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‘And it’s just you and your parents you say, for your brother’s in the army?’
‘Just me and my father. My mother is dead.’
‘Oh, yes, you mentioned that. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, but I never knew her. She died when I was very young.’
‘Then, I’m very sorry for you indeed. A lassie needs her mother, especially if she’s not got a sister.’
‘I cannot miss what I have not had,’ Isabella said stiffly.
Finlay opened his mouth to say something, thought the better of it, and shrugged, reaching over to pull his saddlebag towards him. ‘Would you like something to eat? I’m hungry enough to eat a scabby-headed wean.’
‘A— What did you say?’
‘I said I’m very hungry. This is all I have, I’m afraid,’ he said, passing her a handful of dry biscuits. ‘It tastes better washed down with this, though,’ he added, holding out a small silver flask. ‘Whisky, from my father’s own still. Try it.’
She sipped, then coughed as the fiery spirit caught the back of her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she said, returning the flask and wrinkling her nose, ‘I think I will stick to water.’
‘It is an acquired taste, right enough,’ Finlay said, putting the cap back on after taking, she noticed, only a very small sip himself. ‘Tell me a bit more about yourself. For example, how does it happen that such a bonny lass is not married?’
‘How does it happen that such a—bonny?—man is not married?’
Finlay laughed. ‘No, no, you don’t describe a man as bonny, unless you wish to impugn him. I’m not married because I’m a soldier, and being a soldier’s wife is no life worth having. Since I am a career soldier, my single status is assured. Now I have explained myself. What about you?’
Isabella shrugged. ‘While my country is at war and under occupation, I cannot think of anything else.’
‘Aye, I can understand that. It’s hard to imagine what peace will look like after all this time.’ Finlay pulled a blanket from his saddle and offered it to her. ‘Here, it’s getting mighty cold.’
‘I do not need...’
‘For the love of— Come here, will you, and we’ll share it, then.’ Taking her by surprise, he pulled her towards him, throwing the blanket around them. He grabbed her arm as she tried to struggle free, and slid his own across her shoulders. ‘I’d do the same for one of my own men if I had to,’ he said.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s a sacrifice I’d be prepared to make—I hope. Luckily I’ve never had to put myself to the test.’
She felt the rumble of his laugher, and the warm puff of his breath on her hair. She had not noticed how cold it had become until he put the blanket around her. It would be churlish to push him away now, and a little silly, for then she would have to walk in the morning with stiff, cold limbs. She did not relax, but she no longer struggled, and allowed herself to lean back against the tree trunk. ‘Tell me more about Scotland,’ she said. ‘Is it very different from Spain?’
‘Very. For a start, there’s the rain. The sky and the sea are more often grey than blue. Mind, all that rain makes for a green landscape. I think that’s what I miss the most, the lush greenery that carpets the valleys and hills.’
‘We have a lot of rain here in the north, in the winter.’
‘Aye, but in Scotland, on the west coast, it rains most days in the summer, too. Are you sleepy? Should I stop babbling?’
Isabella smothered a yawn. ‘No, if you mean should you stop talking. Tell me what other countries you have visited as a soldier.’
‘Many campaigns. Egypt. Portugal. France. Ireland. America.’
‘You are so lucky, I have never been out of Spain.’
‘I’m not sure that you see the best of a country when you go there to fight.’
‘No, but—tell me please. Describe what America is like. Is it the wild, untamed wilderness that I have heard tell of?’
‘Once you leave the east coast, yes. And vast. A man could lose himself there.’
‘Or find himself?’
* * *
Finlay was still musing on that thought when Isabella wriggled around under the blanket to look up at him. He tensed, willing his body not to respond to the supple curves of her. Her hair tickled his chin. He was inordinately grateful for the thick layers of clothing between them, and tried discreetly to shift his thigh away from hers. Concentrating his mind on answering her questions, he found she drew him out, that his desire, while it remained a constant background tingle, was subdued by his interest in her, by hers in him.
Eventually, as the moon sank and true darkness fell, they grew silent. He thought she slept, though he could not be sure. He thought he remained awake, though he could not be certain of that, either. They moved neither closer nor farther apart, and that, Finlay told himself, was as it should be.
* * *
In the morning he was glad of it. She stirred before sunrise, and he lay with his eyes closed, affording her some privacy. Only when she stood over him did he pretend to wake, getting to his feet, trying not to notice the way the water she had splashed on her face had dampened her hair, making a long tress of it cling to her cheek.
‘You will find your way back to your own lines?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘It’ll be easier in daylight, provided I keep a weather eye out for French patrols.’
‘I will send word when we have—when it is done, I promise.’
‘I believe you.’
He took the hand she offered him. In the dawn light, her eyes seemed more golden than brown. He wanted to kiss that nervously smiling mouth of hers. He wanted, quite fervently, to have her body pressed against his, her arms around his neck. He took a step towards her. For a moment he felt it, the tug of desire between them, that unmistakable feeling, like the twisting of a very sharp knife in his guts. It was because he wanted to kiss her so much that he stopped himself, bent over her hand, clicking his heels together, then let her go. ‘Adiós, Isabella. Good luck. Please be careful. Stay safe.’
‘Goodbye, Finlay. May God protect you and keep you from harm.’
She turned and slowly walked away, following the path of the stream as it meandered along the floor of the valley. Finlay watched her until she disappeared from sight behind a large outcrop of rock. Then he picked up his saddle, and within a few moments, just as the sun streaked the sky with pink-and-orange fingers, he, too, was on his way, heading in the opposite direction.
Chapter Two (#ulink_d2fa9375-0b3d-5952-8593-1cf5cd4e5eed)
England—autumn 1815
‘So, Jack, are you going to spill the beans on why you had me hotfoot it down here? I’m intrigued. But then knowing you, you old fox, that was precisely your intention when you composed the enigmatic message I received.’
They were strolling in the grounds of Jack’s brother’s home, Trestain Manor, where he was currently residing, Finlay having arrived post-haste in answer to an urgent summons. Now he eyed his friend grimly. ‘You’re looking a bit rough around the edges, if you don’t mind my saying so. Is this anything to do with the information I dug up for you regarding your wee painter lassie?’
‘Her name is Celeste, and she is not, as I told you in London, my wee painter lassie,’ Jack snapped. ‘Sorry. I’m just— What you told me helped me a lot, and I’m hoping to solve the rest of the puzzle now that I have permission from Wellington to delve into those secret files.’
‘But things concerning the lassie herself don’t look so hopeful?’ Finlay asked carefully.
Jack shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’m advancing on some fronts but have sustained some collateral damage on others.’ The words were light-hearted but the tone of his friend’s voice told Finlay the subject was not open for further discussion. ‘The reason I asked you here is nothing to do with that, although indirectly it brought it about.’
Finlay rolled his eyes. ‘Would you get to the point and stop talking in code, man!’
Jack smiled faintly. ‘A habit that’s difficult to break. It’s a delicate matter, though, Finlay, and obviously everything I tell you is in the strictest confidence. I don’t mean to insult your utter trustworthiness, but Wellington made me promise...’
‘Wellington!’
‘When I accosted him at that dinner I attended on your behalf with my little problem of those secret files, he told me about a little problem of his own.’ Jack’s expression darkened. ‘Save that it’s not only the duke’s problem, Finlay. I see it as very much mine. When we were in Spain, do you recall talk of a partisan commander called El Fantasma?’
‘The Ghost! I’d have had to be deaf and dumb not to. He was a legend in the north during the Peninsular Campaign.’
‘Yes, he was. The partisans in that area were incredibly effective in targeting the French supply lines thanks to him, and in intercepting mail. He was one of my most reliable and effective spies. The information he provided saved a great many lives.’ Jack plucked a long piece of grass, and began to twine it around his finger. ‘The thing is, Finlay, this El Fantasma knows some pretty compromising stuff, politically, that is. Some of the things that were done in the name of war—they wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny in the press.’
‘Jack, none of the reality of war would sit well with the peacetime press.’
‘You’re right about that. To be honest, I think it would be a good thing if some of it did come into the public domain. Since Waterloo, no one wants to know about the suffering of those who fought, the pittance they have to live on, the fact that the army has cast them aside, having no further need for them.’ Jack broke off, fists clenched. ‘Sorry, I know I’m preaching to the converted in you, and I’ve strayed from the point again. The problem, as far as the duke is concerned, is that, were El Fantasma to fall into the wrong hands, it could be extremely embarrassing, not to say damaging to his political career.’
‘The wrong hands being...?’
‘The Spanish government. Since Ferdinand was restored to the throne, the ruling elite has been cracking down on the former partisans and guerrillas who continue to speak out against them. Many of the more vocal liberals, the ones with influence, have been exiled, a significant number of them executed. El Fantasma, however, is still a thorn in their side. Rather more than a thorn, actually. You know that the freedom of the press in Spain is one of the many liberties that’s been curtailed? Here, take a look at this.’
Jack handed Finlay what looked like a political pamphlet. It was written in a mixture of Spanish and Basque, from what he could determine, and the printed signature at the end was quite clearly that of El Fantasma, the small image of a spectre on the front page providing confirmation.
‘This edition calls for the Constitution of 1812 to be restored, among many other things. Advocating that alone could get him hanged. I imagine the other editions espouse equally revolutionary views.’ Jack was now frowning deeply. ‘Wellington has been tipped off through one of his various diplomatic connections that the Spanish government are determined to flush El Fantasma out. He is a dangerous focal point and voice of anti-government rhetoric, and they intend to silence him once and for all. You can guess what that means.’
‘It means I wouldn’t like to be in his boots if they snare him.’
‘And they will, Finlay. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Which is what has put the wind up Wellington, I presume?’
Jack nodded. ‘He says it is a matter of state security. It goes without saying that his concerns are partly driven by self-interest, but you know as well as I do how wide that man’s sphere of influence is.’
‘If the duke says it’s a matter of state security, then undoubtedly it is. So he wants to get to El Fantasma before the Spanish do, I take it, and he’s thinking that you are the man for the job, since a great deal of your information came from that very source?’
‘El Fantasma did an enormous amount for us, and risked his life every day to do so. We owe it to him—I owe it to him personally, to make sure no harm comes to him. Which is where you come in.’
Finlay stared at his friend, his head reeling. ‘Wellington wants me to go to Spain?’
‘I want you to go to Spain. Wellington agreed to leave the matter in my hands. Since I’m the only person he could think of with the first clue of where to start, he had little option. I have his permission to act as I see fit and to use whatever resources I require. It’s official business in that sense, though if anything goes wrong, of course, he’ll deny all knowledge. In war and politics, there are always shades of grey, aren’t there? Well, this is one instance. The Spanish want to silence our partisan. Our government, being afraid of what he might reveal in order to save his neck, also wants to silence him, Finlay. Do you see?’
‘I do. And what, I’m wondering, is it you really want me to do for you?’
‘Get El Fantasma out of Spain and the government’s clutches by any means possible. Forcibly, if need be. It’s for his own good. That will be difficult enough, but then there is the small matter of keeping him out of Wellington’s clutches thereafter,’ Jack said with a chilling smile. ‘Here’s how I think it can be achieved.’
Finlay listened in silence as Jack explained his plan and then let out a low whistle. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your touch, laddie. You do realise if the powers that be find out, it could be interpreted as a treasonable act,’ he said, eyeing his friend with something akin to awe. ‘It’s a bold and possibly reckless strategy.’
‘Precisely why I thought of you,’ Jack quipped, though his face was serious. ‘I know it’s asking an enormous amount, but I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust with the task. I would go myself, only I can’t. I am not—not in the best of health, and there are things I am embroiled in here... If it could wait a few weeks, but I am not sure that it can, and so...’
‘Jack, there’s no need to explain yourself. Whatever is going on between you and your wee painter lassie is your business. I just hope the outcome is a good one,’ Finlay said. ‘Besides,’ he continued hurriedly, for his friend was looking painfully embarrassed, ‘can you not see that I’m bored out of my mind? Is this not the kind of scrape that you know fine and well I love beyond anything?’
He was rewarded with an awkward smile. ‘I did think that you might be tempted, but...’
‘Let me tell you something. When I got your note, I confess I was relieved. I’m not used to having all this free time. It doesn’t suit me one whit. You know I’ve never been comfortable with mess life, and it’s even worse now there’s no battles to be fought, and the talk is all of dancing and parties and who is the fairest toast in the town and what particular shade of brown this Season’s coats should be. I’m a man who needs to be doing something.’
Jack smiled, but his expression remained troubled. ‘I thought the plan was for you to spend some time back in the Highlands.’
‘I did go back, briefly,’ Finlay replied, ‘but—ach, I don’t know. My brother has the croft well in hand, and I don’t want to be standing on his toes, and...’ He shook his head. ‘It all seemed so tame and so very quiet.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Jack said wryly. ‘Trestain Manor is hardly a cauldron of excitement, though it would be churlish of me to complain. My brother, Charlie, and his wife, Eleanor, have been good enough to take me in since I resigned my commission.’ The two men sat down on the bank of a stream. ‘What about you? Will you stay in the army, do you think, now that it looks like lasting peace has finally been achieved?’
Finlay shrugged. ‘Soldiering is all I know. Anyway, no point thinking about the future when there’s work to be done,’ he said brusquely. ‘It’s agreed. I’ll go to Spain and smuggle this El Fantasma out of the country, by hook or by crook. Just tell me what he looks like and where I might find him.’
Jack grimaced. ‘That, I am afraid, is the first of many hurdles to be overcome. I have no idea what he looks like, never having met the man. The partisans operated in small, isolated groups to preserve anonymity. I dealt only with third parties—contacts of contacts, so to speak. Even assuming they have survived, which is by no means certain, many of them went into exile at the end of the war. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ Jack ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What you need is a starting point, and we don’t have one.’
‘Actually, I think we might have,’ Finlay said slowly. ‘Do you remember my tale of the occasion I attacked what I thought was a French guard, and it was...’
‘A female Spanish partisan.’
Finlay smiled. ‘Isabella, her name was. I’ve often wondered what became of her.’
Jack laughed. ‘I’m sure her charms, as you described them to me, were grossly exaggerated. Moonlight and a dearth of females to compare her to will most certainly have coloured your view.’
‘Not at all, she was a right bonny wee thing, and a brave one, too, but that’s not what’s important.’
‘Now you’re the one talking in riddles.’
‘She claimed to know how to get in touch with El Fantasma. Now, I know virtually nothing about her. I don’t even know for certain if she was telling the truth. It’d be clutching at straws. A very long shot, indeed. But in the absence of any other lead...’
‘It is at least a potential starting point, although as a partisan, there’s a good chance she may not have survived the war.’
Finlay grimaced. ‘She didn’t even tell me her full name. All I know is that she came from a place not far from where I found the arms cache. Roma? Roman? Romero? Aye, something Romero, I think that was it, but to be honest I can’t be sure. If I could take a look at a map I reckon I could pinpoint it.’
‘Don’t go leaping into action just yet,’ Jack cautioned. ‘You’ll need a cover story, papers, funds. I have contacts in London who will arrange everything you need, including passage on whatever naval ship is heading for Spanish waters. You may have to leave at very short notice.’
‘If it means not having to take part in another mess discussion about the best way to tie a cravat, I’ll go today.’
‘I am very much in your debt. You will send me word, won’t you, as soon as you are back safe in England?’
Finlay clasped his hand firmly. ‘I will return, never fear. Where would Wellington be without his Jock Upstart?’
North of Spain—one month later
Finlay had endured a long journey, and since arriving in Spain, one increasingly redolent with memories of the campaign there, some of them very unpleasant indeed. Though more than two years had passed, the legacy of the war was evident in the ruined fortress port of San Sebastian where he had made landfall, and in the surrounding countryside as he travelled south through Pamplona, thankfully avoiding the site of that last bloody battle at Vitoria.
Here, in the wine-growing countryside of the La Rioja region, was his final destination. Hermoso Romero. He was still not absolutely certain he was heading for the right place, but it was the only one on the map that had anything approaching the name he thought the Spanish partisan had mentioned. It was not, as he had imagined, a small hamlet where her family had a farm, but as the Foreign Office research had revealed, a very large winery where presumably the partisan’s family were employed to work on the estate, which was the largest in the region.
Finlay dismounted from his horse and shaded his eyes to gaze down into the valley. Hermoso Romero was a beautiful place, the pale yellow stone walls and the terracotta roofs mellowed by the late-autumn sunshine. The grapes had been harvested from the regimented lines of vines that fanned out on three sides from the house, while cypress trees formed a long windbreak on the fourth. The main house was a large building three storeys high, the middle section of which was graced with arched windows. What must be the working part of the estate was located to one side, built around a central courtyard, while at the back of the main block he could see what looked like a chapel, and some elegant private gardens contained by a low wall constructed of the same yellow stone.
Jack’s mysterious contacts at the Foreign Office in London had done an impressively thorough job in providing Finlay with a cover story. The owner of the winery, Señor Xavier Romero, was by all accounts an extremely ambitious man, with a very high opinion of his Rioja wine. So when Señor Romero had been informed through a ‘reliable’ diplomatic source that an influential English wine merchant wished to pay him a visit to discuss a potential export deal, an invitation was immediately extended.
‘He’s likely to push the boat out a bit,’ the man at the Foreign Office had warned Finlay. ‘Be prepared to be courted. It would be advisable to crib up a little on the wine-production process if you can find the time.’
