Page 60 of The General's Gift
“Take me there.”
“It’s late—”
“Why, General. It is never too late to reconnoiter the castle’sdefenses.”
Hawk crossed his arms. “The fortress is impregnable.”
She gasped, hand pressed to her chest in mock horror. “You mean to tell me that a great leader like yourself would march blindly into battle without firsthand knowledge of the terrain? What if you are besieged? What if enemy forces are scaling the walls as we speak?”
“There is no enemy.”
None other than his treacherous arms, which wanted to hold her close; his mutinous heart, which beat faster with each of her smiles; and his insurgent blood, which ignited at the mere scent of her.
She clicked her tongue. “A true strategist prepares for all possibilities. But if you are afraid of heights, then…”
“Celeste—”
She held up a hand. “No, no, I understand. Some war heroes simply prefer solid ground. Still, if I must conquer my fears by taking small doses of the male sex, surely you must do the same with what you are afraid of.”
Hawk growled low in his throat.
Something in his expression must have alerted her to the change in him, because she took a step backward, eyes alight with mischief. “Now, my lord, there is something else to consider.”
A muscle in his jaw started to tick. “And what is that?”
She tapped a finger to her lips as if contemplating some great military maneuver. “Well, if an enemy were to breach the castle walls—unlikely, of course, with such impenetrable defenses—would you not need to test how swiftly you could reach the battlements in case of an attack? Unless of course you would stay below, commanding the action from afar?”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “I don’t command from behind, Celeste. A cavalry general leads the charge.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m quite positive I can make it to the battlements before this general.” She dared poke him in the chest, and before he could grab her untamed finger, she bolted toward the stairs, skirts swirling around her legs.
At the first step, she looked back over her shoulder. “Come, my lord! Don’t tell me the dove will reach the fray before the hawk? What would your regiment think?”
Her challenge unleashed a barrage of foreign emotions. Fear charged first—if allowed up there unsupervised, she might topple down the battlement. Irritation followed next—she had removed herself from his presence when he was not done looking at her lips. But then pride struck. She had called herself his dove. His. The moniker his men had given her. And then, the most insidious assault of all—temptation. The riotous pull to abandon discipline and charge. To chase her. To join in her folly.
Her joy was a battle cry, setting fire to his veins. And that’s why he bolted up the stairs after her, his boots striking against the stone, faster than when he charged with the heavies.
“Seems like I’ll be the first. Should I draft the terms of surrender?” Celeste’s laughter was brighter than the wind.
The battlement door sat only a few steps above them. She would win—let her. A general shouldn’t race a ballerina. Still, Hawk grunted loud enough to upset the tower doves and braced against the stone wall.
Halting, she glanced back.
A sharp pang—equal parts guilt and want—struck him. He took advantage of her hesitation and surged forward. In an instant, he had her at the waist and lifted her into his arms.
She laughed, her hands clutching his shoulders. “You tricked me! That was a foul move, Alexander de Warenne.”
His name on her lips. True to her word, she spoke it sparingly. Almost as if she treasured speaking it as much as he did hearing her voicing it.
He could barely tear his gaze from her mouth. “And you fell for it, which means you’re now my prisoner.” And he never wanted to let her go.
She gasped as he climbed the last steps with her in his arms. He drank in the sound, wanting to take full possession of it, to write his name on it, perhaps bottle it for when the only sounds he heard were bullets and screams.
Wriggling in his hold, she wasn’t a burden but a spark, so much so that he began to wonder who had captured whom. His heart thundered against hers, their bodies pressed close as he took her across the final archway onto the tower’s parapet.
The ocean spread before them, framed by the dented rocks of the battlements. The wind roared, but his body burned.
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and she smiled up at him, content in his arms. Their childish play faded. The Norman conquerors who built this fortress must have felt the same reckless pride and breathless exhilaration when they brought their brides to see the view. Were they tired of war? Were they eager for a soft future filled with colors and laughter?
