He stilled, and his chest tightened. “Always.”
The stable doors swung open, and the groom led the horses into the courtyard. His white stallion was massive, all rippling muscle and gleaming power, his arched neck proud, his movements impossibly controlled. His mane, thick and wild, tossed like a banner.
“He looks as if he were sculpted from dawn itself,” she murmured, stepping closer. “May I—may I caress him?”
Hawk grunted, reaching for the reins. His chest expanded—a preening officer during his first parade. She was admiring the horse. Not him.
“This is a warhorse. Not a pet.”
Celeste arched a brow. “And does the warhorse, not a pet, have a name?”
“I call him Thirty-Eight.”
After his eleventh horse was shot beneath him in the retreat from Corunna, he stopped naming them.
“You cannot name a horse after a number. It is ghastly.” She gave the stallion a conspiratorial smile. “I shall call him Oberon.”
Hawk’s head snapped toward her. A Midsummer Night’s Dream again… He should be glad she still saw him as her fairy godfather. It was the role he had to assume to help her. So why did it feel like a damn insult every bloody time?
Oblivious of his reaction, she turned to the mount Hawk had chosen for her. The white Arabian mare, all elegant limbs and delicate features, tossed her head, her coat shimmering like a pearl in the sunlight.
“What will you name your mare? Hermia?” His voice was dry, controlled as he spoke about the play’s heroine.
Celeste tapped her chin, then looked at him from under her eyelashes. “No. I think I will call her Titania.”
His breath left him in a sharp exhale. His grip on the reins tightened, the leather creaking under his fingers. He wanted to laugh. Or curse. Or do something reckless, like carry her away and—did she know what she just said?
Titania.
Not Hermia, the innocent girl caught in a love triangle. Not Helena, the desperate one. Not even Puck, the mischievous trickster.
No. Titania.
The queen.
In the play, Titania was not a wayward, romantic girl searching for love. She was Oberon’s wife. His equal. His match.
Hawk’s pulse throbbed. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clamped down on the reckless thoughts crowding his mind. His body felt too hot under the weight of his coat.
Surely, she didn’t mean it. His gaze flicked to Celeste. She stroked the mare’s nose, utterly unbothered, as if she hadn’t just ripped the ground from beneath his feet.
He girded himself. He was not here to flirt and enter her Shakespeare games, no matter how they made his heart race. “We dallied enough. The bard won’t keep the sun in the sky for the lesson.”
He checked the cinch of her mare while she watched him from under her eyelashes.
Then, because he enjoyed pain, he turned to her. Instead of leading the horse to the mounting block, he linked his fingers above the stirrup. Celeste’s boot hovered for a breath before settling into his palms, as light as the rest of her. He felt the press of her sole, and the quiet trust in the way she leaned into him.
Her hands landed on his shoulders. He told himself it was just for balance, but the warmth of her touch seeped through his uniform like an ember burying in snow.
She was close enough that he could see the afternoon light spark in her promise-colored eyes.
Her gaze flickered to his mouth. He did the same. Her breath fanned against his throat, warm and uneven. Too sweet.
Enough of this nonsense. Hawk lifted her, settling her astride the mare, then he reached for her boot and slipped it into the stirrup. Why did he do that when she was perfectly capable of adjusting it herself? Rip his arm off if he knew. She didn’t move from his touch, her gaze following his hands, as if he had the right to—Christ. He should let go. Step back. Put the proper distance between them.
But his fingers lingered. A beat too long. The tulle of her skirts felt delicate and absurd against the leather of his gloves.
“You flinch at every man who so much as looks at you. But not at me.” The words escaped before he could stop them.
