Chapter 12
Hawk halted outside Celeste’s chamber. The grandfather clock struck the eleventh hour.
Candlelight glowed through the crack beneath the door.
She was still awake then. He had not seen her all day.
Not at luncheon. Not at dinner. The table had been…
too peaceful. No laughter bubbling over the soup, no nonsense about fairies or verses to rattle the silver.
What in God’s name was he doing here? A general did not pace the hallways on account of a sleepless ward. He yearned—no, that was the wrong word. He intended to see her settled, nothing more.
Had she taken ill? He could save men from a six-pounder, but not from diseases. But she had been fine after the fitting debacle. Perhaps that’s why she denied him her presence. She was sulking. Well, let her.
But light flickered under her door. And sulking or not, she was under his rule. And in his house, everyone obeyed the curfew. He would remind her of it, enforce it if necessary, and be done. A glass of port awaited him in his bedroom. Order restored. Distance regained.
He rapped once. “Go to sleep.”
A pause. Then her voice, soft but unrepentant: “In a moment.”
His shoulders drew taut. “Now.”
“It’s too early.” A yawn followed, careless and feline, mocking him with its ease. “I’m not sleepy.”
He ground his teeth. “Lady Cecilia, everyone in the house obeys curfew.”
“I thought you agreed to call me Celeste.”
The sound of that name slid under his guard. He felt it in the hollow of his chest, unwelcome and too familiar. Of course, she would use it against him. “Celeste, snuff the candles.”
“I thought English ladies danced all night and slept until noon in London.”
He almost saw her smile in the dark. His mouth flattened. “This is not London.”
Silence stretched. He could hear faint movement inside her chamber. His patience—always tight-drilled, ironclad—pulled thin. He had ordered men to hold against cavalry charges with less resistance than this slip of a girl gave him from behind a closed door.
Enough.
He turned the latch. The hinges yielded with a low groan.
She sat on the window seat, framed by the dark panes, candlelight haloing her as if she were some goddess he had no business profaning. A book lay forgotten in her lap, the page edge caught against her fingers.
Her hair was plaited in one thick rope, and rested against her shoulder, loose strands glinting like sparks from the flame. And the prim white of her camisole glowed against her skin.
His fists curled at his sides. He had faced cannon smoke, sabers flashing, the roar of a thousand throats—never had his pulse jumped so violently, nor his body betrayed him so quickly, as it did at the vision of a girl in a nightshirt reading by candlelight.
He stepped farther into the room, boots thudding on the carpet. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes were heavy-lidded. She was tired. And yet still resisting. Always surrendering to whim, never to order.
“Go to sleep, Celeste.”
She lifted her chin, all innocence and disobedience. “I can’t.”
His brows snapped together. “Why not?”
“I’ve told you. I sleep only with the lark, and the nightingale is still singing.”
His jaw flexed. “Under my roof, you will sleep when I say so.”
Her chin trembled. “Must you order everything then?”
“You are clearly exhausted. Why fight this?”
For a long moment, she was silent, staring at the pages.
“Because I’m lonely,” she finally whispered. “There. I said it. I miss my friends. I cannot sleep in this house all alone with so many new noises. At first, I was too tired, but now—” Her voice cracked. “Now, I simply cannot close my eyes.”
The confession hit like a volley.
“You will think me weak now, won’t you? England’s most fearsome and brave general saddled with such a pathetic ward. What will you do, my lord? Order more sackcloth? Perhaps you can place one on my head and throw me into the ocean.”
Hawk’s fist curled at his side. He had wanted discipline, not this admission that scraped raw at something he could not armor. Weakness, fear—he despised them. Yet, hearing them in her voice opened a bloody hole in his chest.
A sackcloth would be easier.
Without a word, he bent and swept her up, one arm braced beneath her knees, the other strong across her back. She was lighter than he expected—warm, fragile, a softness he had no training for.
Her hands flew up, clutching tight around his neck. “What are you doing?” she whispered, breath feathering against his skin. “Carrying the heroine is not the prerogative of a fairy godfather.”
His mouth curved at the absurdity. Fairy godfather. Once, the epithet had grated like a musket ball lodged too deep to dig out. But here, with her cheek pressed to his chest, he felt the sting shift. If being her godfather meant holding her like this, God help him, he wanted it. Fiercely.
Her weight melted into him. He cursed the bed for being so close. He had a mad urge to keep walking. To carry her away, down corridors, into the night—anywhere—so long as she slept safe in his arms.
Reluctantly, he bent to lower her, each inch of her slipping from him like the loosening of a vow.
He set her gently on the mattress, tucking the blanket around her with the same practiced care he used when securing his kit before a march.
Only this kit breathed, and her hair spilled like fire across the pillow, and the sight of her safe and small beneath his roof made him gladder than any battlefield triumph ever had.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice clipped to mask the pull in his chest, “your maid will sleep in the adjoining chamber.”
Her eyes fluttered, heavy-lidded, lips parted in some quiet protest.
Hawk dragged the chair closer to the bed. “For now, I will sit here. And you will sleep.”
She brushed at her eyes, then glanced at him. “That chair cannot be comfortable.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
Her brows lifted. “Where?”
He leaned his head back, voice flat. “A drainage ditch outside Badajoz. Rain up to my ears. Dead mule for company. I assure you, this is a feather bed by comparison.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she shifted under the blanket, watching him with those dancing eyes. “Tell me a story? Something to help me sleep?”
“No.”
“I could stay awake, listening to the nightingale…” Her lashes lowered, then lifted again. “But I would rather listen to your voice. Please?”
The word slid under his armor like a blade. She could have routed entire companies with that single plea.
“Fine. A story.” He growled low in his throat. “Once, there was a general who told his men to sleep. And they did. The end.”
A tiny smile curved her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. She exhaled, the sound soft and trusting. Hawk sat there, staring at her in the candlelight, telling himself he would remain only a moment longer. Just until he was certain she slept.
But the warmth of the chamber wrapped around him, and the steady rhythm of her breathing lulled him. His own body, honed to outlast sieges, betrayed him at last.
His final thought was drenched in bitter irony. The general who never surrendered was holding the line in a lady’s bedchamber. And yet, when sleep overtook him, there was a smile on his lips.
***
Hawk jolted awake to a strangled cry. His hand shot to his side, reaching for the sword that wasn’t there. His blood ran cold—an intruder had breached the room, steel would find his throat, the enemy had followed him home.
He surged upright, lungs dragging for air, before the silence caught him. No bugle. No clash of sabers. No Spanish sky above him, only four walls, heavy curtains, the hush of his country house at night.
The light was faint. A single candle guttered near the bedstead. And there, curled on her side, Celeste whimpered, breath uneven, her fingers clutching at the sheet like a soldier gripping his musket in a storm.
With eyelids moving, she spoke words he could not understand, but felt their pain in his bones. She was having a nightmare.
He lowered himself onto the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. Slowly, he slipped an arm around her.
“Shhh. I’m here. I’ve got you,” he whispered, hoping his rough voice could convey some of the tenderness aching in his chest.
She was reliving something—he could feel it in the tension of her limbs and how her hands clutched at nothing.
Her body jolted against his chest, a muffled “No, no, please” breaking from her lips.
He could fight men. He could flank a regiment. But this—what enemy could he cut down for her now? He didn’t know what to do. So he drew her closer, gathering her against him, hoping that his strength would seep into her and help her battle whatever demons she was facing behind her eyelids.
“Easy,” he whispered, lips to her temple. “You’re safe. No one will touch you while I stand.”
Her eyelashes fluttered open. For a heartbeat, disorientation clouded her gaze.
Then her eyes widened in recognition. They lay tangled close, breathing the same air.
Hawk braced for a scream. He got a whimper, and her nose burrowed against his chest. Her feet found him suddenly—cold, quick—darting against his calves like a fish flashing for cover under a rock.
The jolt of it stole his breath. He had an all-consuming urge to fold her wholly beneath him, to shield every trembling part of her under the hard weight of his body until nothing could touch her again.
He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Who hurt you, Little Tulle?”
She went still in his arms. “No one. No one would dare to hurt Lady Cecilia. She has the general who never surrenders as her fairy godfather.”
Fairy godfather. Christ. He was that damned thing, was he not?
She turned from him, curling to face the wall, her back pressed to his chest. She could deny it, but he knew better.
Something had marked her. But he swallowed the questions.
Pressing would break her, and he was unsure he could bear to hear the truth.
He began to ease away, meaning to retreat to the chair, back to his fairy-godfather post. Distance meant order.
Her hand caught his—small, cool, too frail for his peace of mind. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”
The word lanced him. He gave in, lowering himself beside her. She turned into him, her cheek fitting beneath his jaw, her body curling against his chest. One arm slipped around her without thought, holding her close, her breath fanning warm over his throat.
The position undid him, sharpening his hunger—the weight of her pressed to him, the rise of her breast brushed his ribs with each inhale, the slender curve of her hip nestled against his thigh. Stay still, breathe, remember who she was and who he had to be.
He bent anyway, pressing his face into her hair. Lilac and warmth wrapped around him, dangerously sweet.
He brushed his lips over the crown of her head—chaste, a gesture fit for a fairy godfather. At least that’s what he told himself. The fire in his chest knew otherwise.
“Now sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll guard you. If the nightmares come, I’ll chase them away.”