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Rose did not stir as he picked up his shaving tackle and clean shirt and shut himself into her room. Let her sleep. Let me come to terms with this.
Chapter Eight
Flint stripped and washed all over, uncoiled the bandage, slapped a dressing from his pack over the half-hea
led slash and then tilted the dressing mirror to the right angle for a shave.
Look at yourself, he addressed himself as he lathered his chin. Great hairy brute. What the hell does she see in you? Even the modish crop he’d suffered for the ball was growing out. The razor slid through the bristles and foam, leaving a stripe of smooth, tanned cheek behind it. Rose saw something, that was obvious, for she was not some little wanton hot for any man.
She was honest and loyal. She had said she didn’t want or expect marriage, but might she possibly consider marrying him? Flint flicked soap off his razor into the basin. Where had that come from? He had told her he wasn’t the marrying kind, or a man who stuck long with one woman. But I might be. If he had stayed a private, even a sergeant, he would have married by now, he supposed. But an officer, however murky his past, did not marry a camp follower.
But nor did an officer marry a lady, not if he was a bastard who’d clawed his way up from the ranks, even one with the support of an earl behind him. He had learned that lesson very early on. Flint missed a patch, swore and steadied the razor. The Honourable Miss Patricia Harte, blonde and pretty as a picture, had been very, very happy to flirt with the newly made Lieutenant Flint. And kiss him on the terrace and sneak away from her chaperone and sisters for clandestine meetings in the park.
He’d controlled himself with all the restraint of a young man in love who was determined to behave honourably, even if gentlemanly honour was a new concept he was still learning. He was not going to take advantage of the lady he loved, however much she ran her soft little hands over his shiny new dress uniform with its gold lace and tipped up her pansy face for his kisses.
So, like the fool he was, he took himself off to speak to her father and found himself out on the pavement five minutes later with threats of a horsewhipping ringing in his ears. And when he’d seen her in the park and had tried to speak to her she had laughed in his face.
‘How could you think me serious? You aren’t a gentleman.’ She’d pouted. ‘Now Papa is cross with me for encouraging your pretensions. I just thought you’d be fun later, when I’m married and it doesn’t matter.’
He’d walked away, too hurt and angry to respond. The lesson was learned, not just about his place in society, but about the character of ladies. At least the cheerful tavern girls had no hypocrisy about them.
But Rose—even if she was ruined—was from a respectable family, he could tell. She’d had a decent education and upbringing, she had nice manners and an elegant way with her. She would be perfect for a mongrel officer.
He rinsed his face and stared into the mirror. She found him attractive apparently, she seemed to enjoy his lovemaking. They had communicated well even when she could not talk. Might she?
But what could he offer her? The war was over, that seemed certain. He was more than ever convinced he did not want to be a peacetime soldier in Britain. But could he drag her off to India and the heat and disease? Or into the unknown that was South America?
For the first time since he was fourteen he contemplated life outside the military. But if he sold out, what else could he do? Even farming was going to suffer with the end of the war, it always did as the demand for food dropped back to peacetime levels. Not that he had any idea how to be a farmer. Perhaps Rose had some thoughts about the life she’d like to live—but how could he give it to her?
Flint dressed with more care than usual, then stared again into the long mirror. The eyes that looked back at him were hard, cold as iced seawater, windows into what passed for his soul. What had come over him, thinking those thoughts? He was an artilleryman, an officer, a professional killer. That was what he was good at. That was his life. And as for women—he enjoyed them, he liked them and he seemed to be able to make them happy in bed. Not exactly qualifications for a respectable, genteel courtship, let alone marriage.
He retrieved his jacket and his sword belt from the main room and eased the door shut, leaving Rose still curled up under the covers. It was the aftermath of the worst battle he had ever been in, that was what had prompted this unexpected desire to settle down. Perhaps this urge was simply nature’s way to repopulate the nation after all that killing, an animal reaction that a rational man should ignore.
Rose aroused feelings in him that ranged from fierce protectiveness to raging desire, but it didn’t mean he had to marry her, or that he’d be anything but a dreadful husband. What did he know about marriage, anyway? He’d been brought up in a stable yard with a mob of other lads, more like a litter of puppies than a family. He’d no father to emulate, only one to reject and abhor. This unsettling feeling certainly didn’t mean he had to throw away his career and the only life he understood.
Downstairs everyone was jammed into the kitchen, even Dixon with his bandages reduced to a pad over the cheek. By some miracle his eye had been spared.
‘Where’s Rose?’ Maggie asked, handing round mugs of tea.
Flint picked up a mug in one hand and a roll stuffed with gammon in the other. ‘Asleep.’ He looked round for his saddlebags as he munched and made a mental list. Randall, HQ, check the hospitals… ‘She’s tired.’
There was complete silence. Not a word, not a snigger. When he glanced up sharply every face was expressionless. He recognised this. It was dumb insolence and he was very, very good at it himself, which was why he knew it when he saw it. He could hear the thoughts, the ribald comments, just as loudly as if they’d been shouted. Worn her out, Major? Cor, you must be a demon in bed, sir! Well done, sir.
Maggie cleared her throat. ‘No more nightmares, then?’
‘She can talk again,’ he said curtly. ‘The nightmare last night made her scream and that seems to have released the words.’
‘Nightmare, eh? One word for it. Blimey, the major’ll raise the dead next,’ someone whispered, forgetting caution. ‘Must be true what the girls say about him.’
‘I’ll send Lieutenant Foster down to hold sick parade,’ Flint said without looking round. ‘The lot of you look fit enough to march back to Roosbos.’ There was a general groan. ‘And you can clean the place up for Maggie before you go. Quietly.’ He drained his tea and tossed the remains of the roll to Dog.
Hawkins followed him out to the stables. ‘They could do with a flogging, all of them.’ He sounded as though he could hardly suppress his own grin. When Flint spun round and glowered at him he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘They’ll not show Miss Rose any disrespect, sir. They’re just feeling their oats and that’s down to good food, rest and discovering they’re alive and more or less in one piece. They need some work to straighten them out, that’s all. Hard drill, camp food, some women to get a leg over.’ It seemed to strike him that the last was not the most diplomatic comment. ‘Er…want me with you, sir?’
‘Found a horse yet?’
‘Aye. Mouth like iron, but not bad. Paid a Hussar with a broken leg for it.’ Hawkins opened the stable door and jerked a thumb at a bay gelding.
‘In that case, yes, with me until we find Foster, then you go with him to the convents and hospitals, muster everyone who can manage the march and get them back to Roosbos. Take your own kit and stay there, knock them into shape. Moss can keep an eye on any of this lot who need to stay a bit longer.’
