Chapter 18
The sprawling estate rolled by their side in soft green grass.
Birds chirped and bees buzzed, and Celeste fluttered.
Yes, fluttered atop her mount, and thank goodness dear Titania was so agreeable and didn’t mind her white-knuckled clutch on the reins.
Sighing, she peeked at the general. The sun caught in his silver hair, broad frame silhouetted against the endless blue sky, and he sat astride his stallion like a figure carved from legend.
She had to be the worst stage director to have cast him in the “fairy godfather” part. He looked every inch the male lead in a heroic play…
The thought struck her so suddenly, so violently, that she ached for her notebook, for ink, for the desperate need to break into verse.
Was this what Beatrice felt when she realized Benedick was not just a man to be bested, but a man to be loved?
Or Rosalind, when Orlando’s poetry no longer made her laugh but blush instead?
Her gaze flitted toward Hawk, and her breath caught. Things were happening too fast. Yesterday she had danced her first waltz and bantered with a general… only for him to prove to be caring and leave her utterly overwhelmed.
Could it be that she should have cast the general as her prince?
Oh, dear. She could not be trusted with such a tremendous twist. Where were Louise and Helene now?
She needed to speak with them. To learn their opinions.
It was not easy to pretend to be unflappable Lady Cecilia when her heart was beating in her throat and her whole life might be about to change… again.
The sun glowed on his broad shoulders, his thighs flexing with each powerful movement of his horse. She lifted her gaze from his legs to his face. On impulse, she batted her lashes like the actress who played Beatrice did, which made the audience swoon.
Hawk frowned. “Do you have something in your eye? Don’t stick your boots all the way into the stirrup. Just the ball of your foot. If you fall, you don’t want the horse to drag you, do you?”
“Do I?” she echoed, exasperated. Why must he ask questions now? When she was trying hard to make crucial decisions?
“No. You don’t. Are you feeling well? You seem distracted.”
He maneuvered his horse closer to her. Their knees brushed, and something happened low in her belly, a deep pull. Unaware of her predicament, he reached forward with his large hand.
Celeste stopped breathing. This might be the hand of her prince, and he was about to touch her.
“You should hold the reins with your thumbs up.”
She nodded dumbly. Her hand in his lost all capability of movement. The heroines in her books spoke of yearning in perfect sonnets—moonlight, poetry, sighs. But this was not delicate. This was a riot in her blood, a fever.
“I’ve adapted the plan for this summer,” he said.
Celeste swallowed, throat suddenly parched. “I think I’m doing the same…” And he had no idea how much.
“After our talk yesterday, as your general—your guardian, I will devise a series of short encounters with members of the male sex. They will be supervised, and you won’t be at risk. Like any fear, the remedy is to get used to the cause in small doses.”
Her pulse spiked. He gazed at her with barely concealed concern—perhaps even pity. As if she were still just Papillon, trapped in that dressing room, a coward in need of drills and remedies.
Celeste twisted the reins and looked away. “Doses of men. That sounds romantic. I will have to decline.”
“I understand that speaking about the past might be painful, but you have to visualize what happened like a battle wound. If it is not healed, it will fester.”
“So my soul is a regiment in need of drilling? You will protect me. Is that not enough?”
“As your guardian, I want you to marry and be happy. If that is to happen, you cannot panic every time you near the groom.”
Her groom? Another man. A sharp heat flared in her chest, spreading through her limbs like wildfire. If he were her prince, would he be so eager to send her away into another’s arms?
“I tire of this conversation. I thought we came here for a riding lesson, not a general’s harangue.”
She pressed her heels into the horse’s flanks. The mare surged beneath her, muscles bunching as she leapt into a gallop. Celeste clung to the reins, her fingers tight, her pulse tighter. The wind tore at her, whipping her hair into wild ribbons.
The countryside blurred—rolling fields of green and gold streaked past in flashes, hedgerows and distant stone walls nothing but fleeting ghosts. The saddle rocked beneath her, the horse’s stride relentless, and still, she pushed forward.
"Stop! You’re charging into enemy fire with no idea which way the cannons are aimed—galloping straight into disaster with no bloody sense of your line!"
What was he talking about? Then she knew. A hedge rushed closer. Wild energy coursed through her veins. Papillon would have cowered, but not Lady Cecilia. If he would not see her, then she would force him to. Leaning forward like she’d seen Rue do, she gave the mare a sharp squeeze.
“If you clear that hedge, I swear on every bloody campaign I’ve fought, I’ll tan your hide so hard you won’t be able to sit!”
Celeste ignored him. The horse gathered beneath her—a coiling mass of muscle. Then, they were airborne.
For one breathless second, she soared. Wind rushed past her, the world tilting. Her stomach dropped, her heart lurched, and a startled laugh escaped her lips.
Too soon, her flight ended. The mare’s hooves struck the ground, jarring every bone in Celeste’s body. Her balance wavered—just a little, and then a lot. With an indelicate yelp, she slid right off the saddle, landing in an undignified heap.
The grass received her, the prickly blades brushing against her fingertips and her cheeks. By the thud of the retreating hooves, Titania had to be crossing the Forest of Athens by now.
Flat on her back, staring at the blue sky, Celeste blinked. Was she dead? No, her legs were still working. Pity, if she were dead, Hawk would regret his careless words. Or he would throw her to the wolves and be done with her.
So much for proving she was no Papillon. She must have looked like a rag doll tossed aside by fate. Celeste barely had time to breathe before thundering hooves filled her ears again. She turned her head, heart still racing, just as Hawk’s massive stallion surged toward the hedge.
Flat on the earth, humbled by gravity, she saw the sheer power in how the horse gathered itself, muscles rippling beneath a gleaming coat. The perfect balance of man and beast, moving as one. And Hawk—towering, commanding, utterly in control.
He didn’t hesitate.
With a fluid grace that made her earlier attempt seem like a blancmange atop a circus poodle, he leaned forward.
The stallion launched, soaring over the hedge as if wings had unfurled from its sides.
Hawk barely moved—no flailing, no panic—just absolute certainty, as though he had never once considered falling.
What? He probably didn’t even know the concept existed.
Then, with a heavy thud, hooves met earth. He gave a sharp tug on the reins, and the horse slowed instantly beneath him.
Celeste let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. He was magnificent. A centaur king. He looked dashing and gorgeous, and if this were a fairy tale, then certainly this was the moment she swooned.
A powerful vault, and he was off the horse. As he raced to her, several pounds of muscle, sweat, and angry energy, he looked so worried, shocked even—as if he had seen his own ghost.
Celeste closed her eyes quickly, her heart pounding. This was not the reaction of a guardian, was it? But how could she be sure? When Shakespeare wanted to prove something, he staged a play within a play. Perfect! She would pretend to have fainted and see how he behaved.
When Hawk called her name, she held her eyes shut. Boots thudded against the earth. Then his hand moved about her frantically, pressing against her wrist, brushing the hair from her forehead, skating over her arms, her ribs, her collarbone. His breathing was harsh, uneven.
“Reckless girl. You will be the death of me.” His voice was low, tight. He cupped her face. “Are you hurt? What do you need from me?”
She had to understand who he was to her. How did fairy-tale princes know the princesses needed a kiss to wake up?
But her befuddling prince-to-be didn’t kiss her.
Instead, his arm passed under her shoulders, as if preparing to lift her.
Celeste’s pulse beat into her throat, and when she felt his breath close to her mouth, she pushed up on her elbows and glued her lips to his, a quick, daring peck.
The contact jolted her. His mouth was warm, firm, unsmiling, and her stomach swooped as if she had leapt another hedge.
Her eyes shot open to find his gaze staring back at her.
His expression was thunderous, and he glared at her as if she were a French foe who dared pepper him with a slingshot. For a heartbeat, he was stone, his chest heaving once, twice. He would deny her. Oh, he didn’t care for her. He didn’t—
A low groan broke from his throat, and the sound vibrated into her mouth. Locking his hands hard on her waist, he bent over her.
Then he kissed her, his mouth closing over hers with ruthless certainty. The shock pulsed through her, setting her limbs trembling. His stubble rasped her skin, and his breath poured hot against her lips. She clutched his coat. If she didn’t, she would drown in the grass.
His weight pressed along her front, as if he had no intention of sending her to suitors or doses of men.
Who needed air?
“Little Tulle,” he breathed the words against her cheek, and they felt raw, as if he had surrendered them against his will.