Chapter 21
“That woman is a menace, sir,” Graves grumbled.
Hawk stopped testing the team’s bridles, exhaling sharply. His fingertips still tingled—a ghost of sensation from where he’d traced Celeste’s lips. She was indeed a menace. But she was his menace.
“I won’t tolerate complaints, Graves. Lady Cecilia is not—”
“I’m not talking about Lady Cecilia, sir. It’s that chaperone—”
Hawk gave him a flat look. “It’s a morning outing, Captain, not a bivouac assignment. You are not being sent behind enemy lines. What precisely is the threat?”
Graves jabbed a finger at the red welt on his forehead. “She launched an apple at my skull. Unprovoked.”
Hawk inspected the injury with all the concern of a general surveying a dented canteen. “Took a hit from a widow, did you? God help us all if the French ever send their matrons into battle.”
“Sir, that woman is waging her own personal campaign. She has a secret design. For all we know, she might be a spy.”
If Hawk was not much mistaken, she had designs on Graves. “Then adapt. Follow the mission parameters. Engage in conversation. Keep Lady Cecilia at ease. That is your only objective.”
This outing marked the first maneuver in his campaign to help Celeste overcome her fear. If this proved successful, he would choose more advanced subjects to court her.
Graves looked mutinous. “Sir, I am not trained for this kind of warfare.”
“Then consider it an exercise in diplomacy. Or survival. Either way—hold the line.”
Graves sighed, adjusting his cuffs like a man preparing for execution. “Aye, sir. But if she comes at me with another apple, I’m taking cover.”
Hawk straightened. “Here they come. Keep formation.”
Graves muttered something about cannon fire being more merciful, but Hawk could no longer hear him.
Celeste bubbled out of the house, Othello in her arms. He had never used that word, he realized with a start—bubble.
But there was really no other explanation for the sight of the sparkling girl, all smiles and mischief, gliding towards him.
The breeze ruffled her hair, painting the air with red ribbons. The tulle of her skirts billowed around her legs. For his sanity, when would the dressmaker deliver her new wardrobe?
She had eyes for him alone, and his heart gave a traitorous lurch. Othello showed his tiny teeth as if aware of the descent of his thoughts. He almost showed his own teeth back.
“How gorgeous your conveyance, my lord.” She passed a gloved hand over the lacquered surface. “I’ve only seen these high-perched phaetons in Hyde Park from afar.”
Hawk stood taller than a grenadier, presenting arms to his sovereign. “I forbid you to ride in a phaeton unless I give my consent. They are dangerous.”
She placed her hand in his so he could help her alight. “I have no intention of letting any other gentleman drive me but you, My Lord.”
He must be the most lecherous of guardians.
Because her words, coupled with her fluttering eyelashes, had him harder than a bayonet.
As she settled in the rear seat, Hawk nearly climbed in beside her and took off without the others.
Remember the plan! Girding himself, he helped the chaperone climb next to Celeste and watched Graves adjust like a sore thumb.
The team of matched blacks tossed their heads, eager for motion.
Right. He glanced at Celeste as she fluffed her skirts and settled Othello by her side.
Mrs. Archer had taken her position with the practiced gravity of a battle-hardened sentry.
Across from them, Graves sat stiffly, as though he expected an ambush at any moment.
Hawk gathered the reins and gave a flick, the leather taut in his grip. The phaeton lurched into motion. He kept the horses in check with the same steady authority with which he had guided countless cavalry formations—firm, unyielding, but never harsh.
While the Kent countryside opened before them, Graves kept his mouth shut. Hawk looked at him pointedly, but all he did was blush, perhaps in a silent battle with the widow.
Celeste cleared her throat. “Tell me, Captain, do you enjoy the theater?”
Graves blinked. “The theater?”
“Yes, the stage, performances, grand declarations of love under moonlit balconies...” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I imagine a cavalry officer must have a touch of the poet in him.”
Hawk kept staring ahead. Graves had the touch of a poet indeed. The poet had touched him so hard that he never recovered. Was that what she wanted? A serenader?
Graves cleared his throat. “I am afraid I am more familiar with the battlefield than the stage, my lady.”
Celeste sighed. “But surely a soldier is capable of passion! Sweeping a lady into his arms, claiming a kiss beneath the stars—”
Graves fixed her with a blank stare. “Madam, a battlefield is no place for kissing.”
“I’m not talking about an actual battlefield.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw Celeste rolling her eyes. Damn it. He was almost rolling his eyes himself. Could Graves be any more oblivious? At least Celeste was not afraid of him. That had to be a victory.
Graves frowned. “Then why bring soldiers into it?”
Poor man, Hawk felt sorry for him. Perhaps after this ride, he’d have to cure Graves of his fear of ladies.
The chaperone rapped Graves with her fan. She certainly wielded it with more flair than a saber. “Lady Cecilia, this is pointless. Captain Graves has fought in all his lordship’s battles. I saw them all. And he will never know when to stop.”
Graves stiffened.
“This man is so enamored with his own duty that a woman could parade naked in front of him and he would rather fight a Frenchman than look her way.”
Graves looked profoundly offended. “The 13th Regiment only stops, madam, when Napoleon is defeated.”
Hawk twisted the reins. What was he doing here?
Graves was right—they didn’t belong here.
As soon as the order came, they would embark for the Peninsula again, for a campaign that might well be their last. No matter what, they would do their duty.
And this—Celeste’s colors would be changed for the greys of ashes and powder.
The hum of insects faded into the background, and a peregrine flew over their heads, its cry mournful.
Celeste’s smile dimmed. “Can you speak about my father’s castle, my lord?”
Hawk exhaled and hoped his voice didn’t sound as monochromatic as he felt.
“The cliffs make it nearly unassailable. A natural fortress. No army could storm it from the sea, not without breaking their ranks against the rocks below. The landward side is walled thick with stone, reinforced in the last century against siege warfare. Any who attempts to take it would have to breach the main gate, but that would be suicide. The entrance is narrow, forcing an invading force into a bottleneck. A handful of marksmen could cut a battalion to ribbons before they reached the threshold.”
He flicked her a glance, arching a brow. “You could hold this fortress with twenty men and a week’s worth of powder.”
“Sounds like a stiff mountain of bricks.” Celeste turned to him, the wind catching a loose tendril of her hair.
He flicked the reins, guiding the horses with precision. “It was built for war. Its walls have seen blood, fire, and steel.”
“Poor walls… I wonder if they would not rather see peace.” She sighed deeply, and her gaze got lost in the view, her hand caressing Othello’s furry head.
She didn’t seem excited about her heritage.
He couldn’t blame her. War was no setting for a lively girl.
Just like it had not been for her mother.
Better if she understood that they didn’t belong in the same place.
She belonged in the salons and ballrooms, and gardens, and everything fairy tale and pure.
But where he belonged, there were no happy endings.
A gloomy silence accompanied them for the last mile.
The road curved sharply, rising with the land.
Hawk adjusted the reins, and the horses picked up speed.
The castle emerged from the mist-laden horizon like a phantom of war.
A fortress of stone and shadow, hewn into the Kentish cliffs as if time itself had been forced to march around it.
A true Norman keep—built for war, not beauty.
Hawk glanced at Celeste, waiting for her disappointment. “Your father made renovations to the inside.”
She shot to her feet, eyes locked on the castle emerging before them. He sucked in a breath—any sudden movement and she’d tumble from their high perch.
Holding the reins with his left hand, he caught her around the waist and pulled her against him. Softness collided with strength. The curve of her body fitted against his as if she belonged there.
She gasped, her hands flattening against his chest. Her breath rushed against his throat.
The wind lifted the loose curls at her temples, but she didn’t notice. Her gaze was locked on that fortress.
“Is it mine?”
His pulse sped, and he should have returned her to her seat, but instead, he tightened his hold on her. “Not if you break your neck.”
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered, barely audible over the wind.
What could she be seeing? Could she find beauty in that scar upon the land?
“I thought you said it was a mountain of bricks,” he said gruffly.
“But, my lord, it is made of stones.”
“It is hard and has a war-filled past.”
“When I look at it, I can see that it has weathered much, but I see a place of endless possibilities. I see a place of romance and rest. I see a future.”
Hawk closed his eyes against the fierce ache in his chest. “You see too much.”