Panting, he tightened his arms around her. The furious white ball of fluff wedged against his chest, snarling at his ribs.
Utter madness.
The dogs barked. The poodle yelped. Lady Cecilia buried her face in his neck.
And Hawk wanted to crush her closer and snarl at anyone wanting to take her from him.
“Halt!” he ordered.
The dogs skidded to a stop. Even the running grooms placed their hands on their knees, panting.
Her legs locked around his waist. She clung to him, skirts tangled around his sword belt, the heat of her body burning through wool and linen. Unacceptable. And too damned good.
His pulse throbbed in his temples, a dangerous rush of heat.
She lifted her face to his. Thoughts retreated, leaving him stranded. Somewhere it registered that a woman had no business having such lush eyelashes, batting against his cheek like some exotic butterfly wings.
“So much for a grand entrance,” she whispered.
“That was no entrance,” he growled. “It was an ambush.”
It took some effort to dislodge the surprisingly strong grip she had on his neck. When he finally tore her from him, lowering her down, it was no release—just a slow drag of her body along his, leaving his nerves behind to riot. Perhaps he would need the pistol after all, to abate the part of him that didn’t care she was his ward and his late friend’s daughter.
When her dainty slippers touched the ground, he held her shoulders, afraid she might swoon or move away. Her eyes lifted to him. A man could get lost in there. A paradise for weary warriors, waiting to receive them with open arms.
A throat cleared behind them.
“Is everything under control, Father?”
Nicki, damn him, trotted down the steps, his uniform crisp and unruffled, not a hair out of place. Lady Cecilia’s attention flicked to him, and her lashes dropped like a shield.
Hawk stepped back as if burned. “Lady Cecilia Stratton, this is my son, Nicholas de Warenne, Viscount Eythorne.”
Nicki bowed like a bloody courtier. “Welcome to Hawkhurst Hall.”
Hawk didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. His son stood beside her, young and composed, as polished as a commission medal. They were of an age. And he? He was dust and war and memory.
Hawk gestured to the great front doors. “Proceed inside, Lady Cecilia.”
She walked past him—her skirts brushing the side of his leg, her scent still clinging to his coat.
“Well, your summer campaign is off to an interesting start, Father,” Nicki’s voice was smug as hell.
Hawk leveled a glower at him. “If you don’t lose that smile, I’ll put you on picket duty until your grandchildren inherit your post.”
Riding all the way from London alone in a carriage? Celeste had been ready for this. Watching the sweetest countryside rolling by like an endless pastoral setting? She had been ready for this. Arriving at the most gorgeous estate ever? She had been… partially ready for this.
Alighting from a carriage straight into ferocious dogs? That had been chaotic and comedic, a mishap worthy of a lead role, the kind of entrance that earned applause… But climbing the General’s back, his arms around her, holding her close as though she were a comrade to be shielded from cannon fire? No. She hadn’t been ready for that scene… Phew, what a way to start her new life.
Her pulse was still a little too quick. Calm down, Celeste. This was only the first act. Surely she’d find her footing before the curtain rose.
The doors shut behind her. Celeste blinked into the hush and came face to face with a footman. Tall. Liveried. Male.
Her fingers tightened around Othello until he gave a muffled grunt. Heat rushed up her neck, her breath catching high in herchest. She felt the floor tilt as Papillon tried to break free.
“Lady Cecilia.”
The general’s voice cut through the haze. Her gaze snapped to him. Yes. She was Lady Cecilia now—not Papillon. Lady Cecilia stood among strangers as if they were old friends. She didn’t believe they meant her harm. They were here to help her on the only mission that mattered—finding her prince.
