‘May I present my sister? Isabella, this is Mr Urkyhart.’
‘Urk-hart,’ Finlay corrected wearily. ‘Señorita Romero. It is a pleasure.’
‘Mr Urquhart.’ Isabella made her shaky curtsy. Her heart was pounding, her mouth quite dry. It was undoubtedly him. The English wine merchant bowing over her hand was the Scottish major she had encountered in a ditch more than two years ago. The man she had spent the night with. Dios mio, what was he doing here?
She gazed beseechingly at him. She had forgotten how very blue his eyes were. He was clean-shaven, his auburn hair brushed neatly back from his forehead. He was not wearing his kilt. If only she had mastered the Spanish art of communicating with her fan, she could beg him not to betray her secret partisan past. He had said nothing yet. She had to find a way of ensuring he kept silent about their previous encounter.
She slanted a glance at her brother. Xavier had made such a song and dance about this visit, seeing it as his chance to finally have his Rioja recognised as the great wine he believed it to be. Grudgingly—very grudgingly—Isabella admitted that her brother knew what he was talking about, but still, she had very much resented his command that they do all they could to make the man’s visit memorable. If Xavier only asked rather than ordered it might be different. When she was feeling generous, Isabella put his tendency to command rather than request down to his years in the army. But she, too, had given orders during the war, and she had not returned to play the dictator.
Her brother drew her one of his looks. ‘The first dance is about to start. I believe Gabriel wishes...’
Isabella threw the wine merchant another beseeching glance. Fortunately, he seemed to be able to read this look easily. ‘If you would do me the honour, Señorita Romero, I would very much like to dance with you.’
‘Gracias.’ In a daze, she took his arm, propelling him towards the dance floor before Xavier could protest or stake Gabriel’s prior claim.
‘This,’ the Scotsman said to her sotto voce as they joined the set, ‘is rather a turn up for the books. A very unexpected surprise, to put it mildly.’
The vague, ludicrous hope that he had not recognised her, or that he would ignore their previous meeting completely, fled. Isabella felt quite sick. The first chords of the dance were struck, forcing them to separate. She cast an anxious glance around her. They had spoken in whispers, but even if Xavier was not watching, that cold little mouse of his wife would be.
As the dance began, fortunately one that required only simple steps as they progressed up the line, she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium. The shock of seeing the Scottish soldier again, and in such incongruous circumstances, had fractured her usually immaculate composure. There was too much at stake. She had to pull herself together.
He was alive. In the shock of the meeting, this salient fact had escaped her. She had occasionally wondered what had become of him as the conflict in Spain had drawn to a close and the British and French had taken their battles into the Pyrenees. He had clearly survived that false end to the war. He must have left the army then and established himself in business. He had obviously done very well indeed for himself, though that was not really surprising. He had struck her as a very, very determined and resourceful man.
He had also struck her as a very attractive man. That had been no trick of the moonlight, and judging by the way every other woman in the room was slanting him glances, she was not the only one to think so. She was drawn to him just as she had been before, despite the fact that he could turn her world upside down. When he had brushed a kiss to her fingertips, the memory of his lips on her skin all that time ago had come rushing back with unexpected force. Isabella had no idea whether it was this, or the reality of his touch now, or the underlying terror of exposure that made her shiver. Whichever, it had taken her by surprise, for she had not thought of him in a long time.
He cut as fine a figure in his evening clothes as he had in his Scottish plaid. The tight breeches clung to his muscled legs; the coat made the most of his broad shoulders. She couldn’t help comparing him to Gabriel, the man whom Xavier was eager for her to marry. There was no doubt her brother’s friend was more handsome, but Gabriel’s was the kind of beauty that reminded Isabella of a work of art. She could admire it, she could see he was aesthetically pleasing, but there was none of the almost feral pull that she felt towards this mysterious Scotsman.
Finally, the dance brought them together. ‘May I compliment you on your toilette,’ he said with a devilish smile. ‘So very different from the outfit you wore the last time we met, though I must confess, your gown does not do justice as your trousers did to your delightful derrière.’
Colour flamed in her face. She ought to be outraged, but Isabella was briefly, shockingly inclined to laugh. ‘A gentleman does not remark on a lady’s derrière.’
‘I seem to recall telling you when last we met that I am not a gentleman, señorita. And now I come to think of it, I recall also that you took umbrage at being called a lady.’
She had forgotten what that particular smile of his did to her, and how very difficult it was to resist smiling back as the dance parted them once more. He was dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
‘I never got the chance to thank you,’ he said when they next crossed the set. ‘I’m told your guerrillas did a very thorough job.’
They circled, hands brushing lightly. ‘Of course we did,’ Isabella replied in a whisper. ‘Did you think I would not keep my word?’
He could not answer, for they were once again on opposite sides of the floor, but he shook his head and silently mouthed the word no.
The set moved up. They were separated by ten or twelve feet of dance floor, but she was aware of him watching her. She tried to keep her eyes demurely lowered, but could not resist glancing over at him every now and then. She was merely doing what every other woman in the room was doing. He was the only stranger at the ball, but it was not that that made the female guests flutter their lashes and their fans. Hadn’t she recognised that night they had met, that he was a man who would attract a second and a third glance? Here was the proof of it, and there, in that sensual smile and those sea-blue eyes, was the warning she ought to heed. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, Isabella repeated to herself.
She had to make sure he did not talk. She had to! This thought plummeted her back to earth. When next the dance brought them together she rushed into speech. ‘I must ask you to keep our previous acquaintance a secret.’ There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice, but this was not a time for subtlety. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘It is very important.’
‘Why is that?’
The music was coming to an end. Isabella’s heart was pounding. ‘I will explain, I promise you, but not here.’
She made her curtsy, and the Scotsman made his bow. ‘Where?’
‘Promise me you will say nothing,’ Isabella hissed, ‘until we talk.’
He frowned, seemingly quite unaware of the urgency. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab at his coat sleeve and shake him. Instead, she forced herself to wait what seemed like an eternity for him to consider, though it must have been mere seconds before he finally asked her where, and when.
Consuela was beckoning. Gabriel was by her side. Isabella began to panic. ‘Tomorrow morning. Meet me in the courtyard behind the chapel at eight. Promise me...’
He nodded, his expression still quite unreadable. ‘Until tomorrow.’
He had not promised, and now it was too late. ‘Isabella.’ Consuela arrived with Gabriel in tow. ‘I have assured Señor Torres that you will give him your hand for this next dance.’
Gabriel’s smile would have most other ladies swooning. Isabella, who had become adept at mimicking other ladies’ responses, was tonight incapable of producing more than a forced smile.
‘Indeed, I hope that you will,’ Gabriel said,
‘else I will think you prefer the company of an Englishman to a true Spaniard, and that will break my heart.’
Isabella stared at him blankly. ‘Mr Urquhart is Scottish, not English.’
‘A minor distinction.’
‘Indeed, it is not.’
The Scotsman spoke the same words as she did at the same time. A small, embarrassed silence ensued. ‘Mr Urquhart was just explaining the difference to me while we danced. To call a Scottish man English is like calling a Basque man Spanish.’
Another silence met this well-intentioned remark. Isabella resorted to her fan. Gabriel stared off into the distance. The visitor made a flourishing bow. ‘Señora Romero, would it offend your husband if I asked for the hand of his beautiful wife for the next dance?’
Consuela coloured and gave the faintest of nods. ‘If you will excuse us.’ Gabriel made a very small bow as the orchestra struck up the introductory chords.
The Scotsman made no effort to return Gabriel’s bow, Isabella noticed, and felt, in the way his hand tightened on her arm, that Gabriel had noticed, too. He swept her onto the dance floor. Looking over her shoulder, Isabella saw Consuela smile and blush coquettishly in response to some remark made by Mr Urquhart.
‘You are looking very lovely tonight. There is no other woman in the room who can hold a candle to you.’
Gabriel’s compliments, like his smile, were practised and meaningless. He was rich, he was well born and he was handsome. He had no cause to doubt that he was an excellent catch, and enjoyed enthusiastic encouragement of his suit from Xavier. Isabella was nearly twenty-six. Too old, in the eyes of most of her acquaintance, to hope for such an excellent match. To be wooed by Gabriel Torres was flattering indeed. Looking at him now, as he executed one of the more complex dance steps with precision, Isabella could nonetheless summon nothing stronger than indifference.
Chapter Three
Finlay threw open the doors that led out from his bedchamber onto the balcony and sucked in the cold night air. It had been a very long evening. He was fair knackered, to use one of his Glaswegian sergeant’s phrases, but his mind was alert, his thoughts racing, just like in the old days. He stared up at the stars that hung like huge silver disks, struck anew by how much brighter they seemed to shine in the sky than at home.
Home. It had not felt at all like home when he’d gone back. Ach, his ma and da had been the same. And his sisters, and his brother, too. None of them had changed. Their lives, the landscape had not altered, but he had, and there was no point pretending otherwise. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t help but see the croft and the village and his family and their friends as his fellow officers would view them. No, he didn’t share their contempt for them, and yes, he still loved his family, but if he had to spend the rest of his life there he’d go stark staring mad. He would rail against the provincial predictability and cosy safety of it, the very things that he had thought he’d crave after the bedlam of war.
‘I’m just a big ungrateful tumshie,’ he muttered, ‘with ideas well above my station.’ But no matter how guilty he felt, he knew that if he left the army and returned to Oban, he’d make his family every bit as miserable as he.
He had never been anything other than a soldier. He had surrendered his real family long ago, and had no idea what he would do without the one he had adopted in the army. If he did choose to leave, that was. And what would he do with himself, if he did?
Sighing, Finlay leaned on the stone balustrade and gazed out over the formal gardens of Hermoso Romero. The future would have to take care of itself. Fortunately, he had plenty other things to occupy his mind. Such as rethinking his strategy in the light of this evening’s extraordinary turn of events.
Calm and clarity of mind returned. A light breeze had picked up, making the tall cypress trees bend and sway gracefully in the moonlight like flamenco dancers. Finlay shivered in his shirtsleeves and, returning to his chamber, stretched out on top of the bed. It had been a major shock to see Señorita Romero at the dance tonight, but it had been a much, much bigger shock for her. The lass had been scared out of her wits that he’d betray her, and that was all for the good, making it highly unlikely she’d betray him first. Even if she did, he had a plausible cover story to explain his presence here. He just had to stick to it.
He pondered this course of action, staring up at the shadow from his candle dancing on the corniced ceiling, and decided that there was a great deal of merit in it. Gradually, the miracle of having found his partisan right here, in plain view, began to supersede his concerns for his own safety. He only had to bide his time and see how the land lay with her. Not all ex-guerrillas and partisans were liberals. If she espoused her brother’s politics, then she represented everything El Fantasma railed against in his illegal pamphlets.
Finlay frowned at this. She’d seemed a feisty thing during those few hours they’d shared together under the stars. He’d admired her, the way she stood up for herself. Tonight, he’d seen a glimpse of that fire when they were dancing, but for the rest of the evening she’d behaved like a shy, retiring wee mouse with little to say for herself.
‘In other words, Finlay, just exactly like an unmarried high-born Spanish lady. Which is exactly what she is, now that the war is over.’
Though two years ago she had implied she was a farmer’s daughter. Why? Like as not, it had simply been a ruse to hide her identity. One thing, her being a female partisan with a gun he’d encountered in a ditch. Quite another, if that partisan was a lady, the sister of the biggest local landowner. He smiled to himself. That would cause quite a stir were it discovered. Though now he came to think of it, there had been mention of a father. She had seemed right fond of him, too, but he obviously wasn’t around, presumably dead. Poor lass. Whatever her politics, if she had any, it must be tough trying to fit back into this privileged and class-conscious world. He could sympathise with that, and then some.
Watch and wait, that was what he needed to do. Spend a bit of time in her company, find out if he could trust her, and encourage her to trust him. It would be no hardship. She was every bit as bonny as he remembered. Jack had been wrong about that one. Finlay rolled off the bed and undressed quickly before snuffing the candle and clambering between the sheets. He was looking forward to his early-morning encounter with Señorita Romero.
* * *
Isabella was at the assignation point early. She wore one of her favourite gowns—dark blue merino with long sleeves that covered her knuckles, the bodice, cuffs and hem trimmed simply with cream embroidery. She had eschewed a shawl or pelisse, the woollen dress offering sufficient protection from the early-morning chill. The colour and the simple style suited her, she knew. Dressing for a man was not something that sat well with her, but this man held the sword of Damocles over her head, and if it helped to look well, then she would make every effort to do so.
She was nervous, though a long night’s reflection had helped her regain most of her habitual composure. It had also revealed to her some fundamental issues to be addressed. Her reaction had been too extreme. Her fear must have been obvious. She reassured herself once more that the Scotsman’s having said nothing so far made it less likely that he would say anything at all. As she watched his tall figure striding across the grass towards her, Isabella tried very hard to convince herself of this.
‘Buenos días. You’re looking bonny this fine morning, Señorita Romero.’
‘Thank you. I trust you slept well?’
‘Like a baby. Shall we get away from the main house? There’s that many windows looking out on us, I’m sure you’d rather we were not observed.’
‘I’m sure the feeling is mutual, Mr Urquhart.’
He smiled enigmatically, either oblivious to her implied threat, or indifferent. ‘I’m glad you’ve finally mastered my name, but I seem to recall you calling me Finlay before.’
‘As I recall, you were a major in the British army at the time.’ Isabella headed for the walkway flanked by two rows of cypress trees where they would not be observed. ‘Your life has taken a very different turn since then. It seems rather remarkable for a soldier to transform himself into a prosperous wine merchant.’
‘No more remarkable than for a partisan to transform herself into a lady.’
‘I am not transformed,’ Isabella said sharply. ‘I am merely returned.’
‘Returned.’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘I wonder, señorita, if anyone knows that you were ever away. I suspect not. It would certainly explain why my appearance last night terrified you out of your wits.’
He spoke softly, but his tone was all the more menacing for that. ‘I was taken aback, that is all,’ Isabella replied.
‘No. I was taken aback. You looked like an ensign confronted with a bayonet for the first time.’
‘If you are implying that I would run away from facing the enemy...’
He laughed. ‘Are you implying that I am the enemy?’
‘Are you? If so, I fail to see how my coming here quite alone could be construed as running away.’
The conversation was not progressing as she had planned, mostly because she had signally failed to play her part. It was his fault. This Scotsman, he made her speak without thinking. She had to regroup her thoughts, stick to what she had rehearsed. She had to remember there was no shame in it, that the means justified the end. ‘You are right,’ Isabella said with what she knew to be a forlorn little smile. ‘I was afraid.’
‘Because that brother of yours has no idea that you fought with the guerrillas?’
‘My brother is a very influential man, Mr Urquhart, and his estate is the largest in La Rioja. It would be most embarrassing to him if it was discovered that his sister was...that she acted in an—an unladylike manner.’ To say the least!
‘Unladylike. That is one way of putting it.’
‘You have another way?’ she asked sharply.
The Soldier's Rebel Lover Page 5