The Soldier's Rebel Lover

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Then they are likely to be here, in Vitoria, Finlay.’

  He smiled at her. ‘One advantage I have, of having been in this place before, is that I made a few trustworthy acquaintances, and one of them just happens to be an innkeeper. You shall have a hot bath and a comfortable bed, and you shall be quite safe.’

  ‘Will you share it with me?’

  He raised a quizzical brow. ‘The bath?’

  ‘I meant the bed, but you are welcome to share both. More than welcome. Very much more. It will be our last chance. I would like...’

  ‘Yes.’ He caught her in a tight embrace. ‘Yes. I would like that. More than like that. Very much more.’

  * * *

  Alesander Gebara, proprietor of the Hosteria Vasca, greeted Finlay like a long-lost brother, and seemed not at all surprised when informed of the need for discretion. ‘They are looking for an Englishman, the soldiers. You,’ he said, poking Finlay playfully in the chest, ‘are Scottish. So when they come again tonight, I can say no, no, I have seen no English. But it will be best, I think, if I serve you dinner in the privacy of your chamber.’

  The inn was ancient, a veritable warren of narrow corridors and rickety staircases, but it had a charm all of its own. The bedchamber Señor Gebara ushered them into was low ceilinged, the heavy, dark oak exposed beams ran at odd angles and a massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, while an imposing tester bed took up most of the floor space, leaving room only for a small table and two chairs set in the window embrasure, and a chest of drawers tucked into a corner.

  The innkeeper set about a flurry of activity, summoning a chambermaid to air the bed and set the fire. Another maid was put in charge of the bathing arrangements while Señor Gebara himself brought refreshments from the taproom. ‘The finest Rioja in the region,’ he said, pouring a glass for each of them.

  Isabella took a sip and smilingly informed her host that it was indeed the best she had ever tasted, but she could not help thinking of her brother as she did so. Xavier would be safe as long as the Spanish soldiers were searching for her, but when they were forced to admit defeat, what then? Would the influence her brother wielded really be sufficient to keep him safe from harm?

  She would never know. The knowledge gave her a sickening jolt. She would never know. A mixture of panic and fear made her feel faint. She couldn’t do this. She had thought herself so strong; she had prided herself on her courage and her daring. What a fool she had been. She was absolutely terrified. She couldn’t do this. She simply couldn’t.

  A warm hand slid around her waist, pulling her up against a strong, solid body. Finlay’s smile was warm, too, his sea-blue eyes reassuring. He believed in her. When she had told him how worried she was about letting him down, he’d said she could not. The mist of her panic began to recede. She wouldn’t let him down. She would never let him down. Isabella smiled back. Finlay settled her more firmly against him, and returned to his conversation with Señor Gebara.

  Isabella listened, sipping at her wine, enjoying the comfort of Finlay’s physical proximity, gradually beginning to relax again. It took two maids to carry the enormous copper bath into the room, which they then placed behind screens in front of the now blazing fire. The room was becoming delightfully warm. Steam rose from behind the screens as bucket after bucket of hot water was poured into the bath. The two men were talking of Spain, the changes since the British army and the French had left. The innkeeper sounded very like Estebe. It was not only his accent but the repressed passion that underscored his words. She wondered if he had ever read any of El Fantasma’s pamphlets. But Señor Gebara was clearly a prosperous man, his business thriving. He had a wife and a child now, he’d told Finlay. Such a man would not risk all he’d built, would he?

  He caught her staring, and smiled warmly at her. He had a very nice smile. He was not much older than Finlay. ‘Forgive me, señora, I have allowed my tongue to run away with itself, talking of the old days. So many times, I have wondered what became of the Jock Upstart. Not that I doubted he would survive, because—what is it you always said, Finlay?’

  ‘A man who is born to be hanged can never be drowned.’

  Señor Gebara laughed. ‘That is it, that is it. I am very pleased indeed to see that you are still evading your fate. Those soldiers... If they knew they were chasing the Jock Upstart, they would give up and go back to Madrid. You need have no fear, señora. While you have this man to protect you, you are perfectly safe.’

  ‘Ach, you don’t know the señora here,’ Finlay said. ‘She’s more than capable of protecting herself.’

  ‘A fellow soldier.’ The innkeeper nodded. ‘I see now why she has your heart, my friend. I am very glad that you, too, have found a woman to share your life.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘I lost my betrothed in the war,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought I would never love again, but my Maria, she has shown me that the human spirit is a strong thing, the human heart even stronger. I hope you are as happy with this Jock Upstart, señora, as I am with my Maria.’

  Isabella did not need Finlay to caution her. She was pleased to be able to maintain the innkeeper’s misapprehension, to speak the truth for once. ‘I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy,’ she said. ‘None.’

  * * *

  Alesander left with promises to serve them the best dinner the region could provide in an hour. It was good to see his old friend and ally so happy, but Finlay couldn’t help envying the man, too. Alesander had made a new life for himself. Who’d have thought that the wild, bold and fearless guerrilla fighter he’d known would be so content running an inn? Though the way he’d spoken, Finlay would not be surprised to hear that Alesander was still, in his own quiet way, fighting for a better life for his wife and child. Not so very different after all from the man he’d known? Perhaps.

  ‘I like your friend very much,’ Isabella said. She was standing at the window, her cheek on the pane. ‘Finlay, do you not think that he is in the right of it? The human spirit is a very strong thing. Your friend has made a new life for himself. I would like it so much—so very, very much, if I could believe you could, too.’

  He joined her at the window. She clutched his hand tightly. There were tears sparkling on her long lashes. She looked up at him beseechingly. I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy, she had said to Alesander. She had said it to maintain their cover, he knew that, but her words had, to his pathetically desperate heart, seemed to carry an undertone of truth. She did care, though. Best not to think about how much; he was heartsore enough.

  ‘Finlay?’

  She wanted an answer. She needed the reassurance of an answer. He tried, he tried bloody hard, but he could not imagine what kind of new life he’d forge for himself, and he would not lie to her. ‘Isabella,’ he said, kissing the tears from her lids, ‘we’ve only got tonight before we spend a lifetime apart. Let’s not think about anything else. Not tonight.’

  Her lips were soft, sweet, shaped perfectly for his. He ached for her in a new way. The desire was just as fierce, but his need to cherish her, to meld himself to her, to be as one with her, was so much stronger. They would make love, but not yet. He wanted to spin out every single moment of time with her, to be everything to her as she was to him, just for tonight, because tonight was all they would have. He had to make it enough for the memory to last forever.

  He had never shared anything so intimate as a bath before. They undressed each other slowly in the fading light, lit only by the glow of the fire, and Finlay discovered that he was wrong about the urgency, the need, the desire, as they touched and stroked, and kissed and licked. The pace was not only his to set. Isabella, his beautiful, feisty Isabella, had a passion to match his. When she pulled him down onto the rug by the fire, he was hers to command. Her mouth, her hands, her hips, captured him as no other had. When she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her in
ch by gut-wrenching, achingly delightful inch, he moaned her name, could not resist telling her, in his own language, how much he loved her. They found their rhythm quickly. She seemed to know him instinctively, when to rock on top of him slowly and when to buck and thrust urgently. She came with wild abandon, her climax making him lose control, his own so powerful that he managed, only just, to lift her safely from him at the last second.

  * * *

  She would shed her skin for this man. There was nothing she would not do for him. Lying in his arms, her heart thudding wildly, her body singing with pleasure, Isabella closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to his heartbeat and whispered her love. She had behaved without any inhibitions because, quite simply, she had none with Finlay. He knew her as no one else ever had. Or would.

  Pushing this last mournful thought to one side, Isabella sat up. They would have tonight. She was going to make the most of it. ‘The bath,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You promised you would join me.’

  ‘It will be a tight fit,’ he said, smiling back.

  It was his wicked smile. It seemed she was not, after all, completely sated. ‘I think you have already proved that to both our satisfaction,’ Isabella said with a wicked smile of her own.

  He laughed then, getting to his feet, his muscles rippling, picking her up and holding her high against him, flesh to flesh, skin to skin, and stepped with her into the bath. He set her down carefully. They stood facing each other and kissed again. The water was still warm. After the icy streams they had washed in of late, it felt hot.

  Finlay picked up a tin pitcher and poured water over her. Her skin, alight with his lovemaking, felt every trickle. Another pitcher full. Then the soap. The lather made his hands slippery. His fingers slid over her shoulders, down her arms, back up to her breasts. Her body thrummed with anticipation.

  Isabella picked up the jug. There was a delicious ache in postponing pleasure. Water trickled down Finlay’s chest, clinging to the rough hair there. Another pitcher full of water. She took the soap from him and began to lather. Her fingers slipped and slid over his skin, finding the ridges of old scars. They were long healed. Some were just the faintest of shadows; others ran deeper.

  ‘Where did you get this one?’ she asked, and he told her. ‘And this one?’ she asked. ‘And this one?’ There were scars on his shoulders. On his belly. On his thighs. The long, vicious scar on his back was from Corunna, he said. She kissed each one. When her lips reached the base of that worst marking, he turned her round, taking her into his arms. Their bodies slid together, against each other, adhering to each other with the soapsuds, and she forgot about the scars and concentrated on kissing him. By the time they finally stepped from the tub, the water was cold.

  * * *

  Dinner was, as Alesander had promised, excellent. Hearty Basque cuisine, venison in a rich wine stew flavoured with the blood sausages that reminded Finlay of home. They ate at the little table by the window, watching the bustle on the street below, for it was the hour of the paseo. Isabella wore one of his shirts. Another first. They’d also managed a couple of other firsts in the bath there, he thought with a grin.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Isabella asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  She chuckled. ‘I think that we are not going to be doing much sleeping in that big comfortable bed.’

  ‘You’re not tired, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have the rest of my life to catch up on my sleep.’ Her smile wobbled, and his heart lurched in response, but before he could say anything, she had recovered, and took a reviving sip of wine. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘that your scars, they are like a chart of all the places you have been, all the battles you have fought.’

  ‘My body is like a campaign map, right enough,’ Finlay said, twirling his half-empty glass around on the table. ‘I’m thinking that I’ve scarcely room for any more entries, nor desire for them.’

  Isabella reached for his hand and gently moved the glass away. ‘Today, at the site of that terrible battle, and seeing Señor Gebara, too, has brought back horrible memories, things you do not want to think about. I am so sorry.’

  Finlay shook his head firmly. ‘I’m not.’ He stretched his legs out, and pushed his plate aside. ‘It’s how we keep going, when we’re at war—not thinking about it. It’s a habit they teach you in the army, not thinking about it, for if you do, you’d not survive. Or you’d run. Or worse.’ He glanced over at Isabella. ‘Some men can’t live with the memories, you know.’

  She paled. ‘I did not know. Finlay, I...’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intentions of doing anything daft. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I told you, it was a good thing, seeing that place again. And seeing Alesander. It’s given me pause for thought.’ He twined his fingers in hers. ‘You’ve made me question things. Right from the first moment we met, to be honest, you’ve forced me to confront a lot of unpalatable truths.’

  ‘Me?’

  He smiled at her incredulous tone. ‘Aye, you. You’ve a habit of asking the kind of awkward questions that I prefer to avoid. Such as what I’ll do now that Wellington has brought us a peace that seems like to last.’

  ‘There will always be other wars to fight, Finlay.’

  ‘There will,’ he said sadly. ‘Indeed, there will, but I’m done with fighting other people’s battles. If this battered body of mine has to be inflicted with any more scars, I’d like them to be of my own devising.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, lass. Despite my nickname, I’ve never really been an upstart, never been anything but unswervingly loyal to my country and my so-called superior officers, but where has it got me? And then there’s you. Look at you. Look what a love of your country has made of you. An exile. A traitor.’

  ‘Our cases are not the same.’

  ‘They are more similar than I’d have thought when first I came here. Like you, I’m done with soldiering.’

  Across from him, Isabella looked shocked, though when she made to speak, Finlay shook his head. ‘I mean it,’ he said, and found with surprise that he did. ‘I’ve never in my life thought to be anything but a soldier, but now I’m done with it, and what’s more, I’m looking forward to telling Wellington so.’

  ‘What will he say?’

  The question gave him pause, for despite his opinion of the man, as a soldier, Finlay had never had anything other than respect for the duke, and—if he was being really honest, which he might as well be now—no little awe. Not that he’d have to actually face the duke if he resigned. But would he feel he’d truly resigned unless he did? Wasn’t it his duty, and didn’t he always do his duty? He’d not be letting himself down at the last, that was for sure. Finlay shook his head again. ‘I don’t know what he’ll say, though I’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘So you will confront him, then,’ Isabella said, with that uncanny ability to read his mind. ‘Even though you do not need to?’

  ‘As you said, I’m not a man to run away.’ Finlay got to his feet and began to stack the dishes onto a tray.

  ‘No. You are a man who does his duty. Even when he does not wish to.’

  Thinking of tomorrow, he thought she’d never said a truer word. He did not want to think about tomorrow. Finlay set the tray outside the door. ‘Talking of wishes,’ he said, turning the key in the lock, ‘I’ve a few you could help me with, if you’re so inclined.’

  He was relieved to see the shadow of melancholy leave her eyes, the sensuous tilt return to her lips. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

  Finlay picked her up, setting her gently down on the bed. She stretched her arms over her head, stretching the hem of his shirt she wore up to the top
of her thighs. He could see the shadow of her nipples, dark through the white cotton. Her hair was spread out like silk on the pillows.

  ‘I await your orders,’ she said.

  Finlay pulled his shirt over his head and hurriedly stepped out of his breeches. ‘Then, lie back,’ he said, kneeling between her legs, ‘close your eyes and surrender.’

  * * *

  The following morning Señor Gebara brought their breakfast personally, tapping softly on the door just before daybreak. Finlay set the tray down on the table by the window and returned to the bed, pulling Isabella back into his arms. ‘The horses will be ready in half an hour. Alesander has provided us with some supplies, enough to get us to the coast, he says. We’ll be two, maybe three days, on the road.’

  ‘Then, we should make haste,’ Isabella said, making no move.

  ‘Aye.’

  Finlay pulled her tighter. They had lain like this all night, in the sleepy intervals between their passionate lovemaking. Time had seemed suspended; the hours had stretched, seemingly endlessly ahead, until now. Now, as he ran his palm over her flank, as he nestled his chin into her hair, as she pressed herself closer, close enough for their hearts to beat against each other, time began to gallop out of control.

  A few more minutes, Isabella thought. She just needed a few more minutes, and then she would be ready. She wrapped her arms tighter around Finlay’s waist. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat. She felt the stirrings of his arousal and pressed tighter. His erection hardened. She wriggled. She felt his sharp intake of breath. And then his resolute shifting.

  ‘Isabella...’

  She leaped from the bed, tearing herself away from him, because the alternative was to cry and to cling, and she would not do that to him. She had promised she would not let him, or herself, down. ‘Is that fresh coffee? Would you like some?’

  She began to dress. The very thoughtful Señor Gebara had had her undergarments laundered, her habit and boots brushed clean of the dust of the road. She was aware of Finlay watching her as she snatched at clothes and pulled them on, pouring coffee, wittering on about the fresh bread, the salty cheese, the smoky ham, as if she cared about anything other than the fact that every minute, every second, took them inexorably towards their separate fates.