The Soldier's Rebel Lover
Auteur
Marguerite Kaye
Lezers
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Hoofdstukken
13
Chapter One
Basque Country, Spain—July 1813
Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot scanned the rough terrain through the eyepiece of his field telescope, his senses on full alert. ‘Got ye!’ he whispered to himself with grim satisfaction.
The French arms dump was partially concealed, set in the lee of a nearby hillock. It was obviously a large cache and therefore a strategically important discovery, especially if it could be destroyed before Wellington began his siege of the nearby fortress at San Sebastian. There were no guards present that he could discern, but they could not be far away, and might return at any time. The French army was severely stretched in the aftermath of the Battle of Vitoria, where they had sustained heavy losses, but even against their presumably depleted defences, any planned assault on the arms cache would carry significant risk, since it was located some distance behind enemy lines.
As was he, Finlay reminded himself. The light was fading fast, and with it any chance of making it back to base tonight, for his journey would take him through some treacherous and hostile terrain. It would be much more prudent to hole up for the night under cover in the small, heavily wooded copse a couple of miles distant where he’d tethered his horse.
‘Aye, and Prudence is my middle name, right enough,’ Finlay muttered to himself. Despite the perilous nature of his situation, he couldn’t help grinning at his own joke. With any luck, he could be back in camp and feasting on a hot breakfast not long after sunrise.
He could not have said what it was that put him on his guard. A change in the quality of the silence, perhaps. Maybe the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. A sense, acute and undeniable, that he was not alone. Definitely. Finlay’s hand moved automatically to the holster that held his pistol, but the failing light, and fear of the sound it would make when he primed it, made him hesitate and reach instead for his dirk, the lethal Scottish dagger he carried in his belt.
His ears pricked, Finlay listened intently. A faint scrabbling was coming from the ditch on the other side of the rough track. A rat? No, it sounded like something much larger. He waited on high alert, crouched in his own ditch, and was rewarded by the faint outline of a man’s head peering cautiously out. No cap, but it could only be a French sentry, for who else would be concealed here, so close to the arms cache? He could wait it out and pray he was not discovered, but sixteen years in the army had taught Finlay the value of the pre-emptive strike. Taking the sgian-dubh, the other, shorter dagger he carried tucked into his hose, in his other hand, he launched himself at the enemy.
The Frenchman was in the act of aiming his pistol as Finlay threw himself at him, knocking his arm high and sending the gun spiralling harmlessly into the air. The man fought like a dervish despite his slight physique, but Finlay had experience and his own considerable brawn on his side. Within moments, he had the man subdued, wrists yanked painfully together behind his back, the glittering blade of the dirk only a hair’s breadth from the French soldier’s throat.
‘Make one sound and, by all that is holy, I promise you it will be your last,’ Finlay growled in guttural French.
His captive strained in Finlay’s iron grasp. He tightened his grip on the man’s wrists, noting with surprise how slender and delicate they were. Now that he was close up, Finlay could see he was not, in fact, wearing a French uniform. What was more, as he struggled frantically to free himself, it became clear that there was something much more profoundly incongruous about his captive.
‘What the devil,’ Finlay exclaimed, so surprised that he spoke the words in his native Gaelic. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, woman,’ he added, lowering his voice and switching to Castilian Spanish as he turned the female round to face him, ‘creeping about in the dead of night in man’s garb? Don’t you realise I could have killed you?’
The woman threw back her head and glared at him. ‘I might ask you the same question. What the hell do you think you are doing, creeping about in the night in woman’s clothing? I could just as easily have killed you.’
The sheer audacity of her remark rendered him speechless for a moment, and then Finlay laughed. ‘This, señorita, is a kilt, not a skirt, and you did not for a moment come close to killing me, though I don’t doubt that you’d have tried if I’d given you half a chance. Why did you point a gun at me? Could you not see that I am wearing a British and not a French uniform? We are supposed to be on the same side.’
‘If you could tell that my tunic was not a French uniform, why did you come leaping out of the darkness brandishing two blades like some savage?’ she countered.
‘Aye, well, fair enough,’ Finlay said grudgingly, ‘but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here dressed as a man. Are you alone?’
‘I am here for the same purpose as you, I expect. To locate the position of this arms store. And yes, I am alone. You can let me go now, I won’t shoot you, I...’
‘Wheesht!’
Finlay pulled them both back down into the ditch as the sound of horses’ hooves grew louder. Three riders, and this time undoubtedly French. He turned to warn the woman at his side not to move a muscle, but there was no need; she was stock-still, as silent and tense as he. She was a plucky wee thing, that much was certain.
The horses drew closer and then stopped almost directly in front of them. One man dismounted, and Finlay slowly slid his pistol from its holster. Before he could stop her, the woman had wriggled a few feet away to pick up her own discarded weapon, careful to make no sound. Not just plucky, but cool-headed, then. Under cover of the ditch, he could barely see her, only sense the slim, coiled figure readying herself to attack. He shook his head imperceptibly, and to his relief she nodded her understanding. There were times when patience was a virtue. No point alerting the French to the fact that the arms cache had been discovered. It would only make any future assault on it more fraught with danger, as they would doubtless reinforce their defences.
After a few tense seconds, Finlay heard an unmistakable tinkling sound that was accompanied by tuneless whistling. This was followed by a long groan of satisfaction as a small cloud of steam rose into the night air. ‘Zut alors!’ he heard a disembodied, and quite literally relieved voice say, and had to bite his lip not to laugh out loud. This whole bizarre episode was going to make a fine tale for the lads in the mess. Provided he made it safely back, that was. He himself was therefore equally relieved to see the soldier remount his horse before the trio set off in the direction of the arms cache, where presumably they would set up camp.
‘We must move now, for they will almost certainly send out a patrol once they are settled.’ The woman spoke in English. Her accent had a slight lisping quality that was undeniably charming.
One look at the sky, where a full moon was making its presence felt from behind the scudding clouds, made his mind up for him. Finlay nodded his agreement. ‘My horse is hidden in a copse just over that ridge.’
‘I know it. Let me lead the way, I know this terrain like the back of my hand.’
It went against the grain for him, but his instincts told him to trust her. They made their way along the ditch, inch by painfully silent inch, for half an hour as the moon rose higher and higher and the stars above them hung like lanterns suspended in the sky. Finlay was struck, as he was on every single clear night like this in Spain, by how much brighter and closer to earth they seemed compared to the tiny twinkling lights in the Argyll sky, back home in Scotland.
Ahead of him, the woman stopped and looked cautiously out of the ditch before standing up. ‘We can follow this track here. It will take us over the ridge. Now that you have located the arms dump I presume the English army will destroy it?’
‘It’s a British army, with Scots and Irish and Welsh soldiers as well as English.’
‘And you, I think, with that skirt, are Scottish?’
‘Kilt. Plaid if you like, but not a skirt. Skirts are for women.’
He saw the glint of her teeth as she smiled at him. ‘And you, soldier, are decidedly not a woman.’
Finlay surveyed her for the first time, in the fluorescent glow of the moon, and wondered how he could ever have thought her anything else. She was young, no more than twenty-three or four, he reckoned. Her rough woollen breeches were tucked into sturdy brown boots. Over her heavy tunic, the leather belts worn cross-wise held gunpowder, a pistol and a knife. The uniform of a partisan, a rebel fighter. But the long legs inside the breeches were shapely. The belt cinched a waist that even underneath the bulk of the tunic was slim. The hair pulled back from the face had been silky soft against his unshaven chin. And her face... The large, almond-shaped eyes under finely arched brows, the strong nose, the full lips—there could be no mistaking that for anything other than a woman, and a very attractive one, at that. ‘We have established the reason for my presence. But what, may I ask, are you doing out here?’ he asked.
Her smile faded. ‘I told you, the same thing you are doing. Locating the French armaments.’
‘But alone. And you are...’
‘Female.’ She stood straight, tossing her head and glaring at him. ‘You think a woman is any less observant than a man?’
‘Quite the contrary, but I do think sending a woman on her own on such a mission was a bloody stupid thing to do. These French soldiers would not necessarily have killed you straight away, lass,’ Finlay said gently, ‘if they had captured you.’
‘I would not let them capture me. Under any circumstances,’ she added darkly.
‘You should not have been sent—assuming that whatever guerrilla group you belong to did actually authorise your foolhardy mission?’
She glowered at him again, opened her mouth to speak, then obviously thought better of it. ‘We should not be standing here debating in the open. It is not safe.’
She had a point. She also clearly did not trust him, despite his uniform. And why should she, Finlay thought wryly as he allowed her to lead the way along the narrow track he’d followed earlier. The problem was, he needed her to trust him enough to tell him what her fellow partisans’ plans were. If they meant to liberate the French weaponry and use it against them, it would save his men a job—and he could ill spare his men for such a mission, no matter how vital. Vitoria had knocked seven colours of shite out of them, and now Wellington was champing at the bit to attack the fortress towns of Pamplona and San Sebastian, despite the fact that desertion, sickness and sheer bloody exhaustion, to say nothing of the unseasonal and relentless rain, were having a serious impact on morale. If he could spare his men even one sortie...
Finlay frowned. He could not see how it was to be done. He knew no more about this woman than she knew about him. If he could at least find out who she took her orders from, for he was pretty certain he knew all the local guerrilla groups, and those he did not know his friend Jack, Wellington’s master codebreaker, of a certainty would. If only he could get her to talk.
They were climbing steeply now, pebbles from the narrow rocky path skittering down behind them. The moon was high enough in the sky to cast ghostly shadows. The woman moved lithely, her long legs in their tight boots seemingly tireless as she set a pace that would have left some of Finlay’s men gasping for breath. Raised in the Highlands, a childhood spent roaming the narrow sheep tracks on lower but equally rugged terrain, Finlay followed, his kilt swinging out behind him, his eyes alternating between his booted feet and the beguiling curve of his companion’s shapely behind. There was a lot to be said for women in trousers.
There was a lot to be said for men wearing kilts, too. As an officer, he’d the right to trews, but Finlay had always preferred the freedom of his plaid. Other officers from other regiments, especially those up-their-own-arse cavalry, saw Finlay’s loyalty to the kilt as one more piece of evidence of his barbarity. The Jock Upstart, Wellington had christened him when he had first, against all the odds and much against the duke’s inclination, clambered out of the ranks. Finlay, smiling through very gritted teeth, had sworn to be true to this moniker forever. His plaid was just one of the many ways he maintained his rebellious streak. Sometimes subtly and subversively. Frequently, less so.
He wondered what this woman’s family thought of her wandering about the countryside armed to the teeth. Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps she was married to a rebel warrior herself. It struck him, as it had often recently, how very different it was for the Spanish who fought alongside them, or who fought as this woman did, in their own underground guerrilla groups. Finlay was a soldier, doing the job he’d been trained to do, had been doing, man and boy. His cause was whatever his country and his commanding officer decreed it to be, his enemy whomever they nominated his enemy to be, and for the past few years it had been the French. He loathed the barbarities they had been responsible for, but he equally loathed the atrocities his own side, drunk on bloodlust and wine, had committed in the aftermath of Ciudad Rodrigo. But he did not hate the French indiscriminately. He admired their soldiers—they were worthy adversaries—and he would be a fool to do anything other than respect Napoleon’s military genius.
Napoleon, however, had not invaded Finlay’s homeland. The French army were not living off Finlay’s family’s croft, eating their oats and butchering their cattle. This woman, still striding out tirelessly as they crested the hill, was fighting for her country, her family, her village. And he, Finlay, might not be the enemy, but his men were still laying waste to the countryside in battle, laying siege to their ancient fortress towns and eating their hard-earned grain, even if they were paying a fair price for it. No wonder she had taken up arms. He’d bet his own sisters would do the same.
‘What do you find amusing?’
They had come to a halt on the ridge. The copse where Finlay’s horse was tethered was in the valley, about a hundred feet below. He hadn’t realised he was smiling. ‘I was trying to imagine my mother’s reaction if she caught my sisters playing the soldier, as you are.’
The woman bristled. ‘This is no game. Our sovereignty, our very existence is at stake.’
‘I did not mean to trivialise the actions of you and your comrades, lass—señorita. In fact, I was thinking just then how much I admire what you are doing. And thinking my sisters would likely do the same, if our lands were invaded as yours have been.’
‘You have many sisters?’
Finlay laughed. ‘It feels like it at times, though there’s only three of them.’
‘And brothers?’
‘Just the one. What about you?’
‘Just the one,’ she said, with a twisted smile. ‘He is with our army, fighting alongside you English—British. I don’t know where he is exactly.’
‘You must worry about his safety.’
She shrugged. ‘Of course, though if he was close at hand I would not have the opportunity to be so—’ she indicated her tunic, her gun ‘—involved. And so it is perhaps for the best, since we can both fight for our country in our own way.’
‘Your family don’t object to your active participation?’
‘My mother is dead. My father is—he is sympathetic. He turns the closed eye, I think that is what you say?’
‘Blind eye. Your English is a lot better than my Spanish.’
Another shrug greeted this remark. ‘I have been fortunate in my education. Papa—my father—is not one of those men who thinks that girls should learn only to cook and sew. Unlike my brother. Without Papa’s support and encouragement I would not be here, and we would not have known about that cache of arms.’
‘So your partisan group do intend to do something about it?’
The question was out before he could stop it. The result, he could have predicted if he’d given himself a chance to think. She folded her arms and turned away. ‘As a soldier yourself, you cannot expect me to disclose sensitive military information like that to a complete stranger. I will accompany you to the copse down there, and then we must go our separate ways.’
Cursing under his breath in Gaelic, Finlay followed her, determined more than ever, now that he’d made it even harder for himself, to find a way of making her trust him. If he was to do so, he’d need to stop her leaving. Which meant abandoning his plans to be back at camp by dawn, bidding farewell to the prospect of anything more appetising than the hard biscuits he had in his knapsack. On the other hand, it was not as if a few hours in the company of such a bonny and intriguing lass would be any great hardship. Even if their situation was fraught with danger. Maybe precisely because their situation was fraught with danger.
* * *
Isabella watched the Scottish soldier stride over to his horse, which was tethered to a tree on a rope long enough to let the animal reach the stream burbling along the valley floor. She watched him as he quickly checked that the beast was content before hauling a large bundle that must be the saddle from where it had been concealed under a bush.
He was a big man, solid muscle and brawn, with a fine pair of powerful legs revealed by that shocking garment he wore, and a broad pair of shoulders evident under his red coat. She knew enough to tell that it was an officer’s coat, though she had no idea what rank. He did not have the haughty manners of a typical Spanish officer. There was none of their pompousness and vainglorious pride in his demeanour. Perhaps it was different in the English army? British—she must remember to call them British.
His hair was the colour of autumn leaves. It glinted in the moonlight, and the stubble on his face seemed tinged with flecks of gold. His eyes... She could not tell the colour of his eyes, but she could see well enough that his face was a very attractive one. Not exactly handsome, but nonetheless, the kind of face that would always draw a second look. And a third. The smile he gave her now, as he walked back towards her, was the kind of smile that would ensure its recipient smiled back. She bit down firmly on her own lip, and equally firmly ignored the stir of response in her belly.
‘Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Foot,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a bit late in the day for introductions, but there you are. I am delighted to meet you, señorita...?’
‘I—Isabella. You may call me Isabella.’
To her surprise he took her hand, bowing over it with a graceful flourish, brushing her fingertips with his lips. ‘Isabella. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said, as his smile darkened and took a decidedly wicked form.
‘Major Urk...Urk...’
‘Urquhart. It’s pronounced Urk-hart. It might be easier if you called me Finlay.’
‘Finlay,’ Isabella repeated slowly, smiling. ‘Yes, that is better. Well, Finlay, it has been very nice to meet you, but I must...’
‘Don’t go just yet.’
Truthfully, she did not want to, though truthfully, she did not want to admit that to herself. It was not the journey home that bothered her; she could do that blindfold. It was him. She ought—indeed, she had a duty—to discover what the British plans were with regard to the French arms dump. Reassured, she gave a little nod. ‘I will stay for a moment,’ Isabella conceded, ‘and rest a little.’
‘You don’t sound in the least as if you need a rest.’
‘I don’t,’ she said, instantly defensive, almost as instantly realising that she had contradicted herself. ‘But I would welcome some water. I am parched.’
‘Sit down. I’ll bring you some.’
‘I am perfectly able...’
‘I’m sure you are, but I have a cup in my knapsack—it’s a mite easier to use than your hands. Sit down there, I won’t be a minute.’
Though she was loath to do as he bid her, loath to be waited on as if she was a mere woman, Isabella sat. The water was cool and most welcome. She drank deeply, and consented to have more brought for the sake of placating the soldier, and for no other reason. ‘Gracias.’
‘De nada.’
He sat down beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. His eyes, she could see now, were a startlingly deep blue under heavy brows, which were drawn together in a faint frown. Despite the fiery glints in his hair, his skin was neither fair nor burned by the sun, but tanned deep brown.
‘Well, now, Isabella, it seems to me that it would be daft for us both—my men and yours—to consider launching a sortie against this French arms dump, would it not? No point treading on each other’s toes unnecessarily.’
His accent was strange, lilting, soft, and some of the words he spoke she could not translate, but she understand him only too well. He was going about it more subtly this time, but he was still interested in one thing only from her: what were the partisans’ intentions with regard to the French arms cache? Fine and well, for that was also the only reason she was interested in him. The thought made Isabella smile, and her smile made the soldier look at her quizzically, an eyebrow raised, his own sensual mouth quirking up on one side.
‘I’d give a lot to know what is going on in that bonny head of yours, señorita. I mean,’ he said, when she looked confused, ‘I’d like to know what you are thinking.’
‘I wager you would, soldier, but I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Finlay. It’s Finlay.’
‘Finlay,’ she repeated.
‘Aye, that’s it, you have it. There’s not many use my name these days, apart from at home, that is. But it’s been nigh on seven years since I’ve been there.’
‘And where is home?’ Isabella asked.
‘A village in Argyll, not far from Oban. That’s in the Highlands of Scotland. My family live in a wee cottage not unlike the ones you see in the villages hereabouts, and they farm, too, just like the villagers here, though they grow oats not wheat, and it’s far too cold and wet for grapes, so there’s no wine. Mind you, my father makes a fine whisky. He has a boat, too, for the fishing.’
Isabella stared at him in surprise. ‘So your family are peasant stock? But you are an officer. I thought that all English officers were from grand English families. The Duke of Wellington, he is famous—’
‘For saying that an officer must also be a gentleman,’ Finlay interrupted her, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘I’m the exception that proves the rule—an officer who is definitely not a gentleman,’ he clarified. ‘And I’ll remind you, for the last time, that I’m not English. I’m Scottish.’
‘I’m sorry. I think it is like calling a Basque person Spanish, no? I did not mean to insult you.’
‘I’ve been called much worse, believe me. Are you from the area, then? I hope I’ve not insulted you by speaking Spanish. I’m afraid the only words I have in Basque I would not utter in front of a lady.’
The word was like a touchpaper to her. ‘I am not a lady. I am a soldier. I may not wear a military uniform like my brother, but I, too, am fighting for the freedom of my country, Major Urka—Urko—Major Finlay.’
‘By heavens, you’ve some temper on you. I’ve clearly touched a raw nerve there.’
‘You have not, I am merely pointing out...’
He picked up one of her hands, which was curled into a very tight fist, and forced it open. She tried to resist but it was a pointless exercise; his big calloused hand had the strength of ten of hers. It was only when he let her go that she realised he could easily have hurt her, and had taken good care not to. Was he being chivalrous? Patronising? Was he showing her, tacitly, that a man was better, stronger than a woman? Why was it always so complicated? And why, despite his show of strength—or muted show of strength—did she feel no fear? She was alone in the dark of night with a complete stranger. A man who could overpower her and force himself on her if he wanted to. Her hand slid to her holster, though it was rather because she knew she ought to do so than because she thought she needed to.
‘I won’t harm you.’ He was looking pointedly at her hand. ‘You have my word. I have never in my life forced myself on a woman.’
He would have no need. And even though she knew, as everyone knew after being so long at war, what many soldiers did to women in the aftermath of battle, she could not imagine that this man would. There had been a grimness in his voice when he’d warned her about the French soldiers; it spoke of experiences he would rather forget. But then everyone involved in this struggle, including her, shared those.
Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘I believe you,’ she said, realising that Finlay was still waiting on an answer.
‘Good.’
His tone was curt, though he should be grateful for her trust. And she did trust him, which was extremely surprising and, little did he know it, very flattering. She glanced at him, as he sat, eyes closed, head thrown back, resting on his elbows. He did not look like the poor son of a farmer. He did not look like a peacock officer, either, and while he certainly didn’t have the hands of a gentleman, he had the manners of one. No, that was not fair. He had not treated her as a fragile flower with no mind. He had treated her with respect, and she liked that. He would be a popular officer, she was willing to bet, and those were few and far between, if her brother was to be believed. She tried to imagine her brother wearing that skirt—kilt. He would look like a girl, while this man—no, there was nothing at all feminine about this man.
‘Once again, lass, I’d give a lot to know what’s going on in that head of yours.’
Caught staring, Isabella looked hurriedly away. ‘I was thinking that you must be a very good soldier, to have become a major.’
Finlay laughed. ‘That is a matter of opinion. Being a good soldier and a good officer don’t necessarily go hand in hand. It’s taken me a great deal more time and effort than most to get to where I am. As you said yourself, Wellington is not at all keen on the idea of commoners rising through the ranks.’
‘In that, I think the Spanish and the English— British armies are the same,’ Isabella said. ‘Before the war, most of the officers were more concerned with the shine of their boots than the fact that some of their men had no boots at all. Things will be different when we have won our country back from the French.’
‘You speak with conviction. It is not over yet.’
‘No, but when it is...’
‘Oh, when it is we can but hope that the world will turn in a different direction,’ Finlay replied. ‘Maybe they’ll even allow women soldiers,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Though if you asked me to tell the truth, I’d say that right now, the army is no fit life for anyone, man or woman. We’ve been fighting too hard for too long, and all we want is for it to be over.’
‘That is all my people desire, too.’
‘Aye, you’re in the right of it. You must be desperate to see the back of all of us.’
‘If you mean that we want you to go home...’
‘To have your country back.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your life.’
‘Yes,’ Isabella said again, though with less certainty.
‘Provided that it doesn’t go back to exactly how it was before, eh?’ Finlay said, as if he had read her mind. ‘Now that you’ve had a wee—a small taste of freedom?’
‘Yes.’ Isabella smiled. ‘A wee taste of freedom,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And you, too, you will be able to go back to your father’s farm in Scotland, and see all your loved ones. You will like that?’
‘I will look forward to it,’ he said, after a moment, sounding, to her surprise, as hesitant as she had.
‘You do not wish to see your family?’
‘Oh, aye, only I don’t—ach, no point in talking about that. The war’s not over yet. Once we’ve kicked the French out of Spain, we’ll like as not have to chase them across France for a while. Which leads me back to that cache of arms.’ He sat up, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘Look, you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but these are unusual circumstances we find ourselves in. We can’t allow the French to turn those guns on either of us, and I can make sure that they don’t. Have I your assurance that the local rebel forces won’t interfere and queer the pitch?’
‘I don’t know what that means, but regardless, I think it would be much better to leave it in our hands,’ Isabella said firmly. ‘We will put the arms to good use, and—and it would be excellent for morale and quite a coup if we were successful.’
Finlay pressed his fingertips together, frowning down at his hands. ‘I’ll be frank with you. I would quite happily agree to what you suggest if I could only be sure that the mission would be successfully accomplished. You understand, much as I’d like to, I can’t just simply take your word for it.’
She bit back her instinctive retort, frowning now herself. ‘If I told you that the information I have gathered tonight would go direct to El Fantasma, would that be enough to convince you?’
‘You know El Fantasma?’
Isabella nodded.
Finlay looked unconvinced. ‘He is like his name, a ghost. Everyone has heard of him, nobody knows him.’
‘I do,’ she said firmly. ‘At least, I know how to get in touch with him.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I cannot. I can only give you my word.’ She spoke proudly, held his gaze without blinking and was rewarded, finally, with a small nod of affirmation.
‘You have three days to act. If I don’t receive word that you have been successful by then, I’ll send my own men in to finish the job.’
‘Thank you. You can be sure that word will be sent to you before the three days are up.’
He took the hand she held out, enveloping it in his own. ‘You don’t ask where to send word.’
With a smile of satisfaction, she told him exactly where his men were encamped. ‘One of our men will find you.’
‘I’m beginning to think they will.’ He still had her hand in hers, but instead of shaking it as she had seen Englishmen do, he once again bent his head and brushed her fingertips with his lips. ‘We have an agreement, then,’ he said.
Once again, the touch of his lips on her skin gave her shivers. Isabella snatched her hand away. ‘We have indeed,’ she said quickly.
She had what she wanted; she was free to leave. Reluctantly, she made to get to her feet, but the Scotsman’s hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Stay until it’s light, won’t you? It’s not safe for me to leave before then. Unlike you, I don’t know the terrain. Also, it’s been a while since I’ve had the company of a woman. It would be good to talk of something other than guns and field positions.’
‘You think I cannot?’
‘Why in the name of Hades are you so prickly? I’m not one of those men who think women have no mind of their own. If you met my mother, you’d know why.’ He turned to look at her, his gaze disconcertingly direct. ‘As to you women being the weaker sex—if ever I thought that, just seeing what the wives following the drum have to endure would change my mind. They have to be every bit as tough as their menfolk. Tougher, in some cases, when they have bairns with them. Though I’d be lying, mind, if I said I thought it was an appropriate life for them.’
He broke off, giving himself a little shake. ‘Ach, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rant at you. If you want to talk guns and tactics, then that’s what we’ll talk. Only indulge me with a few hours of your company, and grant me the pleasure of looking on your bonny face, for it will be a while, I reckon, until I get the chance to do either again.’
His smile was beguiling. The look he gave her neither contrite nor beseeching, but—charming? He was not a man accustomed to being refused. On principle, she should refuse, but she was rather sick of principles, and what, after all, was the harm in allowing herself to be charmed for such a very short while?
Isabella permitted herself to smile back. ‘I do not think a man like you has any trouble at all in finding female company.’
He laughed again, showing her a set of very white teeth, shifting on the ground, giving her a brief, shockingly tantalising glance of a muscled thigh as he did so. ‘The trouble is, I’m a bit fussy about the female company I choose,’ he said. ‘I prefer to get to know a woman before I—before— What I mean is, I’ve a taste for conversation that I’ve not recently been able to indulge. Now, that makes me sound like I’m right up my own ar— I mean, like a right fop, and I’m not that.’
Isabella chuckled. ‘I am not exactly sure what this fop is, but I am very sure it is not a label that fits you.’
‘What I mean is, I like the company of women for their own sake.’
‘And I think that women like the company of Major Urk—of Finlay.’
‘Right now there’s only one woman’s company I’m interested in. Will you stay a few hours, Isabella?’
Why not? Her father would cover for her absence if necessary, but likely she’d be back in her bed before anyone noticed it had not been slept in. What harm could it do to indulge this man with a few hours’ conversation? The fact that he had a beguiling smile and a handsome face and a very fine pair of legs had nothing to do with it. ‘Why not?’
He smiled. ‘Tell me a bit about yourself, then. Are you from these parts?’
‘Hermoso Romero. It’s not far from here. We have— My family has some land.’
‘So they’re farmers, peasant stock as you call it, just like mine?’
‘They live off the land, yes.’
‘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.
