Louise Allen - A Rose for Major Flint

She tried to listen, to understand. Finally she managed to raise her head and focus. One of the tattered, bloody scarecrows was walking towards a high wall with a great gate in it. A bell clanged, jumbling the words in her head even more, and then a flock of great black crows flew out of the gate, flapping, waving hands, not wings. One of them came close, reached for her with long, pale claws.

‘Pauvre...monsieur...pauvre petit...’

She huddled closer into the Devil’s grip. He would stop them pecking her. They had one of the dead men now, bloody and limp as they carried him through the great gate. Like Gerald, only this one had all of his face. Perhaps they were going to eat him, peck at his eyes... Her fingers locked into the strap across the Devil’s back. No...no... The words stayed closed in with the scream.

She felt the Devil shrug. The black crows chattered and flapped, then they rode on, her and the Devil on the great black hell horse. He said something, low, in his deep voice. It rumbled in his chest, against her ear, and this time she understood the words. ‘What am I going to do with you, Rose?’

Who is Rose? It wasn’t her, she knew that. Her name was...was... It had gone. He had told her his name. Adam. That could not be right, the Devil was not called Adam. Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan. Those were the Devil’s names.

Why wasn’t he hot? He should be burning hot, instead he was warm. And hard. He’d said he was made of stone... Flint, that was it. That was why he was hard, his thighs under her were rock that moved with the hell horse. His chest was solid, like holding on to an oak tree. His eyes were the blue of flames deep in the heart of a log fire, and he smelled of blood and smoke and sulphur.

Dare she sleep? It had been so long since she had slept. There had been a ball... Memory shifted, blurred, focused for a moment. The night before she had been too excited to sleep. Then the night of the ball she had lain awake with Gerald in her arms, stroking his hair, trying to give him some comfort for his fears. How long had it been since then? Two battles, a rainstorm... Why was I at a ball? Who was Gerald?

Could she sleep with all the noise in her head? She clung tighter to the Devil. He would keep her safe. It made no sense, but then nothing did any more. Nothing ever would again and all because she had sinned.

Chapter Two Contents Cover Introduction BRIDES OF WATERLOO Love forged on the battlefield Meet Mary Endacott, a radical schoolmistress, Sarah Latymor, a darling of the ton , and Catherine ‘Rose’ Tatton, a society lady with no memories of her past. Three very different women united in a fight for their lives, their reputations and the men they love. With war raging around them, the biggest battle these women face is protecting their hearts from three notorious soldiers … Will Mary be able to resist Colonel Lord Randall? Find out in A Lady for Lord Randall by Sarah Mallory Discover how pampered Lady Sarah handles rakish Major Bartlett in A Mistress for Major Bartlett by Annie Burrows What will happen when Major Flint helps Lady Catherine ‘Rose’ Tatton discover her past? Find out in A Rose for Major Flint by Louise Allen AUTHOR NOTE Title Page A Rose for Major Flint Louise Allen www.millsandboon.co.uk About the Author LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk , @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com Dedication To Sarah Mallory and Annie Burrows. It was such a pleasure exploring the Rogues and their world with you both. Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Epilogue Extract Copyright

‘Oh, my Gawd, look at you!’ Maggie Moss stood in the doorway, apron covered in flour, hair straggling out of its bun, elbows akimbo. ‘That’s a fine sight for a respectable Brussels boarding-house keeper to find on her doorstep of an evening.’ The tears poured down her cheeks.

‘We’ve been in a bit of a scrap, Maggie,’ Flint said, knowing better than to notice the tears. Something in his chest loosened at the sight and sound of her. Maggie meant warm practicality, a sanctuary of normality after a voyage into chaos. ‘Is there room? Twelve of us. Sergeant Hawkins, nine of the men and me. And Rose here.’

‘Of course there’s room, I made sure there would be, and never mind what those commissariat officers wanted when they came round. This house is for Randall’s Rogues and no one else, I said. Moss! Where is the man? Come on in. Tracking mud and worse all over my floors... And the noise! Those guns. Through here.’ Her hands were gentle as she helped the men through into the kitchen, scolding all the time like a mother making a child believe his scraped knee was nothing to make a fuss about.

Her husband came stomping through from the back on his wooden leg. He’d been Flint’s sergeant for three years until a spent ball had taken his leg off at Badajoz. Maggie had followed him through the hell of the Peninsular campaign and then, when peace had come and the English had flocked to Brussels, they’d come, too, to open a lodging house.

‘I’ve got palliasses laid out in the outhouse,’ Moss said. ‘It’s cool and dry out there and no need for stairs. Doesn’t look as though it will be too crowded, either,’ he added, low-voiced, to Flint. ‘Fewer than I expected. Butcher’s bill bad—or did you get off easy?’

‘Could have been worse. Could have been a damn sight better. The ones I sent back earlier were with the rest of the non-commissioned officers under orders to go to the hospitals or nunneries. Hawkins, can you manage here for a bit? I can’t do a thing with my arms full.’

‘We’ll manage, Major,’ Moss said with a sharp glance at Flint’s burden. ‘The missus had best help you with that one. Hawkins, I’ve got hot water in the boiler, let’s get them cleaned up and we’ll see what’s what.’ He turned to one of the privates. ‘Hey, lad, the pump’s in the yard, you fetch everyone a drink, right?’

‘Come on, Major, bring her through here. Hawkins and Moss will manage without us.’ Maggie urged him towards the stairs. ‘Up you go. How’s your broth—Colonel Randall?’

‘All right as far as I know. Gideon’s dead,’ Flint said. ‘At Quatre Bras.’ His younger half-brother had been a cavalry officer, full of courage and with, Flint thought bitterly, the brains of a partridge in shooting season. Gideon shouldn’t have been with the guns, and he, Flint, was a fool to feel that somehow he should have stopped him, saved him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Poor lad, he was only a boy.’

‘Hardly knew him.’ He’d stayed out of Gideon Latymor’s way all his life—until those last minutes. What did an ambitious young cavalry officer want with one of his father’s countless by-blows, even if their elder brother had, for some inscrutable reason of his own, promoted the by-blow’s career? What did the bastard in question need with either of them, come to that? Randall was his commanding officer, that was as close a relationship as Flint wanted.

‘Room on the left, the one you had before.’ Maggie didn’t make any further comment about Gideon, but he could feel her glare of disapproval at his words like a jab in the back from a bayonet. ‘So who’s this?’ she demanded when he reached the middle of the bedchamber and she could look properly at the woman clinging to him like a burr to a blanket.