The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘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.

He smiled at her. ‘You were fighting for your country, just as he was. I’d say what you did was brave and honourable. If you were my sister, I’d be proud of you.’

His praise, so unexpected and so very rare, made her flush with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’

‘I meant it.’ He caught her hand, bringing them both to a halt. ‘Señorita, I have been remiss. Your father, I take it he passed away? Please accept my condolences. You gave me the impression that you were very fond of him.’

‘Yes. We were very close.’ A lump rose in her throat. Papa had always preferred his daughter to his son, yet it was to Xavier that all of the condolences had been given when Papa died, just as it had been Xavier who had received all the gratitude and admiration for fighting for his country. ‘It happened just after the end of the war. At least Papa lived to see peace return to his beloved Spain.’

‘And now you have had peace for two years. Is it what you imagined or hoped? Does the world turn in a different direction?’

‘I think it was you who expressed that hope, actually.’ Isabella shrugged, pulling her hands free before turning away. ‘As far as my brother is concerned, the world turns in exactly the same manner as it did before the war. He has a very modern approach to wine, but in every other respect Xavier, like our king, prefers the old ways.’

Despite herself, she had been unable to keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice and the Scotsman noticed. ‘I take it that you do not share your brother’s views?’

‘Mr Urquhart, I am a woman, and in the eyes of the law I am my brother’s property now that I am no longer my father’s, and will remain so until I am my husband’s.’

‘You have changed a great deal in two years, if what you’re telling me is that you don’t have any views at all.’

The temptation to contradict him almost overwhelmed her, but the dangers of doing so restrained her. Isabella forced a brittle smile. ‘We have both changed a great deal, I think. Neither of us are soldiers now. You are a businessman. I am a lady. I would therefore very much appreciate it if you kept what you know of my past to yourself. To expose me would cause my brother a great deal of embarrassment.’

‘I’d say embarrassment was putting it mildly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If it was discovered that your brother was nourishing a liberal viper in his midst...’

‘I am not a viper!’

His sea-blue eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘I note you do not deny being a liberal.’

Too late yet again, she realised she had betrayed herself. ‘Mr Urquhart, you are here to do business with my brother. Lucrative business for you, I believe, for there is substance to his boasts. You will not find a better Rioja than ours. Surely you cannot be thinking of putting such a deal in jeopardy? Please,’ she urged when he made no reply, swallowing the last remnants of her pride, ‘whatever you think of me, whatever you know of my past, you understand that it can only hurt Xavier.’

He frowned, pushing his hair back from his brow, though it was cut considerably shorter than before, and there was no need. ‘Very well, Señorita Romero, you have my word that I will keep quiet about your patriotic past. After all, we Scots have a well-earned reputation for being canny and shrewd businessmen with an eye for a profit,’ he concluded wryly.

‘Thank you. I— Thank you.’ Her relief was apparent in her voice, but so it should be. ‘It is better, I think, for the past to remain in the past now the war is over.’ They were Xavier’s words, and often uttered. Isabella rolled her eyes metaphorically as she spoke them.

The Scotsman, however, looked—sad? ‘You think so?’ he asked. ‘You really want to forget it happened?’ He leaned back against the trunk of a tree, head back, looking up at the pale expanse of sky visible through the foliage. ‘All that sacrifice, all those lives lost. Now that Boney is stuck on an island in the middle of the Atlantic, at least we are done with wars for a while.’

‘And there is no more requirement for soldiers to fight them,’ Isabella said softly, as understanding dawned. And empathy.

‘No, there’s not.’ He stood up, rolling his shoulders. ‘So now I buy and sell wine, and you sit at home embroidering or knitting or whatever it is fine Spanish ladies do.’

She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Oh, if you want an example of the perfect Spanish lady, you must look to my sister-in-law. Consuela can set a perfect stitch, sing a perfect song, bear a perfect child, and all the while smiling a perfect smile. She is a bloodless creature.’

‘I think she is simply very young and very shy and very overwhelmed by all this,’ Finlay said, nodding back at the house. ‘She misses her sisters.’

‘She told you all that while you were dancing? It is more than she has ever seen fit to tell me.’ Isabella shook her head incredulously. ‘You must have misunderstood. Her family would be welcome to visit any time. She only has to issue an invitation.’ She waited for him to answer her implied question, but he said nothing. ‘What is it, what did she say to you?’

‘I never break a confidence. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

‘A confidence! You only met her last night, and she is confiding in you.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.’

The Scotsman touched her cheek. Isabella jerked away. ‘Why should I be offended? Consuela is very beautiful, and you are very charming, and if she chose to speak to you of matters that—well, that is none of my business.’

‘She is indeed beautiful, but in the manner of a painting, you know. You can admire her, and you are happy to look at her, but as to anything else...’

‘But that is exactly what I was thinking about Gabriel only last night.’

‘The Adonis who looked down his nose at me? What is he to you?’

It was none of his business, but it was so refreshing to talk to a man who actually spoke what was on his mind and expected her to return the favour. ‘He is my brother’s best friend. They were in the army together. My brother hopes to make a match between us. It would be a very good match for me.’

‘But it would also be—what was your phrase—bloodless.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you don’t find the idea of kissing him appealing. You see, that’s the difference between you and your brother’s wife. While I’m more than happy to look at her, I don’t feel the slightest inclination to kiss her.’

Isabella’s mouth went dry, and her pulses fluttered. The Scotsman’s fingers circled her wrist loosely. She could easily free herself. His other hand rested on her shoulder. She seemed to be standing very close to him. ‘I am very glad,’ she said, ‘because I think Xavier’s hospitality has limits.’

He laughed softly. ‘You know that I would very much like to kiss you, don’t you?’

‘I think you wanted to, two years ago.’

‘It’s something I’ve often regretted, that I did not.’

Her heart was pounding wildly. She was playing with fire, but she was enjoying it far too much to stop. She was so rarely afforded the freedom to be herself. It was exhilarating. ‘It is something I, too, have regretted, that you did not,’ Isabella said daringly.

She had surprised him. She could see from the way his eyes darkened that she had also aroused him, and that knowledge heightened her own awareness of him. ‘There is nothing worse than regret,’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ she agreed.

He made no move for a long moment, and despite the longing twisting inside her, she had reached the limits of her boldness. If he did not kiss her now, he never would. If he did not kiss her now, she would always wonder. If he did not kiss her...