The Soldier's Rebel Lover

by Marguerite Kaye

  There was no point in pretending to misunderstand her. ‘Yes,’ Finlay said, ‘you’re quite correct. Whether as a result of his direct orders, or merely acts carried out in his name, there are many unsavoury aspects of the conduct of the war here that Wellington and his coterie would prefer left unsaid.’

  ‘Especially now that he has hopes of becoming prime minister,’ Isabella said, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him. ‘And he would go to some lengths to protect those hopes, I think. To the extent of sending one of his men here to Spain, even. To ensure the—what was your phrase—diplomatically explosive information does not fall into Spanish hands.’

  ‘Aye, that he would.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His blunt admission took her aback. She had been a deal less certain in her accusations than she’d sounded, Finlay thought, but what the hell, the lass deserved the whole truth. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Both our governments have the same aim, albeit for differing reasons. My orders were to get to you before they did and take you back with me. Whether you’d subsequently end up a prisoner in exile under house arrest, or whether you’d simply quietly disappear I don’t know, but the net result would be the same. Silence.’

  She put her hand to her breast, staggering away from him in horror. ‘You knew that, and yet you—you tell me this, and you expect me to consent to—to allow you to—to abduct me? You have been lying to me all along. I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘To knock some sense into you!’ He grabbed her, and when she shrank from him, gave her a tiny shake. ‘Don’t be so daft, lass. You can’t possibly think I would harm a hair on your heid! I’m telling you what my orders were, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to follow them.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘The Jock Upstart has a reputation for insubordination to uphold,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I’ve told you the truth from the start. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to save your life.’

  ‘But how— What...’

  ‘You have to get out of Spain, but there’s no way I’m taking you to England. You’re bound for America, lass, and safety,’ Finlay said gently. ‘You asked me why I was sorry for what happened there, between us. That is why. You have no choice but to make a new life for yourself a whole continent away, and I can play no part in that life, even if you wanted me to. The arrangements are already in place.’

  He had said far more than he intended, implied far more than he would admit to feeling, made the matter personal when it should not be, but before he could regret it or retract it, Isabella pushed him away.

  ‘America! I am not going to America. I am not going anywhere. Why would you think— No, wait. Something does not make sense. You had already made arrangements, planned to send El Fantasma to America, before you knew he was me—that it was me? That implies that you had always planned to disobey Wellington’s orders.’

  ‘I’m not here for Wellington. I’ll admit, my orders originate from Wellington, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because Jack asked me to come.’

  ‘Jack.’ Isabella stared at him blankly.

  ‘My friend and comrade. Lieutenant Colonel Jack Trestain. Better known as Wellington’s codebreaker. But then you know that because El Fantasma was one of his most trusted partisan contacts, although they never actually met. Jack says you’ve been responsible for saving literally thousands of lives, and now he feels he owes you yours. I’ve known him for the better part of a decade. We’ve been through some tough times together, so when he asked for my help I could not refuse him, despite the risks. Jack came up with the plan to send El Fantasma incognito to America. Wellington will be told El Fantasma perished in the course of the attempted abduction. Problem solved and everybody happy. A simple but elegant plan typical of Jack. But the key point is this. If Jack believes you are in mortal danger, believes it enough to ask me to risk my reputation and possibly my neck, then you surely need no further proof that the threat to your life is real.’

  ‘I don’t know. I need time to think about everything you have said.’ She put her hand to her eyes, but he saw the sheen of tears lurking there.

  He longed to comfort her, to allay her fear and distress, but he could not afford to risk diluting the message he’d hammered so brutally home.

  ‘Isabella, that is a luxury we cannot afford. Time is of the essence.’

  ‘No.’ She threw her shoulders back and glared at him. ‘This is my life we are talking about, Finlay, not yours. My life, and Estebe’s and many others’, too. I won’t be rushed into a decision. I need time to think. At the end of the week...’

  ‘No. Tomorrow,’ Finlay said, hardening his heart. ‘You have until tomorrow at the very latest.’

  * * *

  Isabella took another sip of cognac and stared into the fire. She had retired to her bedchamber immediately upon her return, both shaken and shocked by Finlay’s words. For some time she sat, completely numb, almost unable to assimilate what he had told her, but as the hours passed and she replayed the conversation over and over, the truth began sink in. It was the manner in which he had spoken, almost as much as the words themselves that had finally convinced her. Finlay had laid out the detailed facts so clearly and concisely. He’d made no attempt to disguise the horrors, but nor had he overdramatised them. He had not been trying to frighten her, but to open her eyes to the stark reality of the situation.

  As an upshot she was, nonetheless, extremely frightened. She had never thought of herself as a traitor. Listening to Finlay, she could only guess at the plethora of shocking, horrific experiences that lent credence to his words. Listening to Finlay, Isabella had been forced to concede to herself that she was not, as she had always imagined herself, a soldier fighting a noble fight. At least not a true soldier as he was.

  She shuddered. She had thought, in the past few days, that she had come to know him, but it was difficult to reconcile the charming Finlay with the man who had sent her world crashing around her this afternoon. The horrors he must have witnessed. The savagery. The brutality. The bloodshed and suffering. He seemed quite untouched by it, yet she knew he was neither a brute nor a savage. He had come here, all this way, not because of an order but because of a promise he had made to his best friend and comrade. Finlay was an honourable man. Finlay was in many respects a gentleman. Finlay was also the most attractive man she had ever met. Her face flamed as she recalled her wanton behaviour this afternoon, but her unrepentant body began to thrum at the memory. He had wanted her—of that she had no doubt. But he had resisted the temptation, because he knew her fate was to lead a new life, in safety but in exile, on another continent. A life that he could have no part of, even if either of them wanted it.

  Reality intervened once more, like being doused with a bucket of cold mountain water. Isabella threw back the remains of her cognac, coughing as the fiery liquor burned its way down her throat. Whatever her future was, wherever her future lay, it did not involve Finlay. Not only was it pointless to speculate, she had far more important things to think about now than her feelings for him. Whatever they were.

  Jumping to her feet, she began to pace the floor, from the long doors that opened onto her balcony, to the door that opened onto the corridor, and back again. She no longer questioned the danger she was exposed to, but the consequences— No, she was not ready to accept those.

  She threw open the windows and stepped out onto the balcony. A thin film of cloud covered the night sky, but a luminescent moon shone through it, bathing the vineyards below with a ghostly grey light. This was her home. She had never known another. Her family were here. And her life’s work. She could not leave. There must be another solution.

  A tap on the door made her jump. Isabella turned and saw her sister-in-law slip into the room. ‘Consuela. What are you doing here so late—is something wrong? Is Ramon...?’r />
  ‘My son is safe and well in his nursery. I intend to ensure that he remains so. Which is why I am here.’ Consuela turned the key in the look and crossed the room, taking one of the chairs by the fireside. ‘I would have come earlier, but I have had to spend the past hour with the wife of one of Xavier’s tenants. It seems the man has disappeared off the face of the earth.’

  ‘What man?’

  Consuela waved her hand dismissively. ‘I cannot remember the name. He works for Estebe. He will be off on a drunken spree, I don’t doubt. Or run off with another man’s wife. Of course, when I hinted at such, the woman became quite furious, claimed her husband never drank and never looked at another woman, but...’

  They are working their way up the chain. That was what Finlay had said. No, she was being foolish. It was simply a coincidence. ‘How long has he been missing?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘Almost a week. I don’t know what the woman expects me to do. I told her to come back when Xavier has returned. But I did not come here to discuss missing farm workers. Sit down, Isabella, and pour me a glass of that cognac, if you please. It is time you and I had a little talk.’

  ‘Can it not wait until morning? I am very tired.’ The fact that the missing tenant worked for Estebe was a coincidence, nothing more. She was edgy, and no wonder. The last thing she wanted was to listen to another lecture on marriage. ‘Really, Consuela, if you have come to further Gabriel’s suit, I should tell you that you are wasting your time.’

  ‘That is not why I am here, but that is indeed one of the things I suspected. Sit down, Isabella. I do not care how tired you are, this will not wait.’

  There was something in her tone that made her heart sink. Consuela sounded quite implacable. She sounded horribly certain, just as Finlay had done earlier today. Isabella dropped abruptly onto the chair. ‘What is it you wish to say?

  Consuela took a measured sip of cognac. ‘Why is Finlay Urquhart here?’

  The question took Isabella utterly by surprise. ‘To buy wine. But you already know that.’

  ‘Do not play games with me. There is no time,’ her sister-in-law said with an angry sigh. ‘He knows even less about wine than I do. Xavier was suspicious from the first day—so much so, that he decided to check Mr Urquhart’s credentials. What business did you imagine was keeping him so long in Pamplona?’

  ‘I had no idea what my brother was doing since he rarely takes me into his confidence. Has Xavier proof that Finlay—Mr Urquhart—has he irrefutable proof that he is not a wine merchant?’

  Consuela shrugged impatiently. ‘What is he, Isabella? Who is he? And how is he connected with whatever it is you have secreted in my husband’s wine cellars?’

  A trickle of sweat running down her spine made Isabella shiver. Fear made knots in her stomach. ‘What do you know of that?’ she asked, the shock of this revelation on top of the tumultuous events earlier so severe that denial did not even occur to her.

  Consuela curled her lip. ‘You think you are the only one with eyes?’

  ‘Clearly not.’

  ‘I have watched you sneaking out of the house at night. At first I thought it was to meet a lover, but you had not the look of a woman who had experience of such matters until lately. You have allowed Mr Urquhart to take liberties, I think. That was foolish of you, but not, I think the most foolish thing you have done.’

  Her throat was dry. She must not panic. She must—she must— Dear heavens, what was she to do? ‘Consuela...’

  ‘What is in the cellar, Isabella?’

  Her life was crashing around her ears. She was beyond prevaricating. ‘A printing press,’ she whispered.

  Consuela’s hand went to her breast. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Madre de Dios, are you insane?’ She jumped to her feet, clutching at the mantel for support. ‘It is illegal to merely own such a thing, far less print anything. If it is discovered, Xavier could be imprisoned. Worse. A printing press! And what is it that you are printing?’ She swayed, the blood draining from her face. ‘That madman. The spectre. No, that is not right. The Ghost.’

  ‘El Fantasma.’

  Consuela swayed. ‘You are actually printing that man’s material here, at Hermoso Romero? Has that man been here? Isabella, if you have—if they discover—it does not bear thinking about. They would hang Xavier. They would hang us all. What have you been thinking?’

  Not thinking. She had not been thinking. Finlay had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. Hadn’t wanted to listen. Isabella felt sick. She felt faint. Dimly, she was aware that Consuela had not guessed the whole truth. Yet. ‘I— It will— I will put an end to it,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, I...’

  ‘Sorry!’ Consuela turned on her viciously. ‘What good is sorry! Sorry will not save us.’ She took a sip of cognac. The glass clattered against her teeth. A sob shook her, and the glass fell onto the hearthrug, splattering brandy over her feet. ‘What have you done, Isabella? What are we to do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Seeing Consuela so close to hysterics forced Isabella back from the brink of her own. She poured her sister-in-law another glass of cognac and held it out to her. ‘You must do nothing. Say nothing. This is my problem. It is for me to resolve.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The less you know the better, Consuela, but I promise you, you will all be safe.’

  ‘What about that man? Mr Urquhart, what has he to do with all this?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He, too, will be—attended to, I promise. Now, if you please, go to your bedchamber, and forget we had this conversation, and when Xavier returns, it would be much better if you did not mention any of it.’

  ‘You think I am stupid!’ Consuela drained the glass and got shakily to her feet. ‘He will be back in two days, no more. Is that enough time for you to rectify things?’

  ‘It will have to be,’ Isabella said with grim determination. ‘For all our sakes.’

  Chapter Eight

  As Finlay eased the chapel door closed behind him, the smoky scent of candle wax and the evocative, cloying aroma of incense caught him unawares, hurtling him back in time to the services he’d attended in his childhood with his mother and sisters. He closed his eyes, remembering the sense of defiance that had preceded each clandestine trip to the ramshackle longhouse that had served as their place of worship, for the Catholic religion was officially proscribed in Scotland. It shamed him now, thinking of all the years in the army when he had neglected his church, but it was crime enough to be the Jock Upstart. To proclaim himself a Catholic to boot—no, that would have been beyond the pale. His faith had never truly left him, but he’d kept it well hidden. It wasn’t something he was proud of, looking back on it.

  This morning, awaking from a fitful sleep, anxious as to how this pivotal day in his mission might play out, he had been drawn to the silence and sanctuary of the little chapel in the grounds of the estate. Leaning against the door, he drank in the stillness of the space, the hushed serenity he recalled from his youth, and which he had always found notably absent in the ceremonial services in huge churches and cathedrals he’d attended on regimental duty over the years.

  This little church, though plain and modest on the outside, was rather ornate and beautiful inside. The nave was tiled with marble and flanked with a number of pillars, painted in bold, bright colours with scenes from the Bible. The vaulted ceiling was dark blue, speckled with stars and bordered with gold. The walls were a paler blue, hung with ornately framed paintings that looked, to his unpractised eye, to be of the Italian Renaissance period. The pews were padded with rich, crimson velvet. The candlesticks on the altar were wrought from solid gold. Above it, the stained glass would speckle the floor with vivid colours later in the day when the sun streamed in. So much wealth and opulence, left quite unattended. Xavier Romero clearly considered his possessions inviolate. One must be very sure of one’
s position in society to be so complacent. Looking around him, Finlay was forced to reconsider the man’s standing. If it was discovered that his sister was El Fantasma— No, the possibility did not bear countenancing.

  He did not notice Isabella at first. She was kneeling in the tiny chapel dedicated to St Vincent of Saragossa, the patron saint of winemakers, Finlay guessed, judging from the symbolism of the paintings. Her head was bowed low. Her hair was covered in a mantilla. There was something so vulnerable about the fall of lace over her head, the slight curve of her shoulders as she prayed. Whether she was aware of him or not, Finlay decided not to disturb her, retreating into the nave to light a candle and to make his own request for divine guidance.

  It was not that he lacked the resolution to act. The situation demanded it. His orders demanded it. His word of honour to Jack demanded it. He could all but hear his friend’s voice in his ear. Finlay, you must get El Fantasma out of Spain at any cost.

  It was worth it. By doing so, he would save Isabella’s life. In the light of this one salient fact, it was gie pathetic of him to wonder just how different his own life would be if circumstances had been different. Of all the women in the world to fall for, he’d chosen this one. Not that he had fallen heavily yet. No, a man did not fall in love in a matter of days. He had caught himself in time, but he’d be an eejit if he let himself fall any further in thrall to her.

  He rubbed his eyes, gazing up at the beautiful stained-glass window in search of inspiration. He had wondered, in the middle of the night, if he dare enlist Romero’s help. The estate owner could have the printing press broken up. He could certainly insist on an end to Estebe’s participation, and force the winery manager to end all contact with his men. But Romero would most likely have his sister incarcerated in a nunnery as a consequence. Hidden away from the world she’d be safe, she’d be alive, but what kind of existence would that be for her? Finlay couldn’t bear to contemplate it.