The Soldier's Rebel Lover

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...

He kissed her. His lips touched hers with the softness of a whisper. She closed her eyes and stepped forward into his embrace. A hand slid around her waist, another cupped her cheek. His kiss was so gentle, she hardly dared move lest he break it. His mouth was warm on hers. It felt odd, different, in the nicest way possible. She angled her head. She slid her arm around him. He gave a tiny sigh and pulled her closer and kissed her again. Not so gently, but still carefully.

She had never been kissed like this before. She let him coax her mouth open. It didn’t cross her mind that her ignorance would betray her or make her seem foolish; she thought only that she wanted to kiss him back, and so she did. His fingers curled into her hair. Her fingers curled into his coat. She could feel the hardness of his body against hers. He was so much bigger than her, but it didn’t make her feel weak. He felt so warm; she felt so secure against the solid bulk of him. He was making her feel very hot. His tongue touched hers, and she leaped back in astonishment.

He cursed. At least it sounded like a curse, though the language was foreign to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, raking his hand through his hair again. ‘I didn’t realise...’

Isabella flushed with mortification. He would think her a child. ‘Please,’ she said, turning away, ‘let us forget about it.’

Any other man would be happy to do exactly what she asked, to spare himself the embarrassment of an apology if nothing else. This man, she ought to have remembered, was not like any other man. He caught her arm, pulling her back to face him. ‘I am truly sorry. I went too far, and mistook your experience.’

Isabella was too proud to look at the ground, and she could not bear pity. ‘No, you mistook my enjoyment,’ she said, giving him a haughty look. ‘I think it is not always true that good things come to those who wait.’

For a split second, he looked as if she had slapped him and then, to her astonishment, he burst out laughing. ‘That’s me told, then. I must be more out of practice than I realised.’

‘I do not think a man like you lacks women to—to practise on.’

‘Now that, señorita, was quite uncalled for. I remember quite clearly that one of the things I told you that night was that I’m not the kind of man who has a taste for kissing any and every available woman. Not that it’s any of your business, but in the two years since last we met, there has been only one woman in my life, and that fleeting affaire ended in Brussels nearly four months ago.’

There was not a trace of humour in his voice now. He released her, taking several paces back. The look he gave her would be quite intimidating if she was the kind of woman to allow herself to be intimidated. The kind of woman she pretended to be. But Isabella was beyond playing such a part for now. ‘Your women—or your lack of women—are none of my business,’ she said, anxious more than anything to close the subject.

But the Scotsman seemed determined to prolong it. ‘No, they are not, save that I wouldn’t have kissed you if there had been any woman in my life, and I would sure as hell have stopped kissing you if you’d given me the least bit of an idea that you didn’t want me to. I told you—another thing I remember telling you very clearly—that I never, ever force myself on a woman.’

He was angry, though he was trying very hard not to show it. She had to acknowledge that he had a right. ‘I’m sorry.’ Isabella closed her eyes. ‘You were right. I have not... I lack—I lack the experience you attributed to me. I’m sorry. It was my fault, not yours.’

* * *

She was blushing. It had cost her dear, that admission, and she shouldn’t have been forced to make it. His anger dissipated like melting snow. Finlay touched her cheek gently. Her eyes fluttered open. ‘No, you are too generous. It was my fault. I got carried away, and forgot that you are not the woman I spent the night with two years ago, but a lady whose innocence I quite forgot to take account of. Will you forgive me?’

‘There is nothing to forgive.’

‘I took advantage. Your brother...’

Her big almond-shaped eyes flashed at him. ‘Do not bring Xavier into this. Who I choose to kiss or not to kiss has nothing to do with my brother.’

Finlay was pretty sure that Xavier held a very different opinion on the subject. And he was, on reflection, pretty certain that an innocent like Isabella should not be choosing to kiss any man until she was betrothed. That she was an innocent, after that kiss there could be no doubt, but he was struggling to reconcile the lady who claimed to be feart of offending her brother with the one who crept about behind enemy lines brandishing a gun.

They came to the end of the cypress walk. ‘I will leave you here,’ Isabella said. ‘I hope that we have an understanding between us now?’

‘I believe we do,’ Finlay said with a smile he hoped was reassuring. He believed quite the contrary, but what to do about it, he needed to consider. He watched her go, standing in the shadow of one of the tall trees. She walked with the long, graceful stride he remembered until she came within sight of the house, when she stopped abruptly, looking up at one of the windows. When she resumed, her walk had that slow, floating grace that made her look as if she was gliding. He could tell from the line of her neck that her gaze was demurely lowered.

Was she playing the part of a lady for whoever was watching, or had she played the part of the feisty partisan to keep Finlay sweet—and quiet? Had she kissed him for the same reason? Had he initiated the kiss or she? He could remember only that he had wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted to kiss any woman for quite some time. Had she pretended to enjoy it as much as he had?

He cursed in Gaelic under his breath. ‘Kisses are not the point here,’ he told himself. ‘Forget the kisses and concentrate on what you came here for. You need to get her to give you the information you need, or decide she’s not going to, in which case you will need to rethink your strategy.’

Consulting his pocket watch, he cursed again. Señor Romero would be waiting to take him on the promised tour of the vineyards, a prospect Finlay was far from relishing, not least for fear of betraying his own ignorance. It was such a waste of time, too, and he had no idea how much time he had if he was to beat the Spanish to El Fantasma. It would be much more constructive to spend the time with Isabella. Much more constructive, and considerably more appealing, Finlay thought, shuddering as he anticipated long hours of Xavier’s obsequious condescension. He had to find a way of swapping the brother for the sister after today. It would be a challenge, but Finlay relished a challenge.

* * *

Isabella sat in the shade of a tree while her horse drank from a small stream. Taking advantage of the fact that Xavier was too engrossed in showing the Scotsman around the estate to wonder what his sister was doing, she had ridden out without an escort. She was hot and tired, but the tension she had hoped to work off was, if anything, aggravated.

She had to clear her head. She had to try to think straight. Take a step back. Gain perspective. Something. Isabella got to her feet and pulled off the long boots and stockings she wore under her riding habit. Picking up her skirts, she scrabbled down the banks into the stream, gasping as the icy water that tumbled down from the mountains caressed her skin.

It was painful and exhilarating at the same time. It struck her as pathetic that she was reduced to obtaining pleasure from paddling in a mountain stream. When Finlay Urquhart had kissed her this morning, it had been just like this, only more. Who would have thought that a man’s lips could have such an effect? She had felt wild, locked in his embrace. She had felt strangely free.

But what a stupid mess she had made of it afterwards. Isabella waded over to a large boulder in the middle of the burbling water and sat down, tilting her face up to the sun. Gabriel had never attempted to kiss her. Was it because it would be improper until they were betrothed, or because he did not want to? She tried to imagine kissing Gabriel, but instead of his dark good looks, she could picture only the Scotsman’s fascinating blue eyes, his wicked smile, the glint of his auburn hair. There was a recklessness about him that had appealed to her that night they had spent together two years ago. It still appealed.

Xavier would be utterly furious if he knew that his sister had been kissing a mere wine merchant. Isabella laughed, but her smile faded almost immediately. She had behaved shockingly. She had spoken much too freely. But, oh, it had been so good to do so. For long moments, she had been herself with the Scotsman. It had been a relief not to pretend that the Isabella he’d met before had never existed. It had felt so good. She longed to be that woman again, just for a little while. She would like to spend more time in his company, to cross conversational swords with him. He spoke to her as if she had a mind of her own. It made her realise, sadly, that almost no other man of her acquaintance did, save those she knew from the war, and they were now in a minority of one.

Had she been rash? He had given her his word not to betray her. He had given her his word once before, and kept it. Major Finlay Urquhart had been an honourable man. Was there such a thing as an honourable wine merchant? The incongruity of his choice of profession struck her anew. He was a man of action. A man who had taken on the task of surveillance himself when he could surely have sent one of his men. Just as she had. A man who liked to make his own decisions. Just as she did. Not a man who would relish haggling over the price of a hogshead of wine, caught in the middle between supplier and buyer, she would have thought. The man she had met that fateful night and the man he appeared to be now seemed almost incompatible. There was something about Mr Finlay Urquhart, wine merchant to the gentry, that did not quite ring true.

Sliding down from the boulder, Isabella picked her way over the slippery stones back to the shore, pulling her stockings and boots on over her numbed feet. She ought not to be wasting time thinking about a man who would be walking out of her life for good in a few days. She ought to be considering her own future.

Could she really contemplate becoming Señora Gabriel Torres? She tried to imagine spending her days engaged in domestic pursuits. It was not the housekeeping or the children that she rebelled against; it was not even surrendering herself to the care of a man, for in the eyes of the law, she was Xavier’s property until he gave her up. What appalled her the most was the surrender of her mind. She would not be expected to think beyond what to put on the table for dinner. Her opinions would not be consulted. She would not be permitted to discuss politics or business. What was it the Scotsman had said this morning? Embroidery and knitting. Isabella had always taken perverse pride in being very bad at both. She was not about to learn now.

Yet she must marry, for Xavier was set on it, and he could make her continued presence in his house unpleasant. Gabriel was rich, he was handsome, he was popular, she reminded herself. He was an excellent match.

‘And at my great age, I cannot expect to do better, according to my brother,’ she said to herself as she prepared to mount her horse. ‘Loath as I am to admit it, Xavier is right. If I do not accept Gabriel soon, he will find someone else, and then where will I be? Better the devil you know, perhaps?’

She settled her skirts around her, thinking as she always did, how much she missed the freedom of riding astride in breeches. As the wife of Gabriel Torres, there would be no question of her ever doing that again. Exasperated, she dismissed the question of her future. Right now, she had a contradictory, disconcertingly attractive Scotsman to deal with. Really, for Xavier’s sake she needed to ensure that he was what he claimed to be, and if that meant spending more time in his company, so be it. Having happily reconciled her inclination with her duty, Isabella tapped her heels lightly against her horse’s flank and headed in the direction of home.

* * *

It had been, as Finlay had predicted it would be, a long and tedious day. He had not thought anyone could discourse at such length on the subject of viticulture, but Xavier Romero seemed to be tireless. His passion for all things Rioja led him to expound at length on soil types, grape varieties, vine diseases, pest control, pruning methods, harvesting methods and the weather, from frost, to hail, to sun and humidity. Fortunately, his enthusiasm was second only to his love of his own voice. Finlay had contributed very little to the conversation, if such it could be called. His head, however, was throbbing as if they had drunk six bottles of Rioja when in fact the only thing they hadn’t done was sample the blasted stuff.

They were quitting the stables when Señorita Romero arrived. Alone, and on horseback, when she saw her brother, she could not disguise her dismay. ‘Xavier, I thought you would still be out with Mr Urquhart.’

‘Where is your groom?’

‘He was busy elsewhere. I am quite capable of saddling a horse and going for a ride.’

Her tone was mild, though Finlay thought he saw a flash of anger in her eyes. She dismounted with a rustle of her skirts, and a tantalising glimpse of leather riding boots. How long were they? he wondered, momentarily distracted. Did they stretch to her knee, or higher still?

Xavier clicked his fingers to summon a stable hand. Isabella handed over her reins to the boy with a friendly smile. Her brother however, was not happy. ‘I have told you several times that it is most improper for a sister of mine to ride about the countryside without an escort.’

‘I have been riding about this countryside all my life. Everyone knows me, I know everyone. Papa never insisted I take a groom.’

‘Our father was far too lenient with you. Besides, it is I who is now custodian of Hermoso Romero,’ her brother replied stiffly. ‘Your reputation is a reflection on me. It will be said that I cannot take care of my own sister, if you are seen out alone. It will be said that I do not treat her with respect.’

‘Then, you can reply that you trust me to be on my own. That is treating me with respect. That is what Papa would say.’

Romero seemed with difficulty to control his temper. For some reason, Finlay noticed with interest, the subject was a sore point with him. ‘Our father is dead,’ he said, speaking sharply to his sister. ‘It is clear to me that you have been completely overindulged. I do not envy Gabriel the schooling of you.’

There was no mistaking the flash in the señorita’s golden eyes at this remark, though she clasped her hands tightly round her riding crop and did not rise to the bait. Finlay however, who had been standing quietly to one side, could not resist. ‘She is not a child, Romero.’

‘She is a woman. It is almost the same thing,’ the other man snapped. ‘Excuse me, but this is none of your concern, Mr Urkarty.’

‘I beg your pardon, señor.’ Finlay spoke through clenched teeth, although his smile was conciliatory—he hoped. ‘Señorita Romero strikes me as a most competent horsewoman.’

‘Naturally. It is in her blood.’

The arrogance of the man! ‘And she has, I understand, been accustomed to riding out alone while your father was alive, without damaging her reputation?’

‘That is not the point, Mr Urkarty.’

‘No, Señor Romero, you are quite right, it is not. The point is to choose your battles more carefully. I have three sisters of my own, and so speak from experience. A little leeway in small matters will buy you a great deal of credit when it comes to the larger ones.’

Romero’s temper hung in the balance for a few moments. The man was not accustomed to being contradicted, that was for certain. Finlay shot a warning glance at the object of their conversation, but her eyes were fixed firmly on her boots. Unlike her brother, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Finally, Romero spoke. ‘Three sisters,’ he said with a smile every bit as forced as Finlay’s. ‘I confess, I don’t envy you that. Perhaps it is because I have only the one that I am overprotective. Very well, I will take your advice, Mr Urkety. Provided she confines herself to our estate, I do not see why—you see Isabella, how magnanimous I can be.’

‘I— Thank you, Xavier.’

Her brother, however, was distracted by the return of his stable hand carrying a note. Señorita Romero turned to Finlay. ‘I must thank you, too, Mr Urquhart,’ she said softly. ‘Every time I am permitted to slip my leash a little, I will think of you.’

Her smile was demure, but her eyes were stormy. ‘If it was in my power I would cut your leash completely,’ Finlay replied. ‘You know, I...’

An exclamation from Romero made them both turn around. ‘It is Estebe, who is in charge of the winery. The man has fallen from a tree, would you believe.’

‘Oh, no, Xavier, is he badly injured?’

Romero frowned. ‘A broken leg. It is very inconvenient, for I had intended he take Mr Urkety on a tour of the cellars tomorrow. I have urgent business elsewhere, which I am loath to cancel, but...’

‘Cannot Señorita Romero escort me instead?’ Finlay asked.

‘Oh, yes, please allow me to take Estebe’s place,’ Isabella urged. ‘While you were at war, while Papa’s health was failing, I helped Estebe a great deal. Of course I know that compared to you and Estebe, I am a mere novice, but I do know the history of our home and of the wine, and I am sure that is something Mr Urquhart will wish to be able to impart to his customers.’

Romero pursed his lips. ‘It would be most irregular.’

‘Aye, but your sister speaks the truth,’ Finlay corroborated, masking his surprise. ‘My customers like to know a bit about the background and provenance of the wines they are being asked to pay a pretty penny for. And I would hate to deflect you from important business.’

‘Very well. Yes, when you put it that way.’ Romero smiled thinly at his sister. ‘Another favour granted, Isabella. I hope you are keeping count. You may supervise some tastings, brief Mr Urkety on the history, perhaps even compile some notes for him. She writes a fair enough hand, Mr Urkety, I will grant her that. And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the house. I will see you both at dinner.’

Señorita Romero watched him go before turning to Finlay. ‘If I was not cursed with the brain of a mere woman, I would suspect you of very manipulative behaviour, Mr Urquhart.’

‘Ach, now, I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘How would you put it?’

‘Now, there, you see, you’ve put me on the spot, for if I was to confess that your brother’s company is not nearly as appealing to me as yours, you would likely accuse me of being condescending rather than manipulative. But don’t, I beg you, try to pull the wool over my eyes.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Urquhart?’

‘It’s Finlay.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he caught her hand and pulled her into the shelter of the stable door, out of sight of prying eyes. ‘I can understand why you don’t want your brother to know anything about your past. I have promised to keep that between us, and I keep my promises. But what I don’t understand, my fair former partisan, is why you’re so determined to hide your true self behind a demure facade. What are you trying to conceal?’

If he had not been watching her so closely he would have missed the flicker of fear in her eyes. It was quickly masked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Urquhart.’

‘Finlay.’

She closed the distance between them to whisper in his ear, ‘I am not concealing anything, Finlay. I assure you.’

‘No?’ Her hair tickled his cheek. Her smile was beguiling. Her eyes gleamed. Not a trace of the demure lady now; this woman made his blood heat. She made him lose his train of thought, distracting him with the proximity of that mouth, the memory of that kiss this morning.

But this was business, life-and-death business, not pleasure. He stepped away from temptation. ‘As my friend Jack is wont to say, “I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”’