Chapter #2
Louise made a strangled sound. Her teacup slipped from her fingers and shattered on the rug. For a second, she simply stood there, her hand clutching the air as if searching for something to hold. Then she raced toward the door.
“Louise!” Celeste turned in Hawk’s arm.
Her body seized. A warm rush soaked through her gown. Celeste froze, breath catching in her throat.
Prue gasped as Louise barreled past, knocking a tray from her hands. China clattered. Tea splashed across the floor.
Celeste gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles whitening. “Oh, dear heavens—"
Hawk was beside her in an instant, his hands closing around her arms. “What is it?”
She looked up at him. “Our baby… she’s coming.”
His eyes darkened. “Now?”
Celeste managed a shaky smile. “Perhaps she was just waiting for the war to end.”
He swore softly and swept her into his arms, heedless of the spilled tea and shards of porcelain.
“I need to check on Louise,” she protested, glancing toward the open door where her friend had vanished.
“I’ll send someone after her,” he said, already striding for the stairs. “You, my love, are going to your room.”
Celeste clutched at his coat, breath shallow. The house seemed to blur around them—the crash of servants, the echo of orders barked down corridors. She felt his heart pounding against her side, steady and fierce.
Perhaps this was how every war ended, she thought dizzily, not with drums or flags, but with a cry of life about to begin.
***
Hawk gathered Celeste into his arms, heart hammering like a battle drum. The corridor tilted, the world narrowing to her shallow breaths against his throat. Fear clawed at his chest, but he smothered it beneath command. There was no room for panic on a campaign. Not when lives depended on him.
“Rue!” His voice cracked like a musket shot down the hall. “Hot water and clean linens—move!”
The military woman snapped a salute and raced to obey.
He turned the corner, boots striking the floor in cadence. “Graves, ride for Dr. Whitby. He’d better be here in a quarter of an hour or I’ll shoot him.”
“Thomas,” he barked, not breaking stride. “Fetch the midwife and no one enters without my leave.”
Prue crossed his path, eyes wide. “Oh saints, is it happening? I can help! I’ve read about it—well, not that part, but the aftermath!”
“Pour a glass of brandy,” Hawk ordered, striding past her with Celeste in his arms.
Prue gasped, hands flying to her chest. “At once, my lord! Shall I take it to her ladyship’s chamber?”
He stopped just long enough to give her a look that could have silenced a regiment. “No. It’s for you. Drink it in one swallow, woman. I don’t want you fainting on me now.”
Prue blinked. “But, my lord, spirits before noon?”
Celeste managed a breathless laugh against his shoulder. “Do as he says, Prue. Consider it medicinal courage.”
They all scattered. Thank God for soldiers, even the civilian kind.
Celeste stirred in his arms, her breath catching as another wave gripped her. “You’re… marshalling your troops.”
The tremor in her voice flayed him. He forced a rough smile, the kind he gave men before the charge. “A campaign worth winning,” he muttered, lowering her to the bed, his hands trembling only when she couldn’t see them.
The door burst open. The midwife swept in, skirts rustling. She smelled of camphor and command, and Hawk nearly saluted her out of reflex.
“Out, my lord,” she said briskly, already rolling her sleeves. “This is women’s work.”
Hawk straightened from where he knelt by Celeste’s side, the old stiffness returning to his knee. He left one woman to fight this battle alone. He would not make the same mistake.
She barely looked up. “It will only distract her. Men faint.”
“A cavalry officer never faints.” The words were steel. “And he never stays in the reserve.”
The woman huffed, muttering something about generals and fools as she inspected Celeste. “My lord, this–”
Celeste stirred, her hand finding his wrist, her voice fragile between contractions. “Let him stay.”
The midwife hesitated, caught between duty and the force of the man looming beside the bed. Then, with a resigned exhale, she nodded once. “Then stay out of my way, my lord.”
“I can do that,” Hawk said quietly.
Hours or days could’ve passed. The noises of the household had faded into a blur—footsteps, hurried voices, the rattle of basins. Hawk stood useless at the foot of the bed, hands clenched as though the right command could steady her breathing.
Celeste was propped against the pillows, hair clinging damply to her temples. She bit the edge of the sheet, her eyes meeting his for a heartbeat before sliding away. Never once had she cried. She was trying not to hurt him with her pain.
Enough. Hawk crossed to her side, the boards creaking under his weight, and climbed onto the bed.
“Celeste,” he said, bracing a hand behind her back. “You don’t need to hold it in for me.”
She shook her head, breath coming in shallow bursts.
“Scream all you want, love." He cupped her cheek, rough thumb trembling against her skin. "I’ll be brave.”
For a heartbeat, she only stared at him, biting her lip. Then the next wave hit. She gripped his hand and let go of restraint. The sound tore from her, raw and terrible. Hawk felt it tear through his own chest, as if every shout ripped the seams of his heart open.
He pulled her close, holding her upright against him, whispering in her ear. “You’re all right, I’ve got you, breathe, good girl, again.”
Her nails dug into his forearm, and he welcomed the pain. It was proof that he could share a fraction of hers. The world narrowed to the sound of her breath. Every gasp, every cry tore through him like musket fire, and he would have taken each pain for her if he could.
Then—
A cry. Thin, furious, alive.
Hawk froze. He didn’t breathe. The walls, the midwife, and the very air disappeared. All he heard was that cry — the first sound of life after years of war.
“It’s a girl,” the midwife said, her voice softer now, as if even she understood the holiness of the moment.
Celeste slumped back, drenched in sweat, her curls plastered to her temples. Yet she smiled faintly, with the same quiet light he had chased across battlefields and dreams.
Something inside him broke. With hands that had once wielded sabers and carved through chaos, he gathered the child carefully, almost fearfully, and pressed her to his chest. So small.
So impossibly light. Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs—quick, insistent, a new drum calling him to a different kind of duty.
He placed the child into Celeste’s waiting arms. Her fingers trembled as she drew the infant close, brushing her lips against the downy crown. A sound, half sob, half laughter, escaped her.
He sank onto the bed beside her, exhaustion and wonder warring inside him, and drew them both into the shelter of his arms. Celeste’s head found its place against his shoulder, the child’s soft breaths feathering against his chest.
“She has your hair,” Hawk said, tracing the wet curls atop the baby’s head.
Celeste nodded. ”Yes, and her eyes—oh, Alexander, look, they’re blue already. Like yours. Her skin is rose-tinted, like dawn over the cliffs at Kent. Her little nails are pearly, and her lips are the faintest shade of pink, like the first blush of a new day. I wish you could see her colors.”
“I just did,” he whispered, and his breath shuddered as his thumb brushed the baby’s cheek. “What will you call her?”
Celeste traced a finger down the baby’s small nose. “Anne,” she whispered. “I want to call her Anne.”
Hawk smiled. “I thought you’d choose Hermia. Or Beatrice. Or—God forbid—Cleopatra.”
Her smile flickered through exhaustion. “No. Our little girl might love the plays if she wishes, but she’ll never have to choose them over life.”
He looked at her—this woman with the wings of a butterfly but the heart of a lioness.
She could have turned away from the world that had wounded her.
Instead, she illuminated all around her with chaos, laughter, and kindness.
Celeste, a light impossible to ignore, even by a color-blind general.
His chest expanded with a love so vast it overflowed him, and he thanked life for bringing her to him.
Celeste looked up, her chin trembling, and brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “Why are you crying, love?”
He stilled. Crying? He could not remember weeping once in his long life. But now—he felt a sting at the corners of his eyes, the warmth tracing his cheeks. She had taught him to laugh. Tears were bound to follow.
He caught her hand, pressing it to his mouth. “Because I love you. And I vow to make your life—and our little princess’s—as happy as the happiest of comedies.”
Rue herded everyone out of the room and they were blessedly alone. The fire crackled low, its glow gilding the curve of Celeste's cheek. Outside, a peal of church bells began to rise over the rooftops of London. The sound of peace.
He drew the blanket higher, wrapping them tighter, his legs tangling with hers. His calves caught her feet, instinctive as breathing. “You’ve still got cold feet,” he said gruffly.
He felt her smile against his chest. "I love you, too."