Chapter 20 #2
As Prue dragged the last tome beneath the heavy oak desk, the door swung wide.
Hawk strode in, blocking the light from the corridor—and dear God, Prue had been right.
His shoulders were as wide as a cathedral’s door, and he was so awesome and fearsome and handsome and every-some that Celeste nearly swooned.
He scanned the room, eyes narrowing when they landed on her. “Celeste. There you are. Didn’t you hear the roll call?”
She stepped forward, just far enough to block his view of the desk where Prue’s skirts were visibly quivering.
“Oh, that?” she asked, blinking innocently. “I assumed it was some sort of military screech designed to frighten pigeons off the roof. Or possibly ballerinas out of hiding. Quite effective, if that was the goal.”
His brow arched. “It was meant to summon wayward wards to luncheon. Though next time, I might employ a bugle—or a search party.”
Her heart stampeded in her chest. The hero of the Merchant of Venus became Hawk vividly in her mind. What if she were the heroine? The idea made her legs go weak. She was certainly flexible enough, her brain supplied unhelpfully.
“You’re flushed.” He reached for her forehead, the calluses on his fingertips grazing her skin.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered. “I was only—”
“You have a fever.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll summon the physician—”
“There’s no need. I—I was reading Shakespeare.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“It was a very tense passage.”
He glanced at her wrist, then closed his hand around it. She imagined Hawk straining like the hero in the lithograph, muscles flexing, mouth parted…
“Your pulse is racing.”
“Passion—I mean, um, pressure! From…all the reading.”
“I won’t play games with your health, Celeste. You have a fever, and I will not have you collapsing on the road tomorrow.”
“What?” She blinked, panic rising. “You can’t cancel our trip to my father’s castle.”
“I’ll write a message to the steward now,” Hawk said, already turning toward the desk. “He needs to be informed of the delay.”
Prue was still under that desk, buried under an armful of scandalous books. And Hawk was about to walk right up to her. If he reached for the inkwell, he would see her.
Celeste shot forward and grabbed his hand. “No.”
Hawk lifted that ominous brow.
Oh dear, she had just physically restrained a battle-hardened general. Unable to retreat, she interlaced their fingers, the rough calluses of his palm rasping along her nerves like struck flint. It was a very impressive hand. Big. Warm. Strong. Entirely engulfing hers. Focus, Celeste!
She plastered on a smile, her grip firm as iron. “Please don’t cancel the outing.”
Beneath the desk, Prue watched with wide, shining eyes.
“Out,” Celeste mouthed.
But Prue only blinked.
Celeste widened her eyes, subtly jerking her head toward the exit.
Her grip tightened on Hawk’s hand as she hissed, “Out is what we must do.”
Hawk’s frown deepened. “Are you feeling lightheaded? You will lie down now.”
Prue scurried out from under the desk, tiptoeing in the most ungainly, unstable manner possible. Her arms were overloaded with literary sin. One slid precariously down her hip. She caught it with her elbow. Another started to fall, and she clamped it to her chest with her chin.
Celeste’s heartbeat lurched. Hawk bent as if to take her in his arms.
She loved being carried by him, his sheer power, and how he handled her, as if she weighed nothing. But if he took her to the couch, he would catch Prue in flagrante delicto.
Think. Move. Distract him. What would a heroine do?
Celeste rose onto her tiptoes, seized his face between her hands, and pressed her mouth to his. Her calves trembled with the stretch, his jaw rough under her palms, his lips shockingly firm.
He did not pull away. Instead, he caught her waist, anchoring her, his thumb brushing just beneath her ribs. The tender caress stole her breath, and she sagged against him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Prue reach the window. She then flung the books out with grim determination and, making the sign of the cross, dove out after them.
Giddy with relief, Celeste dared to taste her general—just the tip of her tongue along his lower lip. Salt. Heat.
He clamped her waist and yanked her closer, the sudden force stealing her balance. His tongue surged into her, and she yielded, opening for him, her calves trembling with the stretch.
He crushed her tight, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest, until she felt the hard press on her belly. The shock of it shot through her, vivid, undeniable, like the picture she had glimpsed in the book—only alive, straining, his.
A gasp caught in her throat, her stomach flipping. Her skin burned where he touched her, her thighs softening, every nerve drawn to that single point of contact.
Hawk groaned. A deep, guttural sound, vibrating through his chest into her own. His hands tightened as if he would drag her closer—then he wrenched her away, holding her at arm’s length.
Her lips were wet, burning. Heat blasted through her face, her belly, everywhere. She must be overheating—or overawed. Or both.
His grip pressed into her flesh in a way that should have been cautionary, but sent delicious flutters cascading through her. “This is not acceptable behavior.”
If Hawk believed a kiss was unacceptable, what would he do if he discovered that Prue had taken a suicidal leap out the window after an entire library of…questionable reading material?
She swallowed. “I—I know.”
Their faces were still close. She drew in a shaky breath, her mind whirling. “It’s just—I—The lips cannot lie. If I had a fever,” she said, and her words came in a breathy rush. “My lips would be hot. Dry.”
With a curious courage she hadn’t known she possessed, she slipped her hand into his.
“See for yourself,” she whispered.
Opening her lips, she guided his index finger across her mouth.
The pad brushed her lower lip, rough where her skin was tender.
She shivered as his taste spiced her tongue.
Heat rolled through her in waves, centering low in her belly, coiling tighter with every heartbeat.
She sucked in a shaky breath and dared to close her mouth, lips molding around him.
Hawk went rigid, and she felt the thunder of his pulse in his fingertip.
“See?” she murmured, voice barely above a breath. “My lips are cool. Moist. No fever. Please—take me to my father’s castle tomorrow.”
His gaze flicked to the Shakespeare folio lying atop the desk—precisely where she had planted it to hide the scandalous volume beneath. What if he noticed the corner of the lewd tome peeking out?
Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “You’re certain it’s Shakespeare making you…flush?”
She nodded fervently. “Oh yes! Shakespeare is very evocative.”
His mouth pressed into a firm line. “In that case. You should consider more soothing reading material.”
She snapped her hand up in a crisp military salute. “Yes, Alexander,” she said brightly, stepping back before she lost the will to do so. “In fact, I already have the perfect reading in mind.”