Page 70 of The General's Gift
“Would you excuse me? I don’t feel so well after all.”
She turned, refusing to meet Hawk’s gaze. The man who had stolen her heart—and given it away. Somewhere in her mind, Shakespeare’s heroines turned their backs on her, too.
The port seared a path to his stomach. Hawk exhaled and pushed the glass away. If only liquor could scour the day from him. He had forgotten how it was to spend the dinner in silence, listening to the shuffling footmen and the rasp of his own lungs. Wherever she was, there was noise—voices and laughter and music… Soon, she would carry that to another man’s house. The Duke of Leighton would be responsible for dealing with her comedic whirlwind. Let him. He was done.
The image of her hurt look flashed through his mind, making his chest ache. Didn’t she know it was for her own good? Damn it all to hell.
Her hurt would pass, and she would thank him. He repeated it like soldiers chanted hymns before battle. He clutched the bottle, refilled his glass, and drank in one swallow.
He had emptied half a bottle of port when the door creaked open. Why look up if he knew it was her?
He dragged his gaze up. A mistake. In the trenches, that gesture meant a bullet to the skull. It felt the same now. Celeste stood before him, dressed in a flimsy tulle concoctionthat should be banished, hair loose… untamed, defiant, too damn beautiful. A gut-punching wave of want rendered him speechless.
God help me, not now.
The chair scraped against the wood as he stood. “You will return to your room.”
His pulse juddered in his throat. She had to leave. Before he forgot himself.
Face flushed, she lifted her chin. “Or what? You will sell me to the highest bidder?” Her voice stung like a lash across his skin.
No one challenged him. Not after the hellish afternoon he had passed. Not ever.
“Or I will tan your hide like the spoiled child you are.”
She marched closer. “So you keep threatening me. I dare you to touch my flesh and send me away. Oh, no, but then the duke won’t accept a bride with your markings on her skin.”
“I forbid you to speak like a—”
“A real woman? I’m not a girl, Alexander. I have feelings and desires, and I—”
“You’re acting like a child—sneaking about half-dressed, with no thought for your reputation.”
She flinched, her gaze blurred with unshed tears.
“Leave. Now.”
She spun as if struck. A dull thud followed. When she shifted aside, a book lay on the floor.
Hawk stooped, raised it. “What is this?”
The Merchant of Venus. What was she doing with it? If she were dangerous armed with Shakespeare, she would be deadly with such erotic ammunition.
“Is this where your desires come from?”
She glided closer, catching her lip between her teeth. She ought to be contrite, ashamed. Instead, she laid her hand on the leather cover.
The room was silent except for the slow tick of the mantel clock. Lilac clung faintly in the air, threading through the richer notes of port and smoke.
“There’s a mistress who… touches herself. While her lover watches.”
A current jolted up his spine, flooding low. She couldn’t know what she was saying. His cock strained, unyielding as iron.
He closed the distance, breath ragged as after a charge. There was no snow in his veins—dammit. The moment his fingers seized her wrist, a jolt tore through him—anger, desire, the wild need he’d denied too long.
Firelight flickered in her promise-colored eyes, and for once, he wanted more than to stand guardian, more than to watch like some bloody godfather. He drew her close. Her breath hitched against him—but she didn’t pull away.
“You can play games with puppy suitors, let them crawl at your feet—but I am Alexander de Warenne. And if I will it, not a soul in this kingdom would dare stand between us. Not one.”
