A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

‘No? Then what do you want to do?’ He was being patient, far more patient than she had any right to expect him to be when he had so much to think about, to do, to take responsibility for.

Rose got up, sat on the bed and looked Adam straight in the eye. She waved her hand to encompass the room, the house, then pointed a finger at him. Stay with you.

Rose had thought she was beginning to be able to read Adam’s expression, but now she might as well have been staring at a statue, so impenetrable were the strong, immobile planes of his face, the hard mouth, the steady blue eyes. Was there a flare of heat in the sapphire gaze? Something flickered and was gone.

‘Stay with me?’ He glanced at the sewing basket and the discarded shirt. ‘I don’t need a maid, Rose. I’ve got a batman at Roosbos.’

No. She stroked her hand over the coverlet, trying not to blush as she met his gaze.

‘As my woman?’ There was that flare of heat again. He was not indifferent to her.

Something very basic, very female, stirred inside her. Something she had never felt with Gerald. She had admired his looks, liked his sunny temper, enjoyed his kisses. Those memories were coming back and she had never fantasised about being naked with him, she was sure. She was reasonably certain she had never had fantasies like that about any man.

‘You are too young for me, Rose.’

She gave a huff of exasperation. Men were supposed to want sex, weren’t they? What was so wrong with her that Adam was fighting her off? She held up her hands, opening and closing them rapidly, confident about this at least. Ten, ten and three. Twenty-three. And you? She pointed at him.

‘Twenty-eight. You don’t look more than twenty-one, not that years have anything to do with it. I’m not a nice man, Rose and you deserve a nice man. No, don’t look at me like that.’ That half-smile put a crease in his left cheek that hardly qualified as anything so soft as a dimple. ‘I might have rescued you back there on the battlefield, but I’m a bastard, a professional one. I fight dirty, I kill for a living and I’m not capable of being faithful to one woman for any length of time.’

You don’t kill for a living, she wanted to protest. You fight for your country. She stretched out her hand, then let it drop back into her lap. No, of course she couldn’t expect him to be faithful to her. What had she got that could hold a virile, experienced man like this?

‘Rose, I’m not the marrying kind.’ It was as blunt a warning as she could ever expect to receive. ‘There are lots of good lads out there who’d take care of you, want to wed you, give you a family. Isn’t that what you want?’

Was it? She’d thought Gerald a good lad. She’d thought she was in love with him and that they would marry and everything would be perfect. The daydream was as clear as if it were fresh minted. But life wasn’t perfect, she’d mistaken infatuation for love and now she was ruined. Why not snatch what happiness she could?

Although why I think this big, hard, weary man would make me happy, even for a few weeks, I don’t know. He obviously doesn’t want me, not like that.

‘Rose, don’t cry.’ It was the nearest to alarm she’d heard in Adam’s voice.

I’m not crying. Then she realised that she was. She put up her hands to shield her face, ashamed of the weakness.

‘You think I don’t want you?’ Adam stood up and pulled her to her feet. He tipped up her chin so she could not avoid his gaze. ‘Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?’ One blunt thumb caught the tears under her eyes, rubbed them away. ‘You’re beautiful, brave, sweet. But we need to talk about this and you can’t speak. I’m too old for you, Rose. Not in years, just in living. Don’t mistake the need for comfort for something it isn’t.’

She shook her head, helpless to explain her feelings when she hardly understood them herself.

‘I’ve got to go and see Randall now, and then I must get to the battlefield. I won’t be back until tomorrow, late.’

She caught his hand and brought it down to her lips, kissed it, tasted the salt of her own tears.

‘Hell, Rose.’ She felt the control snap as Adam pulled her to him hard and his hands slid into her hair, held her fast as his mouth took hers. She had never been kissed like this, not with unconstrained masculine desire. Gerald had been respectful, aware she was a lady and a virgin. In the tent he had been clumsy, inept and afraid, too frightened for kisses.

She doubted Adam Flint had ever been clumsy or inept with a woman. She clung to the shreds of rational thought as he plundered her mouth with ruthless expertise. It was like riding a wild horse, she could only clutch at his shoulders and hope to survive the experience.

His tongue was in her mouth—when had she opened to him? She could not remember. His teeth nipped and pressed, his lips tormented and then soothed. His taste filled her senses: coffee, a hint of brandy, man. Adam. His hands stayed locked around her head and she found she was pressing against him, her breasts aching for his touch. Her thighs tingled and a compelling ache between them throbbed in counterpoint to the movement of Adam’s mouth on hers. She snuggled closer and felt the evidence of his arousal hard against her stomach.

He released her suddenly and she sat down with a thump on the bed, one hand to her mouth, staring at him.

‘You see?’ His voice was harsh. ‘I shock you. Maggie thinks your last man was a brute, but he wasn’t, was he? He was a nice lad, I’d guess, just not around enough for you to get attached.’ He grinned, without humour, when she nodded. ‘I’m not a nice lad. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. While I’m away, think about where you want to go.’ He opened the door and snapped his fingers at the dog. ‘Come.’

It took time for her to recognise the trembling, the confusion of feeling, for what it was. Not fear, but simply desire stoked higher than she could have imagined. Rose got to her feet after a while and made her way on unsteady feet to the washbasin to splash cold water on her face, but even when she had done that, and stood with the linen towel in her hands, she could not do more than stare at the closed door, her mind a jumble of thoughts.

It took the sound of Maggie’s voice to jerk her out of her trance. ‘Rose! Tea!’

She made her way downstairs into the crowded kitchen, took her tea and perched in a corner while Maggie and Moss dispensed mugs and slabs of heavy cake for the men to carry out to their less-mobile comrades in the yard. There seemed to be fewer of the walking wounded than earlier.

The heat of the liquid penetrated the thick earthenware, a comforting, real sensation. Rose curled her fingers tight around it and listened to Maggie and Moss talking about Adam.

‘What did the major want with those picks and shovels and the fitter men?’ Maggie asked as she sank into her rocking chair.