A Rose for Major Flint

* * *

Light, softness and blissful quiet. The scream was still there, an echo in her head, but she could hear faint sounds from somewhere below and a rhythmic purring rasp like a big cat. Something had woken her. Footsteps? Voices? Whatever it was had stopped now.

She opened her eyes on to whiteness. Clouds...? Heaven? No, a big white puffy eiderdown, linen sheets, a lime-washed wall. She was in bed in a small, very simple, very clean room.

She sat up and looked down at her body. Someone had put her into a vast white nightgown. The plump woman with the big hands and the soft voice had bathed her and talked all the time with words that made no sense, but that soothed. Now she ached in every muscle as though she had walked a hundred miles, but that could not be right.

Where am I? Once there had been a house somewhere far away over the sea and then another one, smaller. Smiling faces. Love and arguments. What about? A man? A ball and a beautiful gown. Then kisses and a tent and tears and rain and mud and noise. The worst noise in the world. And then searching, searching and being afraid and then... The scream became louder and she fought back the memory, the images, until she huddled into the pillow, shivering with effort, and it was quiet enough for her to think again.

The demons had come and then the Devil who took her and all the other damned souls he was sending to hell. He had carried her off on his great black horse and she had felt safe, even though he was the Devil. And he had brought her here, to the soft woman and the warm water and peace.

None of it made any sense, because this was not hell, unless it was a cruel trick. Perhaps if she opened the door there would be flames and demons and mocking laughter. Perhaps that sound was a sleeping hellhound. But she had to get up. Surely if you were dead you did not need the chamber pot any more? That was encouraging. She made her way on shaky legs to the screen in the corner and emerged feeling a little better.

Now for the door and what lay beyond. It opened without a creak on to a bedchamber, another white room with muslin curtains drawn over early-morning light and the only flames those safely enclosed within a pair of lamps, burning low. There was a cold fireplace, a rag rug, a chair and a bed. A big bed with, in it, a big man. Her Devil. And he was snoring. That was the sound she had heard. Her face felt strange and she lifted a scratched hand to touch her mouth. She was smiling.

She stood beside the bed and studied him. His shoulders and one arm were above the sheets, muscled, brown, bruised, battered, marked with fresh cuts and old scars. His face was half-hidden under dark brown stubble, darker than the brown hair that partly covered the scar on his forehead. His nose was straight and imperious. He should have seemed vulnerable in sleep, instead he looked dangerous and formidable, a smouldering volcano.

Her Devil. He had saved her, so she was his now and she should be in bed with him. She eased back the covers and slid under, half-expecting the movement of the feather mattress to wake him, but he only muttered, shifted and threw one heavy arm across her, trapping her against him. He was naked, she could tell even through the sensible cotton nightgown. Naked and warm and big. Safe. She closed her eyes and slept, the rumble of his snores drowning the scream.

* * *

‘Rose? Bloody hell, what are you doing here?’

Rose? Who was Rose? She snuggled closer against the solid bare body, into the warmth and the security, then had to clutch the edge of the bed as it shifted violently. She opened her eyes and found the Devil was sitting up, glaring at her.

She stared back, wondering why she was not afraid. There was no one else here, so she must be the Rose he was talking to. He was angry with her. What was she doing there? Foolish question, this was where she belonged. She laid her hand, palm down, on his chest and felt his heart beating hard and steady under it. He was very handsome, her battered, fallen angel. She had thought angels were sexless, perhaps feminine, all purity and light. He was dark and male and made her think of carnal, hidden, wicked things.

‘Rose, you must go back to your own bed. You are perfectly safe there.’ He muttered something that sounded like, ‘But not here.’

No. She shook her head.

‘You understand me? You are English?’

Yes. Two nods.

‘Then talk to me, woman!’

Talk? But she couldn’t do that. She had tried to scream when she had found Gerald, but nothing had come out of her mouth. All the words, all the screams, were trapped inside now. She spread her hands and shook her head.

‘You can’t?’ He seemed to understand. ‘That is a pity. Do you remember me? Adam Flint?’ The intense blue gaze focused on her face.

I remember you. Yes, he read that easily enough.

His heart beat under her palm. His chest, his broad, solid chest, rose and fell with his breathing and the realisation came to her that he was alive and human. He wasn’t the Devil, she wasn’t dead. She had not, for all the sins she couldn’t remember, gone to hell. But she had walked through it and he had shown her the way out.

Rose felt the smile coming back. It felt strange, as though she hadn’t smiled in days...weeks?

Adam laid one hand over hers as his frown deepened. ‘Rose, you need to go to your room.’ When she did not move he said, ‘If you won’t shift, then I must. And I’m stark naked.’

It was obviously a threat as well as a warning. She should be shocked, she seemed to recall from somewhere. Even his words were shocking. But she wasn’t alarmed. She was curious. Curious about him or curious because he was a naked man? Both, she realised. So I am not used to sleeping with a man.

‘Damn it,’ Adam muttered. He gave her a look that could have curdled milk and, when she did not move, got out of bed on the far side. He turned away from her for the sake of his modesty, or perhaps hers, but Rose stared nonetheless.

Broad shoulders, muscled, scarred back tapering down to his waist, the strong lines marred by a stained cloth twisted around his ribs. Narrow hips and a backside that was tight and smooth. She wanted to touch him, curve her hand over those neat, firm buttocks. Long, strong horseman’s legs furred with dark hair, big feet. He was male, beautiful, fearless. Hers.

Gerald. The image of a handsome face flickered into her memory. Blond, smooth, unmarked by life or trouble. So young and so unformed and, at the end, so very frightened. He had been hers, hadn’t he? Had she loved him? She couldn’t remember. All she could recall was holding him while he sobbed, and she tried not to tremble with fear and the realisation that everything was wrong. And then he had been... No. The scream began to build, shrill in her head and she pressed her hands to her temples to try and stop the pain. She focused on Adam and felt her breathing calm.

He had reached the chair and was pulling on the trousers of his uniform, filthy and ripped. Then he turned and she saw the cloth was a bandage and the skin around it was reddened and inflamed. He was hurt.

Something in her head cleared and came into focus. He was wounded and she knew what to do about that. Rose slid out of bed, tugging down the nightgown that had risen to her thighs. Adam glanced away and she saw the colour come up over his cheekbones. She had shocked him? She swept the clothing from the chair to the floor and pointed at the seat, then poked at his chest for good measure. He sat down, eyebrows raised. Apparently Adam Flint was not used to being pushed around.

The bandage was knotted tightly and she broke a nail undoing the ends. It had hardened over the wound and she went to the washbasin, poured out water and wetted a cloth to soak it off. Adam sat still while she worked, not flinching when she peeled off the bandage, even though it must have hurt. She shook her head at the sight of the long slash. It had lifted a flap of skin and that, she supposed, was full of cloth fragments and sweat and goodness knows what else that would irritate and fester. He made to get up and she shoved him hard in the chest. Stay there! It was like pushing a wall, and when he got to his feet despite her efforts she stumbled and fell against him.

‘Bossy little creature, aren’t you?’ he said and put his arms around her. Instinctively Rose stepped closer, laid her forehead against the flat plane of his bare chest above his right nipple. He had washed after a fashion last night, she realised, inhaling the scent of just-woken man, plain soap and a lingering tang of black powder and sweat. She turned her head and rubbed her cheek against him and her lips brushed his nipple. It hardened and he became instantly still.

She did not know what to do, only that she had never felt like this before. Adam sat down abruptly, his hands on her forearms. Those blue-flame eyes narrowed as he studied her. Gradually her breathing steadied.

‘Why won’t you speak to me?’

Didn’t he understand that she could not? Rose shrugged.

‘You can trust me.’

She glanced down to where, even in her ignorance, his arousal was very plain. Of course I can. I know that. Although why she knew was another mystery. If he wanted to take her, then she would have no chance of resisting him.

With the knowledge came some confidence. She wagged a finger at him and pointed again, sternly. Stay. It worked with dogs. It worked, so it seemed, with big men. He narrowed his eyes at her, but did not move. She suspected he was amused.

The kind, soft woman would be somewhere below. Rose shot Adam one last look, then opened the door and went down the stairs. She followed her nose to the kitchen, her stomach grumbling. When had she last eaten?

The room was full of men. Men in trousers and no shirts, men in shirts and no trousers, men draped in blankets.

‘Gawd!’ someone said and there was a mass scramble for the back door.

Rose was left with the kind woman, who was at the range stirring a pot of something that smelled delicious, and a thin man with a beak of a nose and a wooden leg. He glanced at her enveloping nightgown and looked away out of the window.

‘You shouldn’t be out of bed, lovie,’ the woman said. ‘I was going to bring up some tea in a minute.’

The place seemed as familiar and comforting as a childhood memory. Rose smiled. It was getting easier now she had remembered how to. There was a kettle steaming on the fire. She pointed to it and then looked round the kitchen until she saw a bowl of salt on the table next to a pile of neatly rolled bandages. She picked it up and took two of the bandage rolls.

‘You want the hot water for the major, lovie? He’s hurt?’ the woman asked. ‘Keep an eye on the stew, Moss, I’ll see what’s going on.’ She wrapped a cloth around the handle and hefted the kettle off the hook as though it was a teacup. ‘Come along, then.’

Adam was sitting where Rose had left him, his expression somewhere between amused and resigned. ‘Caught her, did you, Maggie?’

‘Caught her? Your lass here came down and made it quite clear what she needs.’ She dumped the kettle on the nightstand and came to peer at the raw wound on Adam’s side. ‘And no wonder—although how she got a good look at it is best not to ask, I’d guess.’

‘I woke up and there she was.’ He did not smile, but there was a rueful twist to his lips.

‘Seems as though you’ve got yourself a woman, then, Major.’ Maggie winked at Rose. ‘You know what to do about that?’ From the jerk of her head towards Flint she might have meant either the injury or the man.