“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.
Kent, two weeks later
Hawk halted at the center of the courtyard. Two hundred troopers reined in behind him, the horses pawing the ground. He had marched the 13th out of Kent in the blaze of summer. And now, they returned in the hush of dying leaves. The grand stone facade of the house rose before them, its windows catching faint afternoon light.
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.
