Moss and Maggie had trimmed his hair, nagged him into the closest shave he’d ever had in his life, dumped him in a bath with some fancy soap, dabbed at him with infernal cologne and eased him into his scarcely-worn dress uniform. He’d had to fight with ghosts from the past to make himself cross that threshold, but it had been worth it to see Justin’s face when Flint stood there brooding in the corner, surrounded by the interested and predatory ladies who had deserted his handsome half-brother to simper at his scowls and stare unabashedly at his tight breeches.
‘I forget that you scrub up quite well,’ Randall had said, a smile on his sculpted lips, his blue eyes, so like Flint’s, chill and unamused by what he had unleashed on the ballroom.
Flint had shown his teeth in response, knowing his smile and his eyes were identical to Randall’s. ‘I know,’ he’d replied in the upper-class drawl he could produce when he could be bothered. ‘Worried I’ll cut you out with the ladies, sir?’ And he could, they both knew that from their time in the Peninsula. Ladies who’d want him for one thing only. Randall, of course, was always too much on his dignity to allow his amours to be seen in public.
Focus. He could not let his mind drift, not stop being a damned officer. Not yet. He stuffed the unpleasant memories away, dumped the tin bath in the bedchamber and went for hot water, leaving Maggie crooning reassurance in the dressing room. When he came down again Moss was tending to the worst of the injured while those who could stand were naked in the yard, sluicing themselves off under Hawkins’s watchful eye.
‘We’ve sent a lad with a note to HQ, sir,’ Hawkins said. ‘Let them know where we are. I’ve asked for the surgeon to call, but I think we’ll be all right for now. They’re checking each other over and washing the wounds out. Maggie’s laid in plenty of bandages and salve. How’s the girl?’ he asked as Flint studied the battered bodies.
Yes, unless loss of blood or shock caught up with any of them, or a wound began to fester, they’d do. It had been, against all the odds and late in the day, a victory, and their tails were up as a result. ‘The girl? I’ve called her Rose. We got her on to a bed and Maggie’s doing what she can. Women’s work, not our problem any more.’ He began to strip. ‘You, too, let’s see what exciting holes you’ve acquired this time.’
‘Nothing.’ Hawkins stripped and grabbed for some soap. ‘I’m filthy as a cesspit digger, but not a scratch on me.’ He jerked his head at the slash over Flint’s ribs. ‘That needs cleaning.’
Flint grunted, splashed soapy water into the wound, swore and scrubbed the rest of himself mostly clean. The men were limping and hobbling back to the straw beds, wrapped in bits of sheet for decency.
‘Lie down, the lot of you, and get some rest,’ Moss ordered with the authority of the sergeant he had once been. ‘I’ll bring you more water and there’ll be stew in bit.’ He began to gather up the torn and filthy shirts, muttering over the state of the uniforms. ‘The girl will get the linen into the copper and do her best with it.’ He stomped into the house, shouting, ‘Lucille!’
‘You rest, too,’ Flint said to Hawkins. He reached out to steady the other man as he balanced on one foot to scrub at the other. Hawkins grasped his hand, returned the momentary pressure without meeting his eyes. There was no need for more words. We’re alive. Hundreds aren’t. We won. ‘Rest. That’s an order.’
‘And you, Major.’
‘Aye.’ Flint looked round at the yard and the outhouse. Nothing more to be done now for a bit except sleep. Immediately after a battle no one wanted to let their eyes close and risk it, the oblivion was too much like dying. Now they could all finally let go. He slung a towel round his waist, picked up his clothes. ‘I’m upstairs if you need me.’
The dressing-room door was closed, but the tub was full of scummy grey water and a pile of damp towels were heaped on the floor. So Maggie had got Rose into a bath, at least, which meant she would have checked her for any injuries. He got rid of the dirty water and put the tub back in the cupboard, then stood in the middle of the room and eyed the bed. Yes, he could let go now for a while at last. He dropped the towel, climbed between the sheets and sank straight into a sleep as dark and still as death.
* * *
Light, softness and blissful quiet. The scream was still there, an echo in her head, but she could hear faint sounds from somewhere below and a rhythmic purring rasp like a big cat. Something had woken her. Footsteps? Voices? Whatever it was had stopped now.
She opened her eyes on to whiteness. Clouds...? Heaven? No, a big white puffy eiderdown, linen sheets, a lime-washed wall. She was in bed in a small, very simple, very clean room.
She sat up and looked down at her body. Someone had put her into a vast white nightgown. The plump woman with the big hands and the soft voice had bathed her and talked all the time with words that made no sense, but that soothed. Now she ached in every muscle as though she had walked a hundred miles, but that could not be right.
Where am I? Once there had been a house somewhere far away over the sea and then another one, smaller. Smiling faces. Love and arguments. What about? A man? A ball and a beautiful gown. Then kisses and a tent and tears and rain and mud and noise. The worst noise in the world. And then searching, searching and being afraid and then... The scream became louder and she fought back the memory, the images, until she huddled into the pillow, shivering with effort, and it was quiet enough for her to think again.
The demons had come and then the Devil who took her and all the other damned souls he was sending to hell. He had carried her off on his great black horse and she had felt safe, even though he was the Devil. And he had brought her here, to the soft woman and the warm water and peace.
None of it made any sense, because this was not hell, unless it was a cruel trick. Perhaps if she opened the door there would be flames and demons and mocking laughter. Perhaps that sound was a sleeping hellhound. But she had to get up. Surely if you were dead you did not need the chamber pot any more? That was encouraging. She made her way on shaky legs to the screen in the corner and emerged feeling a little better.
Now for the door and what lay beyond. It opened without a creak on to a bedchamber, another white room with muslin curtains drawn over early-morning light and the only flames those safely enclosed within a pair of lamps, burning low. There was a cold fireplace, a rag rug, a chair and a bed. A big bed with, in it, a big man. Her Devil. And he was snoring. That was the sound she had heard. Her face felt strange and she lifted a scratched hand to touch her mouth. She was smiling.
She stood beside the bed and studied him. His shoulders and one arm were above the sheets, muscled, brown, bruised, battered, marked with fresh cuts and old scars. His face was half-hidden under dark brown stubble, darker than the brown hair that partly covered the scar on his forehead. His nose was straight and imperious. He should have seemed vulnerable in sleep, instead he looked dangerous and formidable, a smouldering volcano.
Her Devil. He had saved her, so she was his now and she should be in bed with him. She eased back the covers and slid under, half-expecting the movement of the feather mattress to wake him, but he only muttered, shifted and threw one heavy arm across her, trapping her against him. He was naked, she could tell even through the sensible cotton nightgown. Naked and warm and big. Safe. She closed her eyes and slept, the rumble of his snores drowning the scream.
* * *
‘Rose? Bloody hell, what are you doing here?’
Rose? Who was Rose? She snuggled closer against the solid bare body, into the warmth and the security, then had to clutch the edge
