A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

The bed was clean, soft bliss. Flint lay back, closed his eyes—and something moved beside him. He was on top of the warm body, fighting instinct taking over with his fingers tight around a throat, before the softness and curved shape beneath his own naked skin brought him fully awake.

‘Rose, what the hell are you doing here?’ He knew perfectly well. She was stubborn, she did not take no for an answer and that kiss had not deterred her. He was instantly hard, instantly aching. Flint dredged up the tattered remains of his will power and rolled away, on to his back, reaching for the edge of the bed to haul himself out. ‘Rose—’

She moved, came up on her elbow, leaned across him and brought her lips to his chest, finding his left nipple even as her hand brushed up the length of his arousal with the merest hint of fingernails.

His head dropped back on to the pillow.

A woman who knew what she was doing. The assured caress swept away the last of his will power. Thank you, whichever god looks after tired, randy artillerymen. With a growl of anticipation he turned to her, rolled her on to her back and pinned her between his elbows for his kiss.

*

Rose gasped and Adam took immediate advantage of her parted lips, his tongue sliding in, hot and wicked. She had reached for him almost blind, had meant only to curl her arms around him and rest her head on his chest. The sensation of his nipple hardening beneath her lips, the taste of his damp skin, the texture and length of the hard flesh her hand had found—they were shocking and exciting in equal measure. The sound he made as he’d reached for her sent tremors through her and a surge of something very like power.

She had done this to Adam, cracked his resolve, aroused him to passion simply because she’d reached out to hug him and then her lips and her hand had found parts that provoked this reaction…

His mouth did not leave hers as he lifted on one elbow and cupped her breast with his free hand. The weight and shape seemed to please him and he toyed with it, weighing it, kneading it gently. She moaned against his mouth and then gasped as he began to roll the nipple between thumb and forefinger, almost to the point of pain. An arrow of sensation shot down to her groin and she writhed, reached for him, found one of his nipples again and, purely on instinct, pinched it lightly, fascinated as it became hard at her touch.

Adam’s growl resonated in his chest and he released her breast, slid his hand lower, over her belly, down to the triangle of curls. She was hot there, and wet. Was that normal? It was difficult to think, to feel embarrassed, as he slid one finger between the folds, raised his head and murmured something.

For a moment, as he shifted his weight over her, Rose felt a tremble of alarm. He was so very large, and experienced, and she knew nothing. The memory of what her groping hand had found made her quiver with something closer to excitement than the apprehension she knew she should feel and then she found she had shifted instinctively to cradle him between her thighs and the hard, hot length of him was pressing against her.

It will be all right, Rose assured herself as the blunt head nudged into her intimate flesh. This is what all that dampness is for. Then he was inside her.

‘Rose—’

He was only just inside her, she realised as she managed to sort out one sensation from another. He rocked his hips, pushing a little, withdrawing, teasing himself as much as her, she suspected with sudden insight.

‘You’re so tight… Sorry, I was too fast. I want you too badly.’ His head dropped until his forehead rested against hers, one hand slid between their bodies and touched her close to where he had entered her, stroking.

The sensation was intense and she arched up against his fingers, searching for more. The weight of his body held her down, but her movement pushed him deeper. He groaned and she felt the shift of his pelvis against hers.

The thrust of Adam’s hips filled her impossibly, alarmingly, full. Perhaps the wetness was not enough, after all. Rose felt her body fighting him and struggled to relax, to stay calm, to control the instinct to reject this intrusion. She had known to expect this, only not how it would feel. Then he surged again, there was a sharp, sore pain and she realised Adam was hilted deep inside her.

Rose breathed deeply as her body begin to adjust. It would be all right in a moment. Her instincts knew what to do and he felt wonderful. This was a man, this was Adam, and they were joined in a way that seemed almost magically intimate and intense. There was more pleasure waiting just beyond the discomfort. She wasn’t certain she wanted him to move though, not yet, not for a minute or two while she—

But shouldn’t Adam be moving something? As her sensation-clouded mind cleared she realised he had gone quite still, rigid all over. Then he slowly raised himself up, pulled back and rolled free of her body, leaving her bereft. Surely this was not all there was to making love?

She could make out his silhouette as he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. After a heartbeat he raked his fingers through his hair and straightened up. ‘You were a virgin.’ His voice was flat, hard. ‘A virgin, damn it.’

He shifted off the bed in one abrupt movement. Rose heard the rasp of a tinderbox and flung a forearm across her eyes to shield them from the sudden glare as he began to light candles, then the two oil lamps. Adam stood there in the wash of light naked, still half-erect, furious. ‘You let me think you were a camp follower, that you had been with a man as his mistress. Why?’

How to mime that? Rose lifted her hands helplessly. How to explain?

‘I may not be a gentleman, I may have been dragged up in the stable yard, but I have never, never despoiled an innocent.’ He snatched a sheet from the bed and swathed it around his waist. ‘Put something on. Now.’ He began to pace, talking half to her, half to himself as she fumbled for her nightgown. ‘A virgin this week…what will it be next week? Forcing an unwilling woman? I am obviously my father’s son in every respect.’

No! She reached for him, the denial a silent scream. No, how could he believe that of himself? What had she done?

The rant brought him up to the small table at the far end of the room. Rose saw Adam go still, watched his rigid back, felt her mouth go dry as he just stood there.

‘What is this?’ Adam turned and pointed to the ink bottle, the pen and the scraps of unused paper she had forgotten when she had tidied away her notes after hours of effort. ‘You can write? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me? This would never have happened if we had been able to have even half a conversation!’

Rose half fell out of bed and stumbled to the table. Because I forgot, she scrawled, blotting the lines in her haste. I don’t know my own name. Why should I remember about this?

‘You forgot.’ Adam seemed to drag the breath down to his guts, then said, in the voice she had heard him use to give orders, ‘What do you remember?’ He pulled out the chair for her. ‘Sit. Write.’

He looks like a Roman emperor in his toga, Rose thought, stupid with tiredness and frustration and unhappiness. So I know about ancient Rome…

She dipped the pen and began.