A Rose for Major Flint

‘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.’