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Yes. Rose nodded, sure about one and not at all certain about the other.
‘I do not need a woman,’ Flint growled, scowling at Maggie’s retreating back.
Yes, you do, you need me. Rose poured hot water into the basin and ignored the way his brows drew together and his fingers drummed a rhythm on the arm of the chair. You have to need me, because otherwise who am I and where do I belong if not with you?
Chapter Three (#uc7aabf29-c920-55a2-969b-d6d8006770f9)
‘You seem to know what you are doing,’ Adam remarked. Rose could feel his gaze on her as she swirled salt into the water. ‘Did your man get wounded often?’
No. She shook her head and tried to work out why she was so sure of that. Of course, she had not been with Gerald long enough for him to be hurt...only killed. There were memories of bandages and salves, of pouring medicines, but that seemed to be in domestic settings. Humble rooms. Children, old people, a presence she sensed was her mother instructing her. Our tenants, our duty.
Wounds must be cleaned, salt water helped healing, she knew these things as she knew that her eyes were hazel without having to look in a glass.
Rose glanced at Adam, frowning with the effort to recall something more, something useful about who she was, and his gaze sharpened. ‘I’ve seen you before. Where the blazes? Yes, after Quatre Bras, with the Seventy-Third’s camp followers. Is that your man’s regiment? I’ll help you find him.’
No, he is dead. And he was never my man, not really. I was a fool who thought herself in love. How did she know that when everything else was a blur? How to make Adam understand? Rose gestured to the floor, then covered her face with her hands in a pantomime of grief.
‘Dead? You are certain?’
She nodded and busied herself with the cloths and water, the memory coming back in frustrating flashes. His name had been Gerald and the belief that she loved him had lasted as long as it took to realise she did not know him at all. But after that there was no going back. She had made a commitment and she must stay with him, give him her loyalty even as his courage dissolved into the rain and mud and the dashing officer turned into a frightened boy in her arms. But how had they met, where had she come from? Who am I?
That could wait, she thought, surprising herself with the firmness of the intent. The traumatised, clinging creature of the day before was retreating, although she had no idea who would emerge in her place. Whoever she was, her true self was stubborn and determined, it seemed. Rose put the bowl on the floor beside Adam and set herself to clean the wound.
He sat like a statue as she explored the slash with ruthless thoroughness. Under her hands she felt the nerves jump and flinch in involuntary protest, but all he said was, ‘There’s some salve in my pack.’
Rose found it and smoothed the green paste on, wondering at Adam’s stoicism. Was he simply inured to pain after so many wounds or was it sheer will power that kept him silent and unmoving? She rested one hand on his shoulder as she leaned over him to wind the bandage around his ribs and felt the rigid muscles beneath her palm. Will power, then. She knotted the bandage, touched her fingers to his cheek in a fleeting caress and sat back on her heels. Finished.
* * *
The soft touch on his bristled cheek was both a caress and a statement. Finished. Did she think he needed comfort? It was a novel sentiment if he had read it aright: no one ever thought Adam Flint in need of tenderness. He had believed he had acquired an inconvenient waif and stray, much as he had acquired Dog. Now he wondered if both animal and girl thought they had adopted him.
‘Thank you.’ Her eyes were asking a question. ‘Yes, it feels much better.’ In fact, it hurt like the very devil, but in a good way. It would not fester now. ‘You go back to your chamber. I’ll have hot water sent up for you and I’m sure Maggie can find something for you to wear. I need a bath and a shave.’ He wasn’t used to soft dealing, to people who needed gentle voices and kind words, but he would try for her.
Damn, but those wide hazel eyes were enough to make a man want to forget everything and just talk to her, find out what was going on behind that direct gaze. Pain and fear and stubborn courage, he would guess, and behind that there was doubt and uncertainty. But he had neither time nor inclination to explore her feelings. Rose needed a woman to look after her, not a man for whom a female in his life had only one purpose.
‘Go on,’ he said, his voice harsh with command, despite his resolve to be gentle. ‘Back to your room.’ If he spoke to Dog like that he got a reproachful look from melting brown eyes, accompanied by a drooping tail. Rose merely lowered her lashes and nodded. Yet somehow the gesture was anything but meek. She had assessed his mood and he suspected he was now being humoured with obedience while it suited her. Rose got to her feet in one fluid motion and walked to the door, the oversized nightgown swishing around her slim body, one moment cloaking it, the next caressing an almost-elegant curve of hip and thigh.
Flint cursed under his breath, low and fluent, as he dragged on his shirt, welcoming the distracting stab of pain as he tucked the tails into his trousers and looped the braces over his shoulders. His feet wanted to go straight to the dressing-room door, but instead he went downstairs.
The men had slept, it seemed, like the dead, but all of them had woken up in better shape than before. Maggie and Moss between them had sorted them into bed cases, the walking wounded who could care for their fellows and two who were in not much worse condition than Flint.
Maggie despatched those two upstairs with hot water for Rose—‘And just knock and leave it at the door, mind!’—and for Flint’s bath. ‘Good thing you left a spare uniform here,’ she grumbled at him when he handed her the wreckage of his shirt. ‘Most of this is fit for the rag bag.’
‘I know,’ Flint said, straight-faced. ‘Anyone would think I’d fought two battles and been in a rainstorm in it.’ He dodged the cuff she aimed at him. ‘Can you do anything about fitting Rose out, Maggie?’
‘Aye, that I can. My sister Susan leaves clothes here for when she visits, saves carting too much baggage back and forth. The size’ll be about right, I dare say.’
‘Anything else she needs, just give me the bills.’ He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back. ‘Her man’s dead, Maggie. She’s shocked, but I can’t say she’s grieving exactly. I don’t know what it is, she doesn’t seem the sort to just shrug that off.’
‘Likely he knocked her around,’ Maggie said with distaste. ‘She’s happy enough with you, by the looks of it.’
If he, a big, murderous bastard, made Rose feel happy, then her last man must have been a brute, Flint concluded as he stood in the bath and did his best to scrub off the dirt that had escaped last night’s dowsing under the pump, without soaking the fresh bandage. The thought of unkindness to Rose made him angry, he discovered as he climbed out, feeling completely human again for the first time in days.
As he ran the razor through four days’ accumulation of beard he heard the faint sounds of splashing from the little room. His memory, with inconvenient precision, presented the memory of Rose’s body in his arms, in his bed against his naked chest, of her walking away with the wary grace of a young deer. Tension gathered low in his belly, heavy and demanding. With an inward snarl at his own lack of self-control he finished shaving, scrubbed a towel over his face.
She needed time and the last thing he needed at the moment was a woman. Sex, yes. He could certainly do with that, but a man could manage. His body protested that it always needed a woman and was firmly ignored while he rummaged in the clothes press for his spare uniform. Women were demanding, expected emotions he did not have to share. This one was tying him in knots and she wasn’t even his, whatever Maggie said.
Maggie had brushed his dress uniform and he shoved it aside, smart, expensive, reeking of officer and privilege. It reminded him again of the confounded Duchess of Richmond’s confounded ball where he had stood around, under orders to do the pretty, pretend to be a gentleman and generally give the impression that the nickname of Randall’s Rogues that attached to their irregular unit of artillery was a light-hearted jest and not a mild description for a bunch of semi-lawless adventurers.
He’d even had to let Moss cut his hair, he thought with a snarl as he stood in front of the mirror and raked the severe new crop into order. Fashionable, Maggie had said with approval. Damned frippery, more like. Flint buckled on his sword belt, grabbed his shako and ran downstairs for his breakfast.
* * *
‘Hawkins! With me.’
‘Sir.’ The sergeant came in, buttoning his tunic. He’d shaved and found a half-decent shirt from somewhere.
‘We’ll go and report in and see who is where.’
They walked out into the crowded cobbled streets where men lay on piles of straw under makeshift awnings with townswomen, medical orderlies and nuns tending to them. They kept their eyes skinned for familiar faces or the blue of an artillery uniform jacket.
The news on the street was that Wellington had left his house on Rue Montagne du Parc for Nivelles, where the army was bivouacked. ‘We’d best start at HQ, see what staff he’s left behind and get our orders, then locate the colonel,’ Flint decided as they began the steep climb up from the lower town. It was slow progress.
‘How’s Miss Rose, sir?’
‘Miss?’
Hawkins shrugged. ‘She behaves like a lady, Major. So Maggie says.’
‘She was living with a man from the Seventy-Third, now no longer with us, poor devil. I doubt that makes her a lady.’
‘I think she’s got a nice way with her, what I’ve seen,’ the sergeant said stubbornly as they stopped to help a nun move a man on to a stretcher without jarring the bloody stump of his leg. ‘Pretty little thing.’
‘Most you’ve seen of her is a filthy waif glued to me like a kitten stuck up a tree. Her nice ways got her into my bed this morning,’ Flint snapped. ‘Not what I’d call ladylike.’
‘Needs a cuddle, most likely,’ Hawkins said, impervious to Flint’s sudden bad temper. ‘Women do when they’re upset. Useful that, I always think. You know, you give her a cuddle, bit of a squeeze, buss on the cheek, the next thing you know she’s stopped crying and you’re—’
‘You can discuss your techniques of courtship with the duke when we catch up with him,’ Flint suggested as they returned the salute of the sentry at the gate of what had been Wellington’s house. ‘They say he’s got about as much finesse as you have between the sheets.’
The scene was somewhat different from the weeks before the battle when the house had been mobbed by every person of fashion—or pretentions of gentility—hoping to gain access to the great man. Now it was all business, with red-eyed adjutants, scurrying orderlies and groups of weary men consulting notes and maps as they dealt with the aftermath of the Field Marshall’s departure.
‘Major!’ Flint turned to see Lieutenant Foster, their brigade surgeon. He looked bone-weary, but he’d managed to change and shave. ‘I was coming to find you. I’ve a list of which of our men are where, I just need the names and locations of any you brought back yesterday.’
‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’ Flint demanded.
‘Eighty, unless any more go in the next few days, and that’s always possible.’ Foster shrugged philosophically. ‘I’ve got as many of the badly wounded ones as I can with the nuns, they’re better at offering comfort and the wards are cleaner and quieter.’
‘Hawkins, take the lieutenant down to see the men at Maggie’s, then get a list from him of where everyone is. We can add a few more to the dead list, Foster. Let me know what needs doing when we both get back to the house. And you, Lieutenant, when you’ve seen those last few men, you get back to your lodgings and sleep until this afternoon at least. That’s an order.’
‘But, Major, the colonel—’
‘Go!’ To hell with Randall, he could wait until Flint had reported in here at HQ before he started throwing out his orders.
The adjutant at the desk consulted a sheaf of papers. ‘Your guns and the fit men have joined the line of march towards the border, sir. Any who recover in the next ten days are to be sent to muster at your base at Roosbos to await onward deployment. You, Major, and your sergeant, have orders here.’ He rifled through the mass of documents on his desk and produced a sealed letter. ‘They are not secret. His lordship has directed that for every hundred men who must remain in the city through wounds, sickness and for assigned duties, one officer, one non-commissioned officer and three men will also stay to keep order and look to their welfare and deployment. There is a list of the other officers included.’
Flint stared at the packet in his hands. This was the end of his war. No more marching, deploying, fighting—the work he was trained for. Now it would be administration, paperwork, policing—the stuff he hated.
‘...news of Lord Randall’s condition when you’ve seen the colonel.’ The adjutant was still talking.
‘His condition? Randall is wounded?’
‘Why, yes, Major. He has a chest wound and the blow to his head, of course. I assumed you were aware?’ Something in the quality of Flint’s glare must have penetrated. ‘Ah, obviously not. There’s no danger, sir, at least, not as far as the surgeon can see at the moment. I don’t think he wants to operate to remove the bullet if it can be avoided.’
Lord, no, Flint thought with an inner shudder. Bullets in the chest were nasty enough, digging the damn things out was usually fatal.
The other man was still talking and Flint closed off the memory of having a ball cut out of his own shoulder. That had been bad, but at least it hadn’t been rattling around his lungs.
‘Concussion is always difficult of course, so they are keeping him in bed and flat on his back for a few days.’
‘Where is he?’
‘His usual lodgings, the house he took in Rue Ducale, sir.’
‘Right.’ Flint turned on his heel and strode out of the house. Damn it, his commanding officer wounded and he had not known. When had that happened? There were two rules: look after your men and watch your commander’s back for him. He swore silently all the way across the Parc to the smart street where Randall had established a base for his frequent visits into the city.
He banged the knocker, strode in past the faintly protesting servant and up the stairs, guided by the sound of voices. Conscious at least. ‘Laying down the law again, sir?’ he asked as he pushed open the door.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ The question came on the merest thread of a breath. Flint made his face poker straight and his voice wooden to keep the shock from both as he advanced to the foot of the bed. ‘Picking up the bodies, sir. Where was yours?’ God, but he looks bad.
There was a movement behind him and a hand closed around his arm. ‘Outside, if you please.’
Flint turned. A diminutive brunette in a gown that could best be described as sensible, with a hairstyle that was fighting a losing battle against escaping wisps of hair, regarded him with severity. A lady from her accent, a spinster of either Quakerish habits or a restricted budget to judge by her modest attire. Apparently a female fallen on hard times and taking employment where she might and a pocket battleaxe to boot, under that demure appearance. She turned towards the open door and, short of wrenching out of her grip, he had no choice but to follow her.
‘Lord Randall was found in an old barn to the west of La Haye Sainte,’ she whispered as soon as they were out on the landing with the door closed. ‘Just at the moment, as he has a concussion in addition to a bullet wound in his chest, we are unable to establish exactly why he was there. I must ask you to leave immediately, sir. Lord Randall must rest.’
‘Ma’am, I must report to my commanding officer. I follow his orders, not those of a hired nurse. With respect.’
‘I am not a hired nurse.’ Her lips thinned. She obviously knew just how genuine his remarks about respect were. ‘I am Miss Endacott, a friend of the family.’
‘The governess Randall escorted over from England?’ And the lady he danced every single dance with at the Duchess’s ball, Flint realised. Only she hadn’t been dressed like a schoolmarm then. What the blazes is going on? Surely not an affaire?
Her expression became, if anything, stiffer. ‘I own and run a school here, Major. I assume from your uniform and your likeness to Lord Randall that you are his half-brother Adam Flint? I believe I saw you at Roosbos.’
‘Yes, I’m Flint. And I must report to him.’
She hesitated. ‘I could use your help to give him the saline draught the doctor left. He is not a good patient. It is critically important that he lies still and does not get excited.’
Randall become excited? That would be the day they were ice skating in hell. But he would say whatever was necessary to get past this schoolteacher. ‘Of course.’
‘In that case you may have five minutes, no more.’ Miss Endacott appeared to place little value on his word, even less when he showed his teeth in an approximation to a smile.
She shot him a glare that would obviously paralyse recalcitrant schoolboys—fortunately he had never been to school—reopened the door, moved to the bedside table and poured a clear liquid into a glass with brisk competence. ‘I will administer the draught. You will please support his head, but do not allow him to sit up. Kindly do not jar his head when you lower it back to the pillow.’
Adam slid his right hand under the other man’s neck and felt him stiffen in rejection. It was probably the first time they had ever touched this intimately. Put up with it, Brother, Flint thought as Miss Endacott lifted the glass to Justin’s lips. She tipped the draught efficiently down his throat, then nodded to Flint to lower Randall back to the pillow.
His half-brother lay, eyes closed, white around the lips. His hands were clenched into fists as they lay on top of the covers.
He is in a great deal of pain and doesn’t want her to see it, Flint thought, recognising the reaction. Expressions of sympathy wouldn’t help.
‘HQ are asking after you. I’ll tell them to leave you in peace for a day or so. Everything’s under control. I’ll find Bartlett and we’ll carry on. Any orders?’
There was no response from the man on the bed, then, ‘Adam...look after the Rogues.’ It was the first time his half-brother had ever used his first name.
‘Of course, sir.’ That was the closest Flint had seen Randall come to a display of emotion. Perhaps the effort of keeping every trace of his natural reactions under control when Gideon had died in his arms was having its effect on Justin now. Flint had thought he had no feelings for his legitimate family, but standing there watching his brothers in those final moments had been harder than he could have imagined. ‘I’ll fetch the body.’ There was no need to say whose.
‘Thank you.’ Randall did not open his eyes.
Miss Endacott almost pushed him out of the door and closed it in his face without another word. She was worrying unduly, he told himself as he ran downstairs. Randall looked bad, and was suffering a lot of pain, but he was tough. He would pull through. But her protective attitude was interesting. Surely she and Randall were not...? No, of course not. Lord Poker-Up-the-Backside Randall fall for a schoolteacher? Never.
Chapter Four (#ulink_16eefa14-d08b-513b-803f-c40ad30d509b)
Rose opened the kitchen door, uncertain of her welcome. Was she supposed to stay out of the way of the soldiers after their reaction when she had sent them scattering into the courtyard? On this, the second morning in the warm, cheerful house, she was beginning to feel stronger and the scream in her head had grown quiet, almost as soft as the buzzing of a field of drowsy bees on a summer’s day. She had slept in the little dressing room and waited until Adam had left the bedchamber before venturing out.
Maggie was at the hearth, stirring something in a big pot, and Adam and Hawkins were slumped in chairs either side of the table, their backs to her, relaxed like two great hounds after an exhausting chase.
As Rose hesitated on the threshold, Maggie jerked her head towards a battered armchair beside the fire and poured a mug of tea. Rose took it with a smile of thanks and snuggled quietly into the patchwork cushions as Hawkins picked up what was obviously a thread of conversation.
‘If Boney’s beat, then the war’s over, surely? They’ve got the French king all ready to come back, the nobs in Vienna will carry on negotiating and drawing lines on the maps, and what’ll happen to us?’
‘West Indies?’ Adam said.
‘They say it’s a death trap. Getting killed in battle’s one thing, don’t fancy going all that way to die of yellow fever.’
‘Might get ordered home.’ Adam drained his mug and set it down with a thump on the table. ‘We could be Hyde Park soldiers, firing off guns for Prinny’s parties. That would be fun.’
‘Or we’d be harassing rioting industrial workers up north. Not what I call soldiering,’ Hawkins muttered.
‘Me neither, Jerry.’ Adam slumped lower in his chair, his accent roughening. They were like two sergeants together, Rose realised. Mates, not officer and NCO. ‘I’ve been a soldier half my life. This is family.’
There was a brooding silence. Maggie lowered herself into the chair opposite Rose and picked up a sock and darning wool from the basket beside her.
‘East India Company looks the best bet to me,’ Hawkins said. ‘They’re using more artillery, so I hear, and there’s a chance of good money.’
‘I’d been thinking about that.’ Adam sat up straighter and reached across the table to rip a crust off the loaf. ‘Or there’s the Continental princelings. All those German states with standing armies, they need good artillerymen and they’re prepared to pay.’
‘You’d end up a general,’ Hawkins said.
Adam snorted. ‘You’d make major,’ he countered, dragging the crust through the butter and biting into it. ‘And think of the fancy uniforms.’
