the sound of the tower.”
“Is there a tower? Where?”
Hawk pointed to the opposite corner. “Up those stairs.”
