The General’s Gift (The Swans of Paris #2)

Prologue

What if you knew this was the last day you would see color? Would you look harder? Would you drink in the blue of the sky, the red of the coats, the silver of the steel—until your vision burned?

Hours earlier, under that same cruel sun, Alexander de Warenne—Earl of Hawkhurst, commander of His Majesty’s cavalry—had ridden into Spain believing glory was immortal.

Now, several leagues into the forced march, he wiped sweat from his brow and would have traded every medal on his chest for a breath of cool shade. The sun made all the colors blaze and shimmer as if aflame.

He sat his saddle, heat radiating from his charger in waves. The sky was a hard enamel blue, the kind that begrudged rain. Olive groves clung to the slopes on either side, their leaves flashing green and then silver, as if cheering the passage of His Majesty’s cavalry—and its unyielding commander.

Ahead, the road boiled with ochre dust. Every now and again came a flicker—the metallic flash of helmets, cuirasses, and spurs. The breeze carried their music: the clatter of steel on steel, a sound that prickled the skin like the promise of a blow.

Somewhere hidden under those gnarled oaks waited the French left, a bulwark that had to be broken.

Wellesley was four hours’ march behind them, waiting for their success to launch the attack on Napoleon’s center.

The liberation of Spain from Bonaparte’s grasping hand hung on what Hawk and the 13th did next.

“Today is the day I die.”

Philip Stratton, Marquess of Faversham, rode a chestnut charger that looked as weary as its rider. Philip’s copper hair was plastered against his brow, and the dark blue of his uniform was dust-stained. His skin was scorched from weeks of marching under a merciless heat, but his green eyes burned.

“We will all die in disgrace if we don’t turn Victor’s right,” Hawk replied, trying for levity to dispel the grimness of his friend’s words.

“I had a vision last night. The ghost of Stratton Castle visited me in sleep. All the males in my family received him before they died.”

A shiver flickered down Hawk’s spine, and he tightened his hands on the reins. Count on Philip to bring a shadow over such a glorious day. “I didn’t know you'd become a Gothic bastard. You and I will do our duty. Like every soldier in this line. If death meets us, so be it.”

Philip didn’t avert his eyes. “I’m not afraid of meeting my maker. I’ll embrace my Angélique at last.”

The name drifted between them like smoke. Angélique. Officers had whispered about her beauty as if she were some prize from Olympus. And she had chosen Philip. A comet strike of a love match. And look what it had earned him.

After Philip had been sent to India, she could not bear to stay alone in London and had returned to Paris—only to die in the Terror. Their daughter lost. Perhaps killed.

Hawk had seen men split open by cannon fire with less ruin in their eyes than Philip carried now. A soldier could weather a frontal assault by the Imperial Guard, but such a love left no survivors.

Hawk’s jaw tightened. Better the order of battle than surrender to feelings that made widowers of men before the first volley. And yet—there it was. A twinge of envy for a devotion so absolute, even death had not broken it.

Romantic nonsense.

Hawk had what few could boast—Mary. Dependable, sensible Mary. She had given him an heir and, God willing, was giving him another child even now. She was everything a wartime wife ought to be—steady, patient, without frills or impossible demands. Nothing like Philip’s doomed dream.

“I hope Angélique will remember your ugly face.”

Philip chuckled, but it was a brittle sound. Within five seconds, the shadow slid back over him, heavy as a burial shroud. “My affairs are in order. All but my daughter.”

“You did all you could,” Hawk said. “You hired the best agents, you never ceased to inquire—”

“Not enough,” Philip ground out, teeth clenched. “What if it were your child? How would you sleep knowing she was unprotected and alone?”

“Have you considered she met the same fate as Angélique?” The words came harsher than he intended. “During those blood-soaked months, the French spared neither woman nor child.”

Philip spurred his chestnut forward half a pace and gripped Hawk’s shoulder. “I know she is alive. I need you to find her for me.”

Hawk frowned. “Help me crush the French. Then you can find her yourself.”

Philip looked away. “I named you her guardian in my will.”

“Christ, Henri. You shouldn’t have—”

The old song boomed before he could finish. Cannons. War’s melody, deep and hoarse, like the roar of some blood-daubed beast. Hawk had been hearing it since his first battle, and yet, it never failed to lift the hairs on his arms.

Hawk raised his glass. Below, the enemy flank stretched longer than their intelligence had suggested.

Out of the dust, a column of cuirassiers emerged, their breastplates flashing like a thousand mirrors, the crests of their helmets catching fire from the Spanish sun.

Behind them, infantry bristled in tight formation, tall bearskins rising like a wall above the bayonets.

Three Frenchmen for every two of his. Two guns for every one.

And the way they cheered their horsemen was enough to make any recruit wish himself back in Bond Street, safe and unblooded.

Hawk lowered the glass, jaw tight. “Your ghost had better intelligence than us.”

Just then, his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Graves, reined in hard beside Hawk and held out a missive, sealed in blue wax.

“A courier, sir. From the French.”

Hawk had once seen Graves take a bayonet to the ribs, stagger to his feet, and steady a crumbling line before bleeding out in the surgeon’s tent—only to ride the next day. Graves never blinked at odds. Which made his silence now… deafening.

Hawk took the message and broke the seal.

To the Commander of the British Flanking Force: You are surrounded by superior numbers. For the sake of your wounded, we offer honorable terms of capitulation. Refuse, and we cannot be responsible for what follows.

Général de division De Lapp.

Capitulation.

The word swam in his stomach like black oil until he thought he would vomit. Heat surged up his neck, yet his hands were ice on the reins. Hawk saw himself on his knees, the saber torn from his hand and laid at an enemy’s feet. Saw the 13th stripped of their colors, their faces hollow with defeat.

The French and his own regiment would see him broken. In shame.

Hawk crushed the letter, then let it fall into the mud, where it belonged.

No surrender. Anything but that.

Hawk lifted the spyglass to one eye. The French left flank was overextended, weighted by supply wagons near the low ridge.

Between those wagons and the ravine mouth, there was a patch of churned earth where a creek had flooded and dried, leaving a hardened shelf of earth.

There—God above, there it is. A gap. Small as a needle’s eye, but enough.

He could take two squadrons, and strike there. While the grenadiers hit the front, the 13th would tear through the gut of their flank like a blade. A pincer. It was a gamble. But surrender was not an option.

Behind him, the officers waited. Hawk turned in the saddle and raised his voice so that every man in the 13th Light Dragoons could hear him.

“Soldiers, the enemy wants us to lay down our arms. But the 13th are not prisoners. We were born for the charge. For the clash of steel. For glory. The 13th has never surrendered. Not in Flanders. Not in India. Not in Portugal. And not today. If any believes bowing to the French is an option—dismount now.”

The ridge held its breath. Not one man moved.

“Good,” Hawk said, his voice dropping to a growl. “The Hawk never yields. And neither will his men. Ride with me—and tonight, glory herself will remember your names. To arms!”

Cheers split the air, and sabers rattled, the sound rolling like thunder across the line.

“Graves,” Hawk said, “I want two squadrons mounted and ready to ride light. Stripped kits. Full blades. They’ll take the creek. Tell Quartermaster Ferris I’ll have his head if a single hoof stumbles on that descent.”

“Aye, sir.” Graves thundered down the line, shouting for captains and formation leaders.

Hawk turned to Philip. “Order your grenadiers into position. We’ll draw them to you while the 13th moves to gut their flank.”

His friend didn’t move. “Only if you give me your word.”

Hawk’s spine stiffened. “This is not the bloody time for ghost stories.”

“This isn’t a story.”

Hawk’s eyes flicked to the battlefield. The moment was upon them. If he hesitated now, the next morning would see them in a French pen.

Hawk exhaled hard through his nose. “We survive this day, I’ll listen to all your premonitions over brandy.”

Philip didn’t smile. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small pouch, cinched tight with a black ribbon.

“What the hell is that?”

Philip pressed it into Hawk’s hand. “Angélique sent me this before… It’s my daughter’s. Lady Cecilia Stratton. Yesterday was her birthday. She just turned fifteen.”

Hawk stared at the thing. At the madness of it. “You’ll find her yourself, you stubborn bastard.”

“You are the only one I trust.”

Hawk opened the paper. Why, he could not tell. There was a lock of hair inside, its vibrant red catching the dull light filtering through the smoke. His chest tightened, and a shiver ran up his spine.

Hawk’s throat felt parched. “You have my word.”

Philip gave a sharp nod, and his shoulders went down a notch.

The thing shone against his black glove. Pale against the glare of a Spanish battlefield. He swore under his breath, but tucked it into his coat as if it were a damn jewel.

Smiling wickedly, Philip spurred his horse. “Let’s give the bastards something worth writing songs about.” And he was off, his grenadiers falling in behind.

Saber held high, Hawk led the cavalry charge, carrying the lock of a girl he’d never met, riding into a battle no man should survive, clutching the ember of a promise he had no business making.

For one heartbeat, the world blazed in colors—blue sky, red coats, silver steel—and then the earth tore open in fire and all turned black.