Chapter 19
Hawk kept his eyes on the winding path ahead, the steady rhythm of his stallion’s hooves the only sound in the dense hush of the forest. The air was damp with the scent of moss and rain-soaked earth, the shadows stretching long beneath the canopy.
It was the fastest route home. That was the only reason he had chosen it.
Celeste’s warmth was a brand against his back, her arms curled lightly around his waist. She had kissed him, damn her, and now she was cool as if the moment hadn’t unraveled every thread of his discipline.
The faster he delivered the warm, infuriating, utterly tempting bundle behind him, the better. He exhaled sharply, urging the stallion forward.
Every time she adjusted her grip, her fingers grazed his stomach. As if he were not already rock hard from the kiss. Christ, what was he thinking? If Philip had been alive, he would have had every right to call him out. And Hawk would let his best friend shoot to kill.
She was young and confused about her feelings. But what he did—the way he lost himself in her. Worse than desertion.
She leaned closer to him. “Do you know what I realized? I don’t know your first name. Everyone either calls you General or Earl, or My Lord.”
Hawk grunted. He knew what she was doing. Trying to lure him into conversation. How fast the minx recovered from their tumble on the grass, her voice soft, utterly at ease, while his throat could not be trusted to string two words.
She mimicked his grunt. “That’s an interesting name. Does it come with a snort as a surname?”
He ignored her.
“You won’t make this easy for me, will you? Would you let me call you by your first name?”
“You will call me Earl, as your station requires.” His voice was flat, controlled, final.
“Not even when we’re alone?” She breathed the words near his ear.
“Propriety is the same in company or alone.”
“You are the only person I trust.” Her tone seemed dejected, as if the confession had cost her much, the banter gone.
“I promise I won’t do it all the time. Perhaps only once or twice.
When you look deep into my eyes, or when I make you laugh, or when I say something outrageous and you threaten to tan my hide…
please? I need to know you are more than the Earl to me. ”
She placed her forehead on his shoulder and sighed. Like she did after the kiss, seeking his contact. Even furious with himself, it had taken all his willpower to leave.
He gripped the reins, resisting the urge to look at her, to see the promise in her eyes. He barely withstood the onslaught of her games, but raw honesty was like grapeshot tearing at infantry lines. The aching mess that had become his chest squeezed painfully.
This intimacy—he could not allow it to continue. What sort of unnatural bond could exist between a frilly ballerina and a battle-hardened general? If he allowed it to grow, it would only cause her pain.
He stiffened. “When you marry, you can call your husband by his first name.”
He held the line, though it cut as jaggedly as any saber. Better to wound her now than let them both bleed later.
Her sharp intake of breath sliced through his back like a lash.
She straightened and released the grip on his waist. It was a victory, he told himself, even if one bought at a terrible cost. It was better this way.
A ward didn’t call her guardian by his first name.
Not even if he craved his name on her lips more than he had craved water after a dusty battle.
Hawk guided Thirty-Eight into a steady canter, the rhythmic pound of hooves against the dirt doing little to settle the war waging beneath his skin.
Movement ahead caught his attention.
A cluster of half-dressed men moved in erratic bursts, bodies lunging, weaving. Dust kicked up in thick clouds, smearing the sweat-slicked torsos of his troopers. This was not controlled sparring, but a bare-knuckle, blood-on-the-dirt combat.
A ring had formed, and two men fought at the center—one driving forward with brutal, unpolished swings, the other ducking, slipping between punches like a predator playing with its prey.
Hawk’s jaw locked. His temper had already been a coiled fist since that damned kiss. Now, it begged for an outlet. If he weren’t their commanding officer, he would have taken off his coat and joined the brawl himself.
Hawk dismounted, boots hitting the earth with solid finality.
Celeste gazed at him, her eyes wide. “Where are you going?”
He gave her the reins. “Stay here.”
He strode to the edge of the circle. The men were so engrossed, they didn’t notice their general was in their midst.
“Enough.”
The brawlers froze. Hawk’s gaze swept the gathered men. They looked like brigands, not troopers of His Majesty’s army. His eyes locked onto the worst offender—John, the devil-may-care troublemaker.
“Fighting is against regulations,” Hawk said, voice low. Far more dangerous than a shout. “Next man who throws a punch gets flogged till he can’t stand.”
John wiped blood from his lip, his grin pure insolence, and pointed his chin at Celeste. “I see you brought a woman into the regiment. Didn’t know we were recruiting ladybirds, sir.”
The hiss of steel filled the silence as Hawk’s saber slid free of its sheath. A disciplined officer, a man with a cool head and control over his temper, would have stood his ground, and forced John to squirm under the mistake he had just made.
A levelheaded general wouldn’t react. Wouldn’t take a step forward. Wouldn’t let his fingers shift on his saber just enough for the light to catch the steel. Wouldn’t imagine slamming John to the dirt and teaching him some damn respect with his fists.
But Hawk was not level-headed. Not right now.
The noise of cloth slipping against leather made every man in the clearing turn.
Celeste had slid from the saddle and stood under the heavy canopy of foliage. Sun streamed through the leaves to pool over her feet.
Every pair of eyes locked on her.
“God above,” someone whispered. “An angel.”
“Look! She is wearing the 13th’s coat!”
Hawk saw the strain in her posture, the faint tremor she hid beneath that upturned chin.
But the men—they saw the most beautiful woman that ever walked these parts.
And they were right. Could there be a more enchanting creature than she?
Even with leaves decorating her hair and her skirt ripped at the hem, she looked otherworldly.
The troopers saw magic. He saw tension on her shoulders.
She belonged to another world, one of whimsy and tulle.
And yet here she was, in his—the world of blood, dust, and fists.
Celeste took two steps and then halted. Her gaze swept over the men, not haughtily—he doubted she had an inch of haughtiness in her. Her smile, even strained, was such that it brightened a bloody fight.
“I am indeed a lady—Lady Cecilia Stratton.” She curtsied better than any courtier he had ever known. “But not a bird. If I had wings, I would have flown away before I witnessed grown men attempting to settle disputes with their fists instead of their brains.”
The troopers stared at each other, speechless.
“Then again, perhaps that would be unfair—some of you must have more brawn than brains.”
A ripple of laughter went through the ranks, rough and good-natured. Someone muttered, “She’s got us there.” Another grinned. “A sharp tongue on that one.”
No one but Hawk saw how she carried herself rigidly, and how her hands were gripped tight over the tulle.
She was playing a part.
John grinned, flashing bloodied teeth, and gave her an exaggerated, sweeping bow.
“Well, lads. Looks like our Hawk finally found his dove. And if anyone deserves a fine, beautiful girl at his side after all that, it’s you, sir.”
The words slid into the air too easily, too naturally. As if it were a foregone conclusion.
Hawk’s jaw locked. Part of him—a dark, unbidden, treacherous part—wanted to believe that after all the years of discipline, of sacrifice, of bleeding for his country, he could have something soft.
Something beautiful. Something that smelled of lilacs and had promise-colored eyes.
But Hawk knew better. Her place was not in his world, just as his was not in hers.
He was forged for order, she for light. He could wish otherwise—but wishing for the impossible was the worst surrender.
Their gazes met across the bloodied troopers. Hers was pleading. He turned resolute.
“Lady Cecilia is my ward,” Hawk’s voice cut through the revelry. “Now back to barracks. Clean up the tackle. Two days on biscuits only. If you brawl like children, you’ll eat like them.”
Groans. Muttered curses. But they would obey. Because when their general gave an order, it was followed.
Hawk helped Celeste into the saddle and swung behind her, his boots hitting the stirrups.
Celeste’s spine was straight as a punishing rod, her red hair glinting, a banner catching fire in the evening sun. Thirty-Eight shifted beneath him, restless.
Hawk nudged the stallion’s flanks with his heels. The cheers of his men rumbled in the air as they left the clearing. The path stretched ahead, quiet now, the sounds of the regiment fading into the distance. The only noise was the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth.
She held perfect posture while they rode away, her spine rigid, her breath controlled—a mask of grace and composure. From an outsider’s view, she looked poised, untouched by what had just happened.
But Hawk knew better. For a moment, he hesitated. Then, with a quiet exhale, he reached forward, his hands settling firmly around her waist.
“It is fine now. They can no longer see.”
She took a shuddering breath. Then she crumbled. Not all at once. First, it was a tremor in her shoulders. Then her spine curved inward, her head dropping slightly, her ribs expanding in silent, desperate gulps of air.
Hawk swore and tugged the reins, slowing the stallion to a stop. With an arm wrapped around her middle, he pulled her into his lap.