Chapter 43
The field steamed with heat and blood.
Smoke shrouded the broken lines and shattered gun carriages.
French colors lay trampled under hooves, their bearers either fled or dead.
The air reeked of powder and singed wool, the cries of wounded men—English, Spanish, French alike—rising in waves beneath the caw of crows already circling overhead.
Hawk patted Oberon’s flanks. The stallion heaved from the charge, but he held steady under Hawk’s thighs. Below him, the field was madness—orders shouted, prisoners rounded up, men dragging comrades to safety.
Amid the chaos, one truth was clear. The French were running, streaming from the battleground like a severed artery. The road to Bayonne was choked with carts and wagons, and terrified infantry dropped their packs to flee faster. The cavalry’s charge had struck their flank. It was over.
The 13th wheeled around him now, boots muddy, sabers still dripping, cheeks flushed with the giddy violence of victory.
Hawk raised his arm, his voice cutting through the din like a saber slash. “Form lines on the ridge. Sweep the trees. No looting, no stragglers—secure the French cannons.”
Officers barked his orders down the line.
Men moved, weary but trained, falling into formation with the precision he’d beaten into them over years of drill and blood.
He saw Nicki dismount, mud spraying from his boots as he dropped to one knee beside a downed lieutenant, already signaling for a stretcher team.
Wellington rode through the haze, his sash torn, one boot black with powder. He reined in beside Hawk, his eyes sharp and glittering with the taste of triumph.
“You did it,” the duke said. “Damn you, you broke them.”
Hawk didn’t answer. His jaw clenched against the rush of emotion—pride, yes, but something darker underneath. Not joy. Not today.
Wellington pointed toward the Pyrenees, their blue edges smudged in the distance like a wound yet to bleed. “I want you at the vanguard,” he said. “Lead the pursuit. Cut them down before they regroup. Push them into France and break their will to fight again.”
France.
One more march. One more war. One more damn season of blood and soil and the ache in his knee that never left.
And Celeste.
He thought of her standing on the cliffs of Kent, tulle whipping in the sea wind, waiting for him. He turned to Wellington. Being in the vanguard for the pursuit was the highest honor that could be conferred on a general. His duty, and yet…
“Spain is free,” Hawk said quietly. “I’ve done my duty.”
The duke frowned. “You’d walk away now? You’re our sharpest blade, Hawkhurst.”
“Then find another blade, sir. Mine’s done.”
Silence stretched between them—interrupted only by the distant thunder of retreating guns.
Then Wellington nodded, once. “Will you take your regiment with you?”
“Yes. The 13th will escort the wounded to Santander. From there, we sail to England. There’s no glory left for them in France. They’ve done enough.”
A beat passed. Then the duke extended his hand.
Hawk gripped it, forearm to forearm.
Then, slowly, he turned his head—not to the French retreat, nor to the spoils of the field—but west toward the Atlantic.
He couldn’t see it from here. The hills and smoke and miles of wounded earth blocked the view. But the ocean was there, cold and constant, bearing ships and fate and letters never sent.
And across it—her.
He closed his eyes for the span of a breath.
Let her be there. Let her be waiting. Because his duty to bloodshed ended today, in this field. The only campaign worth fighting now was hers.
To bring her joy. To keep her safe. To love her well—and never retreat.
***
The camp was quiet. Tents flapped like exhausted lungs. The fires had burned low. The 13th’s standard drooped on its staff, bloodied and proud.
Hawk stood beside the supply train, boots planted in trampled earth, issuing clipped orders. They would break camp at first light.
He had just signed the last requisition when a courier rode up. The letter was sealed with red wax, and the crest of his London solicitor was unmistakable.
He cracked it open with his thumb.
Two lines in, he stopped breathing.
The marriage of Lady Cecilia Stratton to His Grace, the Duke of Leighton, has been formally contracted. The banns shall be read next fortnight…
The wind lifted the corner of the page. Something inside him—something vital—gave way, as if his ribs had spread to let the letter pierce deeper.
“Sir!” Nicki’s voice cut through the fog. He strode up, helmet tucked under his arm. “Why are we packing? York just sent orders to press the advantage. Pursuit into France—”
Hawk handed him the commission scroll without a word.
Nicki unrolled it, brow furrowing.
“You’re giving me a promotion?”
“You earned it.” Hawk’s voice was low. “At the ridge. You saw the breach. Took the flank. You led like a man. I spoke to Wellington. You can join the 10th Hussars—lead their vanguard in the pursuit. They ride in the morning.”
The 10th, Prince of Wales’s Own Hussars, was an elite cavalry regiment, known for dashing and aggressive action. Nicki’s eyes sparked with the thrill of war. Hawk knew it too well. He’d worn it himself, before Talavera had torn it from him and buried it in the Spanish mud.
“Don’t chase glory,” Hawk said quietly. “It’ll make you reckless. And reckless men bury their squadrons.”
Nicki stilled. Hawk held his gaze.
“Lead from the front. But always think ten moves ahead. Measure twice, charge once. And never—never—let pride pull you out of formation. That’s how you stay alive. That’s how you keep your men alive.”
A nod. The kind between soldiers. Between father and son.
Nicki’s mouth pressed into a line. “But you’re not staying.”
“No.”
Nicki looked at the open crates. Then back to his father. “Why? What’s more important than this?”
Hawk stared past him, toward the west. The wind shifted. It smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and something green—distant fields not yet trampled by war.
“I lived my life for duty,” Hawk said. “Now I mean to live it for myself.”
He looked down at the letter again. “And for Lady Cecilia. If I’m not too late.”
Nicki’s gaze moved through a dozen unreadable thoughts.
Hawk waited to see shock or disgust in his son’s face.
He had prepared a defense for his choice, and realized now, in the weak afternoon light, he had none, bar that he loved Celeste and that she made him happy and he was selfish enough to make her his.
Nicki nodded once and embraced him. No softness. Just weight and heat and unsaid things. “I was wondering if you would ever admit to loving her.”
Hawk pulled him close.
“I’m happy for you, Father,” Nicki said quietly.
“There is a chance that, by the time I arrive there, she has already married Leighton.”
“Then you better hurry. I don’t want that dandy to steal my new mother-in-law.”
Hawk clapped his son’s shoulder, then turned toward his tent.
There was a ship to England waiting in the bay. And a woman worth surrendering an empire for.