Hawk stared at her. “Why in heaven would it be—”
Her gaze shifted to his legs as he straddled the window. A rush of heat flooded his neck up to his hairline.
“Don’t need to blush, General. You must know that women appreciate your well-developed… I mean—”
Hawk placed a finger over her lips to silence her. He could not find a suitable retort, and if she went on describing his thighs, he would not be responsible for his actions. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move.
He’d had enough for one morning. For one life. After giving her a warning look, he started to cross to the other side. Celeste braced her hands against the windowsill.
Before he could command her back, she leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For the night. I had never slept so soundly.”
He froze. His hand went to the spot, absurdly protective of the warmth lingering there, as though the slightest breeze might steal it away. Neither did he. But there was no voice he could ever admit it without revealing more than a bloody fairy godfather could.
She drew back, smiling in a way that made the room feel suddenly golden, and then tilted her head and, just like that, her gaze changed. Some soldiers buried their emotions deep, Celeste carried hers in her eyes. The emotion brimming there was strange, and new, and made his chest feel tighter and his grasp on the curtain slip.
“You cut quite a figure, climbing down a tower with nothing but a curtain and your dash to guide you along the perilous façade. Why, General, perhaps you have something of the romantic in you after all.”
Hawk could only manage a grunt. He swung himself onto the drapery with more force than necessary, boots scraping the wall. “Get ready for your morning classes, Celeste.”
She smiled. “I like that.”
“The morning classes are not for your pleasure. They are—”
“I don’t care about the morning classes. I like hearing you speak my name.”
His pulse thundered like cavalry across a plain, but he forced himself to push down.
As soon as he could no longer see her face, he cursed loud and blue. Romantic indeed—the mighty Hawk who had never surrendered, clambering down like an overgrown schoolboy sneaking from a dormitory, boots scraping, fabric tearing with each graceless inch, flushed and bothered because of a peck on the cheek.
At last, he dropped to the ground, landing with a soldier’s thud. He brushed plaster dust from his sleeve and drew himself to his full height, grimly convinced he had salvaged a shred of dignity.
A throat was cleared behind him. Hawk turned to find Graves waiting.
“Sir,” Graves said, voice dry as gunpowder. “Has the house been invaded? For I believe rule forty-five explicitly forbids using windows as exits.”
Hawk froze, drapery still clutched in his fist.
But his recovery was swift, and he squared his shoulders. “I was inspecting the draperies, Graves, no need to sound the alarm.”
One of Graves’s brows lifted a precise degree.
Color rose along Hawk’s collar for the second time during a single morning. Good God, he had never blushed in his life, and he would not start now. “Soldier! Dismissed!”
“Yes, my lord. At once.” Graves’s gaze flicked to the mangled velvet trailing from Hawk’s grip. “Though—shall I log this under Household Damage Report, or Personal Training Exercise?”
Hawk growled, shoving past him.
“Log it under none of your bloody concern.”
Hawk gave the footman a curt nod as he stepped inside the grand foyer. His body still hummed from the brisk morning ride. He halted in the corridor, eyes narrowing at the sight before him.
Mrs. Archer was stationed at the window, her lunette raised, inspecting the regiment drill below with the grim intensity of a seasoned general scouting enemy movement.
He crossed his arms. “Should I be concerned about an imminent invasion, Madam?”
She snapped upright, nearly dropping the field glass. Her fair skin turned scarlet, her hands snatching at her skirts like she’d been caught pilfering battle plans.
