Page 67 of The General's Gift
Exactly what she used to believe. Something too beautiful to exist beyond a moment, but unforgettable in its burning. Leighton had given her the grand performance—the lingering gaze, the velvet-soft voice, the poetry spun like gold thread. The words were meant to make a girl’s heart race and leave her breathless.
Oh, Hawk… You went and found me the perfect suitor, didn’t you?
She should have been swept off her feet by now, shouldn’t she? Once, she would have believed in velvet words and a prince-like suitor shining in the sun. Fireworks could be magnificent, but gone in a heartbeat. Hawk was no prince, no poet. He was scars and silence, a man who held her steady when nightmares broke her.
He was not fireworks. He was fire.
Portia would have proclaimed the duke the winner. Celeste hesitated, fingers twirling the bloom. Leighton was waiting. Nicki was watching.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, for I was hasty. Love defies our comprehension. And I should not try to use reason to describe it. Like the Bard once said, ‘Love is merely a madness.’”
“Again!” Hawk’s voice lashed through the field like a whip.
Steel rang, and hooves thundered. Dust coated the parade ground, kicked up by the relentless rhythm of his men maneuvering under a punishing sun. Sabers clashed, horses wheeled, boots stomped the earth in perfect synchronization.
Graves rode up beside him, face carved from stone. “With all due respect, sir, I’ve never seen you allow temperaments to affect the regiment’s drills.”
Hawk’s grip tightened on the reins, and the warhorse shifted beneath him. “We will be leaving soon. They must be prepared. There is no other way.”
His mind should be on the Peninsula. On the coming campaign. On the men before him.
Instead, it was on Celeste. With Leighton.
Leighton, all charm and easy aristocratic confidence. Sitting across from her. Smiling at her. Watching her with the same unhidden appreciation Hawk had barely kept from his own eyes.
And then, Leighton’s hands on her.
His blood roared. “Prepare to charge!”
The men obeyed, falling into line, readying for another round.
Graves exhaled. “Sir—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“Where’s the dove?”
The words came from behind Hawk, muttered just loud enough to carry. Hawk’s entire body went still. The troopers shifted in their saddles, muttering among themselves.
“Aye, bet she could charm him into calling it a day.”
A heartbeat of silence.
A muscle clenched in Hawk’s jaw. “Dismissed.”
Boots scuffed and horses turned as the regiment broke formation and retreated from the field.
Hawk remained behind. Celeste would have the young love of her dreams. What she was owed after years of tulle and shadows. What Philip would have wanted for his daughter. Not a life shackled to a man who carried war in his bones, who had forgotten how to laugh.
Better to send her away now, while he still could. Because one more smile, one more laugh, one more kiss, and his lines would break.
Exhaling, Hawk peeled the gauntlet off his hand, and drew the lock of hair from the inner lining of his coat. Copper curled softly between his scarred fingers. It seemed pale now that he had touched the living strands.
He closed his fist. But the memories surged—Celeste smiling up at him, Celeste racing up the stairs, Celeste burying her face in his chest, Celeste playing, teasing... dreaming.
He had given her to Leighton. And still, she was everywhere.
***
