Every time she adjusted her grip, her fingers grazed his stomach. As if he were not already rock hard from the kiss. Christ, what was he thinking? If Philip had been alive, he would have had every right to call him out. And Hawk would let his best friend shoot to kill.
She was young and confused about her feelings. But what hedid—the way he lost himself in her. Worse than desertion.
She leaned closer to him. “Do you know what I realized? I don’t know your first name. Everyone either calls you General or Earl, or My Lord.”
Hawk grunted. He knew what she was doing. Trying to lure him into conversation. How fast the minx recovered from their tumble on the grass, her voice soft, utterly at ease, while his throat could not be trusted to string two words.
She mimicked his grunt. “That’s an interesting name. Does it come with a snort as a surname?”
He ignored her.
“You won’t make this easy for me, will you? Would you let me call you by your first name?”
“You will call me Earl, as your station requires.” His voice was flat, controlled, final.
“Not even when we’re alone?” She breathed the words near his ear.
“Propriety is the same in company or alone.”
“You are the only person I trust.” Her tone seemed dejected, as if the confession had cost her much, the banter gone. “I promise I won’t do it all the time. Perhaps only once or twice. When you look deep into my eyes, or when I make you laugh, or when I say something outrageous and you threaten to tan my hide… please? I need to know you are more than the Earl to me.”
She placed her forehead on his shoulder and sighed. Like she did after the kiss, seeking his contact. Even furious with himself, it had taken all his willpower to leave.
He gripped the reins, resisting the urge to look at her, to see the promise in her eyes. He barely withstood the onslaught of her games, but raw honesty was like grapeshot tearing at infantry lines. The aching mess that had become his chest squeezed painfully.
This intimacy—he could not allow it to continue. What sort of unnatural bond could exist between a frilly ballerina and a battle-hardened general? If he allowed it to grow, it would only cause her pain.
He stiffened. “When you marry, you can call your husband by his first name.”
He held the line, though it cut as jaggedly as any saber. Better to wound her now than let them both bleed later.
Her sharp intake of breath sliced through his back like a lash. She straightened and released the grip on his waist. It was a victory, he told himself, even if one bought at a terrible cost. It was better this way. A ward didn’t call her guardian by his first name. Not even if he craved his name on her lips more than he had craved water after a dusty battle.
Hawk guided Thirty-Eight into a steady canter, the rhythmic pound of hooves against the dirt doing little to settle the war waging beneath his skin.
Movement ahead caught his attention.
A cluster of half-dressed men moved in erratic bursts, bodies lunging, weaving. Dust kicked up in thick clouds, smearing the sweat-slicked torsos of his troopers. This was not controlled sparring, but a bare-knuckle, blood-on-the-dirt combat.
A ring had formed, and two men fought at the center—one driving forward with brutal, unpolished swings, the other ducking, slipping between punches like a predator playing with its prey.
Hawk’s jaw locked. His temper had already been a coiled fist since that damned kiss. Now, it begged for an outlet. If he weren’t their commanding officer, he would have taken off his coat and joined the brawl himself.
Hawk dismounted, boots hitting the earth with solid finality.
Celeste gazed at him, her eyes wide. “Where are you going?”
He gave her the reins. “Stay here.”
He strode to the edge of the circle. The men were so engrossed, they didn’t notice their general was in their midst.
“Enough.”
The brawlers froze. Hawk’s gaze swept the gathered men. They looked like brigands, not troopers of His Majesty’s army. His eyes locked onto the worst offender—John, the devil-may-care troublemaker.
“Fighting is against regulations,” Hawk said, voice low. Far more dangerous than a shout. “Next man who throws a punch gets flogged till he can’t stand.”
John wiped blood from his lip, his grin pure insolence, and pointed his chin at Celeste. “I see you brought a woman into the regiment. Didn’t know we were recruiting ladybirds, sir.”
