“A gun to shoot me out of my misery? The pain is not that hard.”
“It is a salve. I have weak calves. In winter, I can’t move from my bed after a performance unless I massage the muscles first.”
Hawk held his silence. If anyone had ever told him he would be sitting in a frilly chair discussing the woes of trade with his ward, he would have court-martialed the bastard.
She gazed at his knee. “May I?”
He was not sure what she intended. Strap him to a cart and parade him through town in chains? Flog him bloody before a jeering crowd? Shove him into some lice-ridden prison where men rotted for years waiting on an exchange?
He would rather face any of those. Because none of them were half as dangerous as her pretty hands pressing against his battle-hardened flesh.
In the end, he had no real choice. When she dropped to her knees before him and proceeded to roll up his breeches, he was her prisoner in all but name.
He held his breath until he couldn’t anymore, and then her scent of lilac invaded him. Her hands hovered over his knee. This was the part where he should refuse. He couldn’t. He didn’t.
The servants would find dents in the dainty chaise, so hard he gripped the armrests. He had to. Otherwise, his fingers would have sifted through her hair, wanting to touch her color so it could banish life’s grays. He’d studied the classics enough to know how empires fell—not from the outside, but from a gift too lovely to refuse. A horse rolled through the gates of Troy, a ballerina stepped through his.
He told himself that just because his pulse was thundering didn’t mean he was conquered. But on the first contact of her smooth palms, liquid heat traveled through his veins, coiling around his spine. It wasn’t desire that unmade him. That was there too, a seditious current coursing under the surface. No, what undid him was her gentleness. The kind that slipped past armor. A color that was all the brighter because he could not see it, but it shimmered inside his chest.
While she kneaded through the old wound with her deadly tenderness, she hummed. The sound vibrated through her hands, through him. He forced his shoulders to be stiff and locked his jaw, but his treacherous knee had already surrendered, melting under her touch like snow in the sun.
“Tell me why you never danced with a partner.”
She touched his calf, her eyes intent on his battle-scarred skin. “Must I?”
“I’m your guardian, I need to know. If I’m to help, then I have to—”
“I don’t think you will like this story. It is not a tale of bravery.”
He knew he wouldn’t. And yet, he had to hear it regardless. Hawk lifted his hand. When his palm settled on her crown, the touch was clumsy, almost gruff, but steady. He was more used to holding swords and spears, but he hoped—God help him—it could carry a fraction of the tenderness he felt for her.
He bent forward until their brows nearly touched. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. “Tell me anyway.”
She closed her eyes. The waning sunlight cast long, unsteady shadows across her face, her features too pale, too still.
Her touch became lighter, almost a caress. “She was thirteen years old. Katherina and Langley had formed this new company made entirely of children. We—they were touring the coast for the summer. A wondrous ballet called The Papillon.”
The weight of her words and the suspense were unbearable. He knew this was not one of her romantic comedies, but her voice was soft and moving, as if charging headlong into the enemy line without a hope of defense.
“The Butterfly,” he said, and his voice came hoarse.
“Yes. She, this girl. She was the butterfly. And she was a success. Everybody loved her.” Her fingers stilled. “Untilheappeared. At first, he offered sweets and ribbons. The older girls whispered that he wanted to buy the Papillon. To make her his mistress. But Langley refused. He told the man he was in the business of selling entertainment, not children. The man went away for a while.”
Her fingers paused at the joint, her forehead furrowed. “One day, he returned. The Papillon was alone in the dressing room.That foolish girl. She was just so delicate, so breakable that with one blow, he was atop her.”
It took everything in him to stay still. To hear her words and not throw up. Her eyes shimmered with tears. Her chin trembled. She had been a child. A child. And someone had dared—where was Hawk at that time? Had he not promised to find her? A surge of raw, helpless rage smashed through him, but what use was anger now?
His chest tightened, as if a fist had wrapped around his heart and squeezed. “Did he hurt her?”
“Not her body. No.” She swallowed as if she were pushing down something heavy. “Louise crashed into the dressing room and wrestled him under a knife point.”
He made a mental note to grant this Louise anything she wished for.
Celeste lifted her eyes to him. As if waiting for his verdict. Fearing judgment? Good God, didn’t she know he was holding himself still by years of facing the enemy? That if he didn’t fear breaking her, he would hunt that bastard and rip his throat before her?
His jaw locked, teeth grinding. “Who was he? Tell me his name.”
The softest tremor rippled through her fingertips. “Does it matter?”
