Chapter 47
While his men traded volleys of jeers with the defenders—Rue’s voice carrying above the rest, shrill as a fife—Hawk sat back in the saddle and let the noise wash over him. To them, it was sport, a sham battle of words and bravado. To him, it was a distraction, a cover for what he intended next.
He would end the siege from within. The castle had weaknesses. And he knew Stratton better than any other man alive. He could still find the hidden postern gate with his eyes shut, the one that opened on the cliff side path.
Let them bellow at the battlements. Hawk would move silently along the walls, unseen.
He would breach her defenses, catch her unawares, and remind her that the general always carried the field.
The thought put a hard curl in his mouth, half-grim, half-satisfied.
He knew how to play this part—the conquering hero, not the man stripped bare and begging.
He brushed the wall, searching, probing, until he found the faint seam in the stone. There. He curled his hand into the ivy, ripped it back in one yank, and the green tangle tore away with a hiss. Dust and brittle leaves showered his boots.
The door revealed itself at last. With a hard pull, the iron hinges groaned open. The smell of damp earth breathed out, cool against his face. He stepped inside, and the passage swallowed him whole.
The tunnel narrowed faster than he recalled.
Roots snagged at his flanks, and cobwebs brushed his nose.
He had to stoop, then crouch, then curse as the ceiling dipped lower still.
By the time he reached the second bend, he was on hands and knees, boots slipping on damp stone, breeches scraping against grit.
A general of cavalry, groveling like a rat through a drain. Splendid. He’d once cut through French cuirassiers with nothing but a saber and fury—now he was belly-down in the dark, grunting like a badger. If Celeste wanted her conquering hero, he prayed she wouldn’t mind the mud on his coat.
The stench of earth and mildew clung to his throat. His knees ached with each crawl forward, but the thought of her—hair aflame, eyes bright—drove him on. This was no surrender, he told himself grimly. Mere tactics.
At last, the tunnel widened, and daylight streamed through a half-rotted door. Hawk shoved it open with his shoulder and staggered out, straightening to his full height with a sharp inhale.
The world burst into bloom.
Roses blazed up trellises. Lilies and lavender spilled scent so thick it nearly choked him. After the suffocating dark, the riot of fragrance left him reeling.
A rake clattered. Hawk spun, hand flying to his saber. The gardener gaped back at him—young Freddie—his mouth working like a landed trout.
Hawk straightened, mustering what dignity a man could while dripping mud.
“Don’t move.”
From above came war cries, the thud of feet on battlements, the unmistakable splat of fruit against stone. Someone was shouting French insults.
He smiled, despite himself. Her world would be his again.
Hawk took the tower stairs two at a time, breath burning in his chest, his pulse hammering with anticipation. Any moment now, he’d find her—his queen of mayhem, wreathed in ribbons, cheeks flushed from battle-play, ready to spar with him until he swept her into his arms.
Panting, he reached the chamber door, and pushed inside.
Celeste sat apart at the far end of the room.
He drank her greedily, as a man denied water for too long.
Her bowed head, her lashes shadowing her cheeks, the line of her mouth—every detail was a torment of beauty.
He had missed her. God, he had missed her, and standing there now, he could not fathom how he had borne the emptiness at all.
Only then did he notice her posture, straight-backed as if carved into place.
A book lay open in her lap, its leather cover so dark and solemn it looked like it had been chosen to banish humor.
Her gown was plain, stripped of tulle, her hands still upon the pages.
She frowned as she read, her lips pressed together.
The riot of jeers and laughter drifted faintly from the courtyard below, echoing up the stone like the revelry of children at play.
Yet it might as well have come from a different world.
Celeste did not laugh. She did not even look.
She flipped a page, as if each line of print weighed more than all the racket behind her.
He stood there, breath stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat.
If he failed now—if she turned from him for good—what then?
He could face another French charge, another night on campaign, another scar split open.
He could survive all that. But to lose her laughter forever would finish him more surely than musket fire.
Better the mud in his teeth, a saber through his chest, than the thought of life without her.
The truth struck hard, straight to the gut—he was part of the mayhem, but she was not. He had stormed the stage, ready for comedy, ready to conquer. And yet—the heroine was no longer playing.