Page 61 of The General's Gift
Celeste’s gaze swept over the cliffs, the distant waves crashing below. “It’s magnificent,” she whispered.
He lowered her legs to the ground slowly, reluctant to let her go. She stepped forward, her hands poised on the rough rock of the battlements. He doubted the stone had ever been touched by something so fine.
He should step back. The danger was not that she would fall from the battlement, but that he would. Into her. Into the reckless surrender of wanting her with no defenses left.
While she admired the wild countryside, his gaze was fixed on her. His ballerina-turned-heiress was enamored of the view, while her general-turned-guardian was enamored of her.
He pulled her back against his chest as if he had every right to lean his chin against the top of her head. He wanted to do somuch more, but settled into breathing in her scent and closing his eyes.
Every inch of his body that touched hers ached, and if he had a knife, he would’ve ripped his front open so he could fit her inside of him. What in heaven’s name was this feeling? He was not wounded, yet he was not whole. His breath faltered, and his heart was a dull drumbeat in his breast. She had invaded his chest with cunning or grace, with subtlety or sharp maneuvers—it mattered not. Hawk inspected himself like a battle terrain, and could no longer deny it. He had fallen. But not in combat. He was in love.
His stomach clenched, a coil of longing spreading to encompass all of his battle-weary frame. He loved her with a consuming certainty. How could a soldier endure such a state? Love did not obey the rules of war. Love did not wait for permission. Love did not respect rank.
She lifted her graceful arm and touched his cheek, her palm brushing against his bristles and then lingering. Just like that, she cut through his lines, trampled over walls he had spent a lifetime reinforcing.
Hawk didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. She felt too good, and his chest expanded beyond his ribs, as if he had finally inhaled after years without air.
He breathed in her scent, brushing his face against her hair. Instead of pulling away, she gave in, resting her head on his shoulder. Hawk hadn’t known trust could taste this sweet.
“I’ve never seen so many colors,” she said, her voice warmed by the sun.
Hawk’s throat worked. He looked out, eyes sweeping the same view. The land he had bled for. It was all gray to him.
“Describe them for me.”
“Well… that field down there is bright green. Almost unruly. It looks like it would run wild if it could. The one beside it isdeeper. Wiser. The color of waiting. And the sky is soft blue. Not the blue of uniforms or porcelain. The kind that makes you want to breathe deeper. The hedgerows are tipped with gold. And the clouds have this blush—like they’ve just heard something scandalous and aren’t sure whether to be offended or thrilled.”
A breath escaped him. Nearly a laugh. He didn’t open his eyes.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked, lightly. As if it were nothing.
“Red,” he said finally.
“The red of roses? Of battle flags?”
He looked down at her. “The red of your hair.”
Hawk gathered the unruly strands and smoothed them over her shoulder, then he sifted his fingers through the coppery locks until the wind stole them back from him.
Leaning in, he pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, where her pulse fluttered. What if she were right? What if Philip had brought them together not for him to be her guardian, but her husband? Heat seared through him, fierce and consuming, as if his ribs had been pried open and the breath of life poured straight into the hollow. What if there was more than war ahead—what if he could come home not to silence and shadows, but to her laughter echoing through his halls, to children with her eyes, to mornings not shattered by bugle calls but by him warming her chilled feet?
“You said you saw the future in this castle.” He turned her in his arms, facing a frontal attack, without reserves in sight, without a place to retreat, his flanks unguarded. “What do you want in the future, Little Tulle?”
“I want a love so shiny and pure that it will color all these hills.”
Her eyes lit up, full of something too bright, too untouched, too young. Her fingers curled against his chest as if she hadalways known he’d be there. She laughed softly, breathless, as if love were a play and she was already stepping onto the stage.
“The giddy love of Beatrice and Benedick. The poetry of Orlando and Rosalind. The stolen thrill of Juliet’s first kiss. The firsts of everything.”
Hawk stilled. His throat locked, while his heart slammed against his sternum like a soldier pounding on a barred gate. For one disorienting instant, he swore the stones beneath his boots shifted, the ground itself rebelling—because how could he stand steady when she wanted a kind of love he had long ago burned out of himself?
She wanted the young love of Juliet, but he was no unscarred Romeo. She wanted the lyrical devotion of Orlando, who believed poetry could win a woman’s heart. But Hawk’s hands had never held a poet’s quill, only a soldier’s sword.
She wanted a lover who dreamed.
And he was made of waking.
There were no firsts left in him. This thing inside him that clamored for her, this love, would never be young—it was fierce, desperate, ruined at the edges. It would not dance under the moonlight, but kneel in the dirt, bloodied and ruthless, swearing itself hers.
