Chapter 44
Kent, two weeks later
Exhaling, Hawk stared at the front door.
It was cold. She had to be indoors. He could not be too late.
Once he opened that door, he would be greeted by laughter and warmth and her.
He would drink from her promise-colored eyes, she would laugh at him, and he would twirl her once on his arms and take her to the chapel so the priest could marry them.
He dismounted in one clean movement, boots hitting the stone with a thud that echoed too loudly in the stillness. He turned to his men, who stood grimed, hollow-eyed, and waiting.
“Officers, find the stable lads. Wake the kitchens. The troopers need food and fire before nightfall,” he snapped, voice cutting through the hush like a saber draw. “Move.”
Hawk didn’t stop to hear the grumbles. His boots struck the stone of the front steps, and then he was at the door, pushing it open.
To utter silence—no lilacs, no life, no tulle. The house had returned to its old self. Stiff. Cold. Lifeless. Like he had been before she arrived.
A pitiful part of his brain still expected Othello to come barging in and bite his ankles.
He touched the banister she once decorated with ribbons. His fingers curled, then released. The way to her room passed in agony. After hesitating a second, he pushed it open. Empty. No dresses, no fripperies, no bonbons. Just her absence. His heart thudded—too loud in the stillness.
A patch of sunlight fell across the bare floorboards.
The solicitor said he had arranged the marriage for December. He still had a month. But she was gone. Of course, she was gone.
You gave her away, you bastard.
He walked to the bed.
Lying atop the counterpane was his regiment coat. The one she had adjusted into a riding habit, laughing that it made her look like a soldier.
He pressed it to his face. Her scent was gone. The energy that had brought him back from countless battles, the tossing Atlantic journey, and the heavy marching sapped out of him. No hero’s welcome for him. Not tonight. Not ever.
This summer, he was given a gift. At first, he thought it a white elephant—an unwanted burden forced on him out of duty to Philip. Wrapped in tulle, chaos, and complication, she was something he neither wanted nor understood.
Then she breached his fortress, laughing, scattering order to the winds. Like a Trojan horse, she had conquered his discipline, his silence, his command of himself.
Too late, he saw the truth. She was no burden, no Greek offering meant to crumble his defenses. She was the greatest gift a man could ever receive—laughter, chaos, and joy. The promise of a romantic comedy she so loved. Happiness.
And now the gift was gone.
***
Hawk closed his eyes. Fool. He had lost the most crucial battle of his life by handing the prize to the enemy without even fighting.
The clock struck the hour. It was luncheon time. He had a regiment of hungry and tired men outside, and yet, he could not force himself to care. Her bed, so soft, called to him. He looked at the downy pillows. He would lie there, just for a minute, or the bloody rest of his life.
A volley of metallic blows ricocheted through the walls, ringing as though a whole arsenal of swords had been dropped at once.
The sound had come from somewhere below. Drawing his pocket pistol, he left Celeste’s room. The corridor stretched long and dark. He moved silently through the empty rooms until, outside the pantry, he heard tin clattering.
Robbers in his own house.
Hawk shouldered the door open.
A gasp. Another loud crash.
Miss Prudence Templeton stood in the middle of several felled cooking utensils. She blinked up at him, arms overloaded with macaroons, tarts, and—was that a pineapple?
“General Hawkhurst,” she breathed, eyes wide. “I was... conducting a spiritual inventory.”
Hawk pocketed the pistol. “Your arms are filled with sweets.”
“Oh, but General, sugar is the devil’s bait. I was... removing it from circulation. One macaroon at a time. For the salvation of the house. And my flesh.”
“Where is she?”
The maid stiffened. Her eyes darted like a cornered nun. “I... I don’t know whom the generalissimo is speaking about.”
His voice dropped. “Lady Cecilia.”
She pressed a hand to her bosom. “Never heard of her.”
Hawk took a step forward. “What happened here?”
“Cease, sir! You shall never pry the secret from my breast—not with blade, fire, nor divine inquisition! I would sooner lash myself to a bedpost and flog the truth from my own flesh than betray my mistress’s trust!”
“Did she marry Leighton?”
She gasped so violently her knees buckled. “Marry that—that slick duke? Certainly not! Like me, she has now sworn off the evils of the flesh. We are sisters in sanctity! The temptations of firm arms and gleaming thighs shall not claim us!”
Hawk closed his eyes. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him, and for one reckless beat, he let himself believe that she was still his to fight for.
“Then where is she?”
The maid staggered back, clutching the pineapple like a crucifix. “I—I cannot say! I am bound by a vow.”
Had Celeste returned to the theater then? He would scour the earth to find her. He had done it once, and he would do it again.
“Miss Prudence. If she is in any danger right now—”
“She’s safe. Somewhere fortified. With moats. And towers. And possibly chastity belts and cannon fire. Medieval even.”
Hawk smiled. She had entrenched herself in her tower. Clever Celeste. “When did she leave for Castle Stratton?”
The maid wilted. “Your powers are uncanny, sir. You must be in league with the devil.”
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Fine! It was two months ago.” She pressed the pineapple tighter to her chest. “Strike me down if I speak another word—though if you do strike, kindly aim low. I bruise easily.”
Hawk turned to go.
Behind him, the maid sagged against the wall. “I failed my mistress,” she wailed. “I deserve to burn, to have my skin repeatedly chafed by flogs, to be tortured by a merciless brute with a glint in his eye!”
He stopped in the doorway. “Miss Prudence—”
Her eyes went wide. “You want me to crawl through coals until my flesh sears black? To douse myself in oil and light myself aflame?”
“No fire, understand? Celeste is fond of this house, and I forbid you to combust yourself and take it down with you.”
The crazy woman blinked, chastened. Then brightened. “Ah. Then perhaps only the flogging, sir.”
He strode out without answering.
***
Hawk flung the doors open and stepped into the courtyard with the stride of a man heading to war. His spine held straight. His shoulders carried no weight for once. She hadn’t married. She was waiting. She had to be waiting for him.
The troopers were still about, holding their horses. Grumbling and the clinking of spurs formed a cacophony of discontent. The ensign galloped toward him, waving his hat like a man escaping a fire.
“Sir! We’ve got a situation. The reserve is not here,” the ensign said. “They’re gone. All the new recruits. The servants as well. Even the cook. The dogs have vanished. And…” The boy winced. “The rations.”
No reserves. No cooks. No food.
Hawk’s jaw clenched. A slow, hot pressure built behind his eyes. His glove creaked as his hand formed a fist.
“They’re gone, sir. Taken… to Castle Stratton, we think.”
A few of the troopers within earshot exchanged looks. One coughed to cover a snort. Another muttered, too loud not to be heard.
“The dove flew from the hawk.”
The back of Hawk’s neck flared hot. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
She had stripped his estate of every stitch of comfort and marched off with the entire soft underbelly of his household. She had taken everything he hadn’t known he needed until it vanished.
He opened his mouth. The rational response waited on his tongue. Set up camp. Send word to the village. Dispatch scouts to find new fodder. Reassign laborers. Reorganize the chain of command. All sensible things a general would do.
All things the man he used to be would do. But he was tired of sense. He looked down at his gloved hands and inhaled. His lungs burned from the cold.
There was only one thing he wanted to do. He strode between his men and vaulted atop Oberon.
The cavalry fell silent.
He drew his saber with a metallic hiss and pointed it to the east.
“We ride to Castle Stratton,” he called. “I’m bringing my Dove back.”
The yard exploded. Cheers echoed against the stone. Horses reared. Spurs clanged. The men whooped like it was the battle again, and the French had turned tail.
And Alexander de Warenne, Earl of Hawkhurst, General of his Majesty’s Cavalry, stormed off like one of the knights of old to reclaim his treasure.