Page 41 of The General's Gift
Graves let out a stunned breath. “I’ll be damned.”
Hawk didn’t answer. His chest was tight, his throat dry. Watching his son charge with no regard for personal risk amazed him. Look at himself, afraid of the personal cost while his ward needed him. He hoped Philip could not see him now.
She needed someone willing to take the hit for her, to guide her through the chaos, and to break through the barriers of her fear. Her life had been changed drastically, and he was the only person she trusted. His reserve could not matter. His desire, his longing—irrelevant. A commander didn’t abandon his post because the duty was too heavy. The strongest carried the most weight. That was the way of things. And Celeste needed him to carry this.
“Leighton is a good leader for a dukedom,” Hawk said, watching him leave the field. “But not for war.”
Beside him, Graves hummed in agreement. “Perhaps you’re right. Rumor has it he’ll sell his commission soon and take his seat in the House of Lords.”
Hawk grunted, unsurprised. He had seen it before—a young noble, at first intoxicated by the promise of glory, discovering that war was not about dashing uniforms and shining medals, but about mud, blood, and orders that sent men to their deaths. Leighton would do better in Parliament. Safer there, where battles were fought with words and not steel.
Graves gave him a pointed look, lifting his bushy brows. “A perfect match for Lady Cecilia, wouldn’t you say? A fine young duke with an untarnished name, a respectable fortune. And she’d be off your hands.”
Hawk’s jaw tightened. “No. She’s not ready.”
Graves nodded slowly, as if considering his words.
“How is Lady Cecilia’s riding progressing?”
Graves blinked at the abrupt shift. “Her riding, sir?”
“Yes.”
“She refuses instruction from anyone but Mrs. Archer.” Graves huffed. “But according to reports, she rides exceptionally well. Light in the saddle, quick to learn.”
Hawk exhaled slowly, his decision settling in his bones. “When does she ride next?”
“In ten minutes, sir.”
He pushed the spyglass into Graves’s hand. “I will take over her lessons.”
“But, sir, what about the drills?”
“You will stand in my place.”
Graves squinted at him as if trying to decode the sudden shift in tactics. “Forgive me, sir, but I thought the plan was to keep her occupied with tutors, not teach her cavalry maneuvers.”
Celeste was not ready for ballrooms, not ready for courtships. She needed to learn to control her own fear.
And if he had to be the one to be burned, then so be it.
***
Hawk strode from the drilling field to the stables. She had to be downcast after last night’s confession. He had to reassure her. Make her understand he would guide her through this so she could let go of her fear and live to the fullest. And most important of all. He would keep his distance. Assume once and for all the position she needed from him—the fairy godfather. Even if it killed him.
It was with these pleasant thoughts that a general had to enter his own stable courtyard and stop dead in his tracks.
She stood by the mounting block, bathed in afternoon light, the breeze teasing at the loose tendrils of her fire-bright hair. It spilled in soft waves down her back, too long, too untamed for regulation. What in blazes was she wearing? Was that his regiment’s uniform?
The coat hugged her shoulders, braided silver gleaming. It should have made her look soldierly. It did not. The jacket was too fitted, molding to her waist before flaring just slightly at her hips. Seeing her in the 13th Dragoons’ colors—his colors—pierced the void in his chest.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. Beneath it, she wore cavalry breeches, tucked into polished black boots. A white tulle skirt fluttered over it, absurdly sheer, catching the wind like the wings of some ethereal creature. The light fabric shifted as she moved, barely concealing her thighs.
Hawk’s pulse slammed against his throat. If she rode into battle like that, the enemy wouldn’t know whether to fight her or fall to their knees.
“I believed your trousseau included riding habits, Lady Cecilia.”
The wind lifted her ridiculous skirt, and Hawk was sure—utterly sure—that this campaign was about to become his most difficult yet.
