Silence stretched. He could hear faint movement inside her chamber. His patience—always tight-drilled, ironclad—pulled thin. He had ordered men to hold against cavalry charges with less resistance than this slip of a girl gave him from behind a closed door.
Enough.
He turned the latch. The hinges yielded with a low groan.
She sat on the window seat, framed by the dark panes, candlelight haloing her as if she were some goddess he had no business profaning. A book lay forgotten in her lap, the page edge caught against her fingers.
Her hair was plaited in one thick rope, and rested against her shoulder, loose strands glinting like sparks from the flame. And the prim white of her camisole glowed against her skin.
His fists curled at his sides. He had faced cannon smoke, sabers flashing, the roar of a thousand throats—never had his pulse jumped so violently, nor his body betrayed him so quickly,as it did at the vision of a girl in a nightshirt reading by candlelight.
He stepped farther into the room, boots thudding on the carpet. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes were heavy-lidded. She was tired. And yet still resisting. Always surrendering to whim, never to order.
“Go to sleep, Celeste.”
She lifted her chin, all innocence and disobedience. “I can’t.”
His brows snapped together. “Why not?”
“I’ve told you. I sleep only with the lark, and the nightingale is still singing.”
His jaw flexed. “Under my roof, you will sleep when I say so.”
Her chin trembled. “Must you order everything then?”
“You are clearly exhausted. Why fight this?”
For a long moment, she was silent, staring at the pages.
“Because I’m lonely,” she finally whispered. “There. I said it. I miss my friends. I cannot sleep in this house all alone with so many new noises. At first, I was too tired, but now—” Her voice cracked. “Now, I simply cannot close my eyes.”
The confession hit like a volley.
“You will think me weak now, won’t you? England’s most fearsome and brave general saddled with such a pathetic ward. What will you do, my lord? Order more sackcloth? Perhaps you can place one on my head and throw me into the ocean.”
Hawk’s fist curled at his side. He had wanted discipline, not this admission that scraped raw at something he could not armor. Weakness, fear—he despised them. Yet, hearing them in her voice opened a bloody hole in his chest.
A sackcloth would be easier.
Without a word, he bent and swept her up, one arm braced beneath her knees, the other strong across her back. She was lighter than he expected—warm, fragile, a softness he had no training for.
Her hands flew up, clutching tight around his neck. “What are you doing?” she whispered, breath feathering against his skin. “Carrying the heroine is not the prerogative of a fairy godfather.”
His mouth curved at the absurdity. Fairy godfather. Once, the epithet had grated like a musket ball lodged too deep to dig out. But here, with her cheek pressed to his chest, he felt the sting shift. If being her godfather meant holding her like this, God help him, he wanted it. Fiercely.
Her weight melted into him. He cursed the bed for being so close. He had a mad urge to keep walking. To carry her away, down corridors, into the night—anywhere—so long as she slept safe in his arms.
Reluctantly, he bent to lower her, each inch of her slipping from him like the loosening of a vow. He set her gently on the mattress, tucking the blanket around her with the same practiced care he used when securing his kit before a march. Only this kit breathed, and her hair spilled like fire across the pillow, and the sight of her safe and small beneath his roof made him gladder than any battlefield triumph ever had.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice clipped to mask the pull in his chest, “your maid will sleep in the adjoining chamber.”
Her eyes fluttered, heavy-lidded, lips parted in some quiet protest.
Hawk dragged the chair closer to the bed. “For now, I will sit here. And you will sleep.”
She brushed at her eyes, then glanced at him. “That chair cannot be comfortable.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
