Page 89 of The General's Gift
The word struck him. Celeste, smiling, breathless, clad in illusion tulle. Celeste, whispering—please. Just this once, let's pretend. My Wedding Night.
It hadn't been pretend. Not for him. Not when it had carved itself into his bones, seared itself into his soul.
"If you came here to play matchmaker," he said, voice low, "you will be disappointed."
York grew quiet. He set the cue down altogether and reached for his glass, drinking deeply. His mood shifted, the laughter draining from his eyes.
Hawk straightened. "What is it?"
A beat. Then it struck.
"The French moved," Hawk said flatly.
York nodded. "Let your boys celebrate this evening of magic. The 13th has to march tomorrow."
The music blurred. Hawk stared across the ballroom at her. Still spinning in Leighton's arms. Still smiling, though not at him.
Tomorrow, the dream would end, and the war would begin again. His time with her was up. Hawk would leave Celeste, and with her, the only part of himself that had seen color and light.
***
Hawk stood in his war room, sleeves rolled, collar loosened. He stared at the map, trying to foresee where Soult would place his troops and where to strike him. Anything to keep his mind from Celeste.
Since entering the army at fourteen, he had what his father called a compass always pointing true. There had been the suicidal mission outside Seringapatam, holding the rearguard so the wounded could limp to safety. The bitter retreat through Portugal, when his men had frostbite to the bone and he’d fed them before feeding himself.
He had done it all without blinking.
So why did this leaving feel like treason? He stared at the map until the rivers blurred and looked like obstacles between him and her. He was doing his duty—so why did it feel like tearing out his own ribs and laying them on the map? Because this time, the compass didn’t point south. It pointed up the stairs. To her.
His heartbeat was a dull drum. Every time his thoughts flicked to her, his throat tightened until he could barely swallow.
He heard the door creak open behind him.
Graves entered, boots clicking once then falling silent.
Hawk exhaled and found his friend’s gaze. He needed Graves’ unflinching support more than ever.
“The military chest will arrive with Calthorpe,” Hawk said. “Ensure the officers are briefed by dawn. I want the men ready to march with the first light—no excuses, no delays.”
Graves stood tall in the candlelight, eyes shadowed. He unsheathed his saber. Then he held it out, hilt-first.
The candle guttered between them. Outside, the wind beat against the windows like distant drums.
Hawk stared at the blade, then at the man. His most stalwart officer.
“You’re resigning.”
Graves stood at attention, boots planted firm, his face the picture of stoicism save for the iron line of his jaw. “I want to stay. Marry Mrs. Rue Archer, if she’ll have me. The old girl says my scars give me character. Poor woman’s eyesight must be going.” A dry huff, the closest he’d ever come to a joke. “But she sees me. Not the soldier. Just… me.”
Hawk had always believed Graves would outlast him in uniform. But Graves wanted to be loved more than he wanted the war.
Hawk shut his eyes. “The French have overextended their supply lines between Burgos and Salamanca. If we strike hard enough, we can push them out of the Peninsula. Not just a victory. A turning point.”
“General… I’m fifty. Been under colors since I was fifteen. Never knew much beyond the lash, the drum, and the smell of black powder. No family but the regiment. No home but the field.” Graves paused, eyes fixed somewhere over Hawk’s shoulder. “I’ve served. I’ve done my duty.”
“I refuse to discharge you,” Hawk said, voice rough.
Graves blinked. “Sir?”
