‘We have good reason to believe that you are not. However, you can lead us to him. Put the gun down. Do not shoot. If you cooperate you will not be harmed. You have our word. Put the weapon down. There is no need for this.’
‘I tell you, I am El Fantasma.’
This time, the sharp crack of the bullet came clearly from inside the cottage, followed by the dull thud of a body falling to the floor This time, it was not Estebe but the Madrileños who cried out, though frustratingly, Finlay could still make out nothing of what they said. Locked tight against him, Isabella was weeping silently. They waited for what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes. Finlay, holding his dagger in his right hand, motioned to Isabella to get behind the woodpile, positioning himself behind the door, ready to pounce, but more minutes passed, followed by the sound of the carriage being manoeuvred around in the narrow street.
He crept out, watching as the strangers drove back down through the village. Only when the carriage turned out onto the track heading west did the villagers start to emerge from their cottages. ‘Wait here,’ Finlay said.
The table in Estebe’s cottage was overturned. Estebe lay on the floor, his splinted leg splayed at a very odd angle. A noise in the doorway alerted Finlay. ‘Isabella, don’t come any closer,’ he said, grabbing the tablecloth, but it was too late. Isabella looked at the place where the wine manager’s skull should be and screamed. It was a long, piercing, anguished scream that seemed to echo round the narrow village streets for an eternity.
* * *
Isabella sat slumped in her bedchamber, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the fire. She could not stop shaking. Again and again, she replayed the horrific scene in her mind, trying desperately to come up with a scenario in which she could have altered the outcome, trying equally desperately to assure herself there was nothing she could have done.
When the Madrileños had gone, her screams had given way to numb horror, leaving Finlay to deal with the situation. He had taken charge with an authority that was obeyed without question by the villagers. The version of events he presented them with had Estebe shot by the Madrileños as he’d attempted to escape captivity. Thanks to Finlay, Estebe’s body now lay in the village church.
But Isabella knew the true story. Estebe was dead by his own hand. Estebe, a man she had come to think of as invincible, had chosen death and purgatory over captivity and torture. Her deputy had died trying to save her, turning his gun on himself rather than risk betraying her. A huge shudder ran through her. Finlay had been right when he’d said those men were ruthless. At least Estebe’s suffering had been short-lived. She could not bear to contemplate what he would have endured if the Madrileños had taken him.
They would be back. Without a doubt they would be back. They had not believed Estebe’s claim to be El Fantasma. They would be back, and they would not give up until they found her. Fear clutched like icy fingers around her heart. Estebe had died trying to protect her. She could picture him all too vividly, lying there on the ground. The shockingly bright red of the freshly spilled blood. The unnatural angle of his splinted leg. And his poor head...
She shuddered so violently her teeth chattered. It was one thing to defy danger when it was merely an abstract concept, but to be confronted with the stark, terrible reality of it—that was very different matter.
She did not want to die. If they caught her, she was not sure she would be brave enough to take the option Estebe had done. The icy fingers closed tighter around her heart. Fear was a very, very cold creature, but anger, and action, they fired the blood. She could not allow his death to have been in vain. ‘No, now is not the time for tears,’ she told herself, getting up to pour a large measure of cognac with a shaky hand. ‘Now is the time for courage, and resolve.’ She swallowed the brandy in one cough-inducing gulp. Fire burned a path down her throat and into her belly. She poured herself another measure, and gulped it down, too.
‘Courage, Isabella,’ she muttered, pulling a portmanteau from a shelf in her cupboard and setting it on her bed. ‘There is much to be done.’
* * *
Finlay prowled restlessly around his bedchamber dressed only in his breeches and shirt. Dealing as best he could with Estebe’s tragic death had taken up too many precious hours already. Time was of the essence, with Romero due back imminently. Much more important, those Madrileños would be back. If only they had believed Estebe’s last, valiant claim to be the man they sought, it would have solved a wheen of problems. But they clearly, very clearly had not. And Finlay had faffed around far too much. He felt sick to the stomach, thinking how close Isabella had come to being captured. A lesson sorely learned, putting his inclinations over his duties. He should have had her out of here and on her way to the boat the moment she’d confessed her identity.
Poor wee soul, she had been distraught at what she’d seen this afternoon, though it had certainly brought home all he’d been saying. She’d barely said a word on the ride home, staring sightlessly ahead, though she’d sat straight enough in the saddle. She’d had the stuffing knocked out of her. It made his heart ache to think that instead of comforting her, he was going to have to wrench her away from her home and her family without even the chance to say goodbye.
He paced restlessly around the room, from window to door, window to door, his mind whirring. The elopement story might just about hold if Señora Romero was prepared to cultivate it after they were gone. It would be better if he could find a way to speak to her, but short of breaking into her bedchamber...
Finlay laughed shortly. No, if he was to break into any bedchamber it would be Isabella’s. Struck by this idea, he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. Isabella’s room was two doors along. The curtains fluttered the window was open. He eyed the gap between the parapets. It was no more than five feet. And the fall was a good thirty, more than enough to break his legs if not to kill him. Anyone would think he’d not had enough high drama for the day. Returning to his bedchamber, Finlay decided he’d try the more conventional route.
* * *
‘Finlay. I was on the point of coming to find you. Come in.’
Isabella ushered him in, closing the door softly behind her. She was fully dressed, though her hair was not up, but tied in a long plait down her back.
‘How are you bearing up?’ he asked her.
‘I am sorry that I was of so little use to you earlier,’ she replied, ignoring his question. ‘I am very, very grateful for what you have done. If my brother knew— Xavier is—’ she gulped ‘—was, extremely fond of Estebe. That you have spared him the truth... For that, and for the sake of all of Estebe’s friends, I cannot thank you enough, Finlay.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘No. It was a great deal more than nothing. I deeply regret that I was not of more assistance, but I assure you, I am ready now to do—to do...’
She broke off, screwing her eyes tight shut, but when he tried to take her in his arms, she shook her head. ‘Please, do not—I do not deserve to be comforted. If I had listened to you, perhaps Estebe would still be alive. He is dead, and he died to save me. I owe it to him to try to save myself now. And I owe it to my family, too. My remaining here is dangerous for them. You were right. I did not truly understand the consequences of my—of El Fantasma’s actions, but I do now. So, I am ready to go with you,’ she concluded firmly. ‘I am ready to follow whatever arrangements you have made for me.’
‘America, I told you. It’s the only place you can be safe.’
The very idea terrified her, but she nodded her head stoically. ‘Then, I will go to America.’
Finlay bit his lip, eyeing her with some concern. ‘Isabella, you could not have saved Estebe. His death is not your fault.’
She had picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table and was now putting it into the half-packed portmanteau lying open on the bed. ‘If I h
ad listened to you earlier, I could have warned him.’
‘They would still have come for him.’ This time, when she tried to shake him off, Finlay resisted, putting an arm around her waist to anchor her to him. ‘Even if you had warned him, what difference do you think it would have made. Would Estebe have fled?’
‘Of course not, but—Finlay, do you think they will kill them all? If I could warn them—though I know only a few of the names—if I could warn them, give them a chance to escape...’ she said, looking up at him pleadingly. ‘Do you think...?’
‘I think that Estebe’s death is warning enough. I think your conscience is clear on that matter, and even if it were not—Isabella, my conscience will not allow you to devote any more time to such matters. I should have gotten you out of here days ago.’
‘I would not have agreed to come.’
He smiled sadly. ‘I should not have allowed that fact to make any difference.’ She looked so vulnerable. His arms ached to embrace her. Catching himself in the act of bestowing a tender kiss on her forehead, Finlay let her go. ‘Right, then,’ he said brusquely, ‘to work. I’m glad to see you’ve packed. I’ve been thinking about how best to leave things here. We need a story that will explain our sudden disappearance without linking it in any way to Estebe’s death or, obviously, El Fantasma, so what I was thinking was, we could elope. Pretend to elope, that is. If you could write a letter...’
‘I have every intention of writing a letter,’ Isabella interrupted, ‘but it will be the truth.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘The truth?’
‘My confession. Those Madrileños did not believe Estebe when he said he was El Fantasma. They will be back, and they will be looking for a man close to Estebe, only more powerful. Who do you think they will settle on?’
‘Xavier,’ Finlay said with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
‘Xavier,’ Isabella repeated. ‘I will not allow my brother to pay the price for my actions.’
‘Isabella, he’s innocent.’
‘Finlay,’ she retorted with a sad smile, ‘innocent or guilty, it makes no difference with those men. You told me so yourself. Once they have him, he will confess to anything. I will not permit that to happen.’
‘No, I can see you wouldn’t.’ And he could see all his carefully laid plans toppling over like so many dominos. He could see the danger she was putting herself in. They’d have to flee north for their lives, for her confession would put those devils on their tails. She had no idea, and he had not the heart to tell her, that she was risking her own life for the sake of protecting her family. She was, however, once again doing exactly what he’d do himself.
Finlay sighed. ‘I’d best see what I can do to cover up the evidence, then. I doubt there’s much can be done with the press, but we must not leave that pamphlet.’
‘I’ll come with you. No,’ Isabella said, smiling wanly, ‘don’t try to stop me. Two pairs of hands will be quicker than one, and it’s time I started taking some responsibility for my actions. And I have you to thank for teaching that painful, but valuable, lesson.’
Chapter Nine
Four days later
They had ridden hard each day in their desperation to get as far away from Hermoso Romero as quickly as possible, stopping only for a few hours’ fitful sleep and to rest and water the horses. The road ahead, the steady gallop of the steeds who carried them, were their only focus. The landscape thereabouts afforded little in the way of cover. The roads were no more than rough dirt tracks in places, meandering through the rolling hills, the lower slopes of which were covered in a patchwork of vines. This was her land, her home territory, but to Isabella it felt disconcertingly alien, almost as if she was the stranger here, not Finlay. Which she was, she supposed, since she had forgone the right to call it home. She forced herself to sit upright in the saddle, concentrating on looking forward, not back. Quite literally.
Pamplona and then north was the obvious and quickest route to the coast and the ship that would take her across the ocean, but Finlay insisted that was too risky, since any pursuers would know that and follow suit. No, better to take a more circuitous route. It might be slower but it would significantly improve their chances of avoiding capture. Isabella did not question him. In truth she did not care where they went. When he opted to follow one of the old pilgrim routes that lead to Santiago de Compostela, she did as he bid her. She had never been to the city. She wished fervently that it truly was their destination. She did not want to think about the country where she was to make a new life. Fear froze her imagination whenever she tried.
She barely spoke as they travelled. She had not cried, not since Estebe—no, she would not think of that. She did not deserve the release of tears. She did not deserve Finlay’s sympathy, the comfort of his strong, reassuring embrace. Not that he offered it. The man who rode beside her was unquestionably a soldier. No trace in that steely expression of the sensual Highlander who had charmed her. This man had a duty to perform, and he was clearly set on executing it. Well, she, too, had a duty, to the memory of Estebe. He had died to protect her. She would not allow his sacrifice to have been in vain, so she could do nothing save put as much distance between herself and her family as possible, in order to protect them. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done save do as Finlay bade her without question: eat what was put in front of her, lie down and close her eyes in whatever shack or shepherd’s hut he found each night, feign sleep until he roused her at dawn, continue on in the saddle each morning without complaint. An obedient and uncomplaining trooper, that was what he required, and so that was what she would be.
They were following the River Aragon today, and reached the outskirts of the little town of Sanguesa in the late afternoon. One of the many overnight refuges for weary pilgrims that dotted the Camino Way, the jumble of whitewashed houses was perched on the hillside looking, from a distance, like a set of steps leading up to the magnificent Romanesque church of Santa Maria la Real. Finlay reined his horse in, casting an anxious look at the sky, which looked as if it augured rain.
‘I’m sorry, lass, but we can’t risk staying in town,’ he said regretfully, ‘much as a proper meal and a comfy bed for the night would be a welcome treat.’
‘No matter,’ Isabella replied, casting an uninterested gaze at the town. ‘If we follow the river, we can take shelter in the next valley.’
* * *
She had become so accustomed to spending long periods lying wide awake, alternated with fevered nightmares of trying to escape endless dark tunnels, that it was a surprise when Isabella struggled to open her eyes. She was lying on the wooden shelf that served for a bed in a ramshackle shepherd’s hut. She could remember arriving here, remember Finlay lighting a fire, forcing herself to eat, forcing herself to lie down and close her eyes, waiting for the darkness and the guilt and remorse to envelop her. Instead, it had been as if all the bones had been removed from her body. She had slept dreamlessly. And now she felt—different.
She was warm, surprisingly comfortable. The blanket covering her smelled faintly of horse. She turned onto her side. The door of the shelter was ajar, giving her a glimpse of the grey, predawn sky and Finlay a few yards distant, sitting by the horses, on guard as he had been every night. Did he ever sleep? For the first time, she wondered what it was he was watching out for, who it was he expected.
The dull stupor that had enveloped her since leaving Hermoso Romero had gone, and so, too, had the heavy pall of grief and regret, leaving her mind clear. Isabella counted the days since their flight, and was surprised to discover that this must be the fifth. Almost a week since Estebe died, since she left her home and her family, who were more dear to her than she had realised. But they would be better off without her. Consuela could have her sister come to live with her. Xavier would most likely mourn the loss of his winery manager more than his siste
r.
Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘Be honest,’ she told herself. ‘Xavier will be so shocked at what he reads in that letter you left, he will be thankful you did not wait to say goodbye. “Finally,” he will say to himself, “now I understand why my sister was such an unnatural woman. Gabriel has had a lucky escape.”’ Which was very true, though she doubted very much that Xavier would go so far as to inform his friend of the exact nature of his good fortune.
Isabella sat up abruptly. She had been quite distraught when she had written the letter admitting to being El Fantasma, intent only on sparing her family by accepting sole responsibility. But what, exactly, had she imagined Xavier would do with such a confession? Show it to the government officials when they came calling, as they inevitably would? Why should they believe him? What credence would such a confession truly have, when Xavier was a much more likely candidate to be El Fantasma than his demure little sister?
The letter had made no mention of the printing press. The pamphlets she and Finlay had shredded, El Fantasma’s last words, had been forced down the well, the pulpy mess anointed with ink and scattered with metal lettering. As she had pulled the wine rack over the concealed door for the last time, Isabella had wondered if any curious soul would ever discover it. Her nephew, perhaps? A few weeks ago, she would have smiled at the idea of passing on El Fantasma’s legacy to an as-yet unborn niece. Now the notion filled her with horror.
The Madrileños would demand proof from Xavier, and when he had none to give them—what would they do to him? Remembering Estebe’s determination not to fall into the men’s clutches, Isabella shuddered. Consuela might tell them about the printing press, but would that not rather condemn rather than acquit him? Isabella clutched at her head. She had been so proud of the fact that no one would ever believe El Fantasma was a woman. Now—Madre di Dios, what a fool she was! No one would believe her confession. Pride truly did come before a fall.
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