Page 68 of The General's Gift
Hawk entered the war room, the scent of aged leather mingling with polished wood. A faint rustling drew his gaze downward.Othello sat amidst scattered papers, contentedly chewing on a letter that bore Wellington’s seal. Hawk exhaled. Some men were born great, some achieved greatness—and some shredded his paperwork.
He bent down and scooped the puppy into his arms, the soft fur soothing beneath his fingertips.
“You are not worth your name. How can you bear to be here while she is outside?”
A pang twisted deep within his chest, a raw, possessive ache. He could not have her, damn it. Fate had given her to him to hold only long enough to give her away.
The door opened abruptly. Hawk jerked upright. Nicki stood framed in the doorway, his expression guarded, eyes alert.
Grunting, Hawk placed Othello back on the floor. “How was it?”
Nicki stepped forward, his brow furrowing. “What is wrong with her?”
“There’s nothing wrong with her,” Hawk said angrily, but then ice flooded his veins. “What happened? Did she flee? Where is she?”
“She is fine,” Nicki held Hawk’s gaze. “Probably dressing for dinner right now. This afternoon… I noticed something off about her. Whenever Leighton, or even the coachman, spoke or gestured towards her, she flinched. She is a good actress, I have to give her that, but her eyes. She is afraid of men, isn’t she?”
“Your perception will serve you well in battle and the war room.” He exhaled forcefully and held his son’s gaze. “But this stays between us.”
“Why?” Nicki asked.
Hawk tightened his fists. “She was attacked by a man in the past.” The words were scraped out of him. She had been hurt. And he wasn’t there to protect her.
Nicki’s hand drifted to the hilt of his saber. “Name the bastard and I will—"
“He was a diplomat. Beyond my reach. At least for now.” Hawk had already contacted the Foreign Office. Soon, he would know.
Nicki paced to the bookshelves and smiled wistfully. “She sparkled. Entertained the group with her wit and laughter… yet it was translucent somehow. Lady Cecilia is like the finest Sèvres porcelain. Lovely to behold, luminous when the light catches her—but touch her roughly, and she will break in two.”
Hawk’s jaw tightened at Nicki’s words. He had seen it himself in the beginning—the delicate performance, the way her gaiety always rang a little too bright, as if covering cracks beneath. But in his presence, she shed Lady Cecilia’s porcelain mask. She was Celeste—fire, stubbornness, chaos, tears, laughter. She trusted him enough to give him the unvarnished girl beneath the glaze.
“And Leighton?” he forced out, voice tight, dread pooling in his stomach. “Was he interested in Lady Cecilia?”
Nicki squared his shoulders. “I want to marry her.”
Hawk sucked in a breath. Of all the surprises one could find on the battlefield, foresight had not warned him of this. He pressed his fingertips into his throbbing temples. An image struck him, Celeste, walking down the aisle to his son, and Hawk nearly staggered.
“It is a matter of honor,” Nicki’s voice resonated with conviction. “I cannot allow her to marry another man in fear. She is better off here with us. No one will harm her here.”
The ghostly echo of the past clawed at Hawk’s heart, choking his breath. “And when you leave for war, do you think it fair that she be made to wait here—”
“Mother waited for you, and she never complained,” Nicki snapped back, anger and hurt shimmering beneath his controlled exterior.
“Your mother died alone in childbirth,” Hawk rasped. “While I was several miles away. Three months from any news. I don’t want the same for Lady Cecilia.”
“But I—”
“I appreciate your concern, Nicki,” Hawk interrupted firmly, his voice quiet but unyielding. “But Lady Cecilia is my burden, not yours.”
Nicki’s jaw tightened, eyes darkening. After a stiff salute, he headed for the door.
Once there, he paused at the threshold, his expression unreadable. “Leighton is in love with her. Expect a proposal by the end of the week.”
Alone, Hawk leaned back, shoulders heavy, heart aching as though pierced clean by a bayonet.
It was what he had wanted. Yet his chest burned—the winning strategy he had set in motion felt exactly like losing everything.
Celeste slid into her usual seat at the dining table, the soft scrape of her chair magnified in the taut silence. Captain Graves sat across from her, his posture as rigid and composed as if they were under enemy fire, his gaze shifting subtly between Hawk and herself. Beside her, Rue unfolded her napkin with deliberate calm, though the telltale flush staining her friend’s cheeks betrayed simmering frustration.
