Page 99 of The General's Gift
“They will thank me when they are sober and alive.”
His tone was sharp, final. He had no patience for grumbles. Wine dulled discipline. Posca—a soldier’s vinegar-water—honed it. Let them curse him. Better curses than coffins.
He pressed the spyglass to his brow. Through the narrow lens, he saw the enemy camp. The French had bled themselves thin—overstretched, underfed, demoralized. Jourdan was no Bonaparte, and Joseph had no business wearing a crown orcommanding men. Their lines were swollen with stolen baggage, not discipline. If they were broken here, at Vitoria, the war on the Peninsula would be done. No more backpedaling across Spain, no more ruined towns or shattered columns.
Then his gaze shifted. North of the main line, a shallow incline rolled into a grove of olive trees. Between them, just past the gully—a corridor. A natural funnel.
Hawk passed Nicki the glass. “Look there. Between the olives.”
Nicki peered through it, silent for a long moment. “That’s a defile.”
“A defile that leads straight into their flank,” Hawk said. “If we hit it before sunrise, we can roll the cavalry through before they even know we’re in motion.”
Nicki’s breath misted faintly in the air. “Could give us the field.”
“It will.” Hawk’s voice came low, almost savage.
He needed the certainty of a plan, the clean logic of maneuvers. Not the chaos of a girl who had undone him with a single smile. “Summon the officers. We meet in my tent within the hour.”
Nicki sat proudly on his warhorse. He looked forward to his first battle. Too young. Too bloody young. Celeste’s age. How had he dared to touch her?
“Listen to me,” Hawk began, then faltered.
He wanted to tell him to ride behind the lines. But cavalry officers didn’t cower in the rear. They rode in front, sabers raised, into the jaws of hell. He forced the words through a locked jaw. “Just… be careful.”
As Nicki wheeled his horse away, Hawk turned back to the defile. He could see the charge that would lead them to victory. And still, the ghost of her touch lingered, whispering that he had already lost his life’s most important battle.
***
Hawk rode through the lines, his mount steady beneath him, men snapping to salute. This was where he belonged—among soldiers, not silk. Orders, not laughter. Duty, not love.
His hands tightened on the reins. Scarred, calloused—made for sabers and maps, not for holding softness in the night. Here, everything had its place. Every object a function, every man a purpose. No ribbons draped across his desk. No midnight songs. No tulle haunting his halls.
Her smile struck anyway, unbidden.
He had to keep his head clear. Mastery over the field, the men, the chaos. Only when he was in command did the world make sense. But even as he reined in, images ambushed him—her confession of love, the shattering joy that had carried him to her bed, the way his body had betrayed him, surrendering without a fight.
Slowly, he shoved his sleeve to the elbow. The braid of copper hair clung to his wrist, a ribbon of fire against sun-darkened skin. His chest seized, stealing his breath. He shut his eyes. No. Damn it. He yanked the fabric down again, sealing the ache beneath the cuff. She was young—she would move on. Someday she would thank him.
When he ducked into his tent, the flaps scraped his coat. He bent over the war chest and dug through the papers for Vitoria’s map. His fingers struck something unexpected—an old tome, its binding cracked with age.A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
His hand stalled. He should have buried it beneath orders and reports. Instead, he drew it free. For a moment he only stared, thumb tracing the frayed edge, breath locked in his chest. Then, against every instinct, he set it on the makeshift table, lowered himself onto the stool, and lifted the cover.
For you, my Alexander—
When you are preoccupied (not sad), read aloud, and remember—the world might feel too heavy, but mischief and magic can help you lift the burden. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.
I will cry less, if I know you are laughing more.
Please return to me,
Celeste
Ache bloomed in his chest, slow, grinding, every inhale scraped raw. He laid both palms over the page, pressing down hard, as if pressure alone might hold her there, might keep her from slipping away.
A ribbon marked Scene 2, Act 3—the same she had played for him in the library. He shut his eyes. Celeste’s voice spilled into his memory: the accents, the shrill falsetto, her laughter ringing off the shelves. Ridiculous. Chaotic. Entirely illogical.
And still, the corner of his mouth twitched, traitorous. Even in memory, she unmoored him. He pressed his fist against his chest, but the hurt only spread, blooming sharp as shrapnel beneath his ribs.
