If it mattered? He wanted to find him, and once he did, he would kill him. But not before the monster returned the tears he had stolen from her.
“He was an Austrian diplomat. He is no longer in England. Please don’t make me say his name.”
Hawk didn’t have to. He could discover who had worked for the embassy in that year. And then crush him. Borders could not hold his wrath.
Her grip on his leg tightened, and he felt the tension in her palm. “Papillon is afraid. Papillon can’t be near any man that she panics…”
She feared men. Of course she did, and how could it be any different? Had she not escaped from him that first day in London? Now he understood the stricken look on her face.
She sighed and looked at him, her chin trembling, her eyes moist. “You don’t need to worry. Papillon is a coward and will never marry, but Lady Cecilia won’t be, I—”
Hawk found her waist, hands sure against the soft fabric of her white dress, and with one motion, he lifted her. She gasped, her eyes widening. Her limbs folded into him like a lost kitten.
He settled her onto his lap and cradled her face, his battle-worn hands engulfing her glowing skin. For what would come next, he needed her looking at him. “Lady Cecilia has nothing to fear because if any man even looks at her in the wrong, I will put his head on a pike and expose it on London’s gates. Are you listening, Little Tulle? You will never experience fear in your lifetime again.”
Her breathing quickened, and she searched his eyes. “Do you promise?”
He opened his eyes wide so she could see how earnest he was. “A promise is not enough. I vow it.”
She must have seen the fierce certainty in his expression, because she nodded. And something in her gave out. She started to cry. A torrent of tears. He never saw so many. One didn’t learn how to deal with tears in the army, but some instinct told him to bring her close. When she was flush against his chest, she buried her face in his neck.
He caressed her hair, weaving his fingers through the coppery strands, knowing the lock he stored all those years was a poor substitute.
What in heaven would he do with her? He had determined to strip the layers of tulle and ribbon to form an English lady, but what if Celeste disappeared in the process?
A sob shook her slight frame, and she spoke in his ear. “I am thePapillon.”
“I know, Little Tulle. I know.”
His chest tore open as if an invisible blade had ripped straight through the breastplate he had worn all his life. The ache rushed in hot and brutal, stealing the air from his lungs.
Yet, he welcomed the pain. She was so small, so breakable, trembling in his arms, that if it meant shielding her from hurt, he would open his breast with his bare hands.
He stroked her back in long, rough sweeps and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. She was indeed a Trojan horse, the most dangerous enemy a general could face. She had battered all his defenses, and now, she had just laid siege to his heart.
Graves cleared his throat. “The game is about to start, sir.”
Hawk surveyed the field. Still, try as he might, he could not force his attention to the cavalry drill. His gaze kept drifting to the house, searching for a flash of red. His little tulle. Every hour spent in her presence was a test of his control, a slow erosion of the order he lived by. To be near her was to court disaster.
“Do you think Nicki wins this? That’s a challenge, even for your son.”
Graves had not the faintest idea what a challenge really was. Hawk’s legs and spurs might be pointed to the officer’s competition, but his mind was still on that chaise, cradling Celeste, and feeling her tears against his neck. Her warmth. Her words. “I’m Papillon” had ripped a hole in his chest, a dull, dangerous one.
He was thirty-nine, and he had never felt anything like this. He could barely breathe when he was not with her.
What in all of Napoleon’s charges would he do? He couldn’t stay near her, desiring her as he did, yet how else could he helpher become a confident lady? One who could live her life to the fullest?
His first plan had been based on false intelligence. Celeste wasn’t spoiled. She was afraid. Fear wasn’t something to break down like arrogance or correct like an officer’s poor posture. It wasn’t a flaw to be stripped away—it was a wound. A wound that had been left open too long, one she had learned to mask behind charm and laughter.
He had been ready to tear the tulle, the ribbons, the frippery as if they were a costume she didn’t need. But now? Now he realized they were all she had ever had. Remove them too quickly, and she would disappear with them.
What else could he do? Celeste was afraid of men and if he meant to help her, he would have to draw nearer and ease her fear the way he had eased recruits into battle. Closeness was the cure for her. But closeness was a threat to him. He could not stand near her without risking his sanity.
“Look, Leighton is securing the line. Your son will lose, Hawk. That will be a first.” Graves said.
Hawk brought his attention back to the field. The game’s objective was to capture the regimental standard. The Duke of Leighton commanded one side, Nicki the other. Leighton had more men and more room to maneuver. He had chosen a cautious strategy, spreading his forces wide, covering the flanks, holding position. Nicki had fewer troopers and no margin for error.
Dust spiraled into the air, hooves hammering the field until the bright Kent afternoon looked more like Spain. Hawk watched, arms crossed, as Nicki spurred ahead, a streak of red cutting straight into Leighton’s defensive arc. His troopers followed without question, and at the last instant, he narrowed his line into a single spearpoint. The impact shattered Leighton’s formation from within.
