The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Chapter Five

Consuela placed the letter she had received on the breakfast table and poured herself a cup of chocolate. ‘It is a brief note from Xavier. Unfortunately he will be detained in Pamplona for a further few days. Isabella, he asks that you ensure Mr Urquhart is given a comprehensive tour of all aspects of the work of the estate. To that end, you are to take him to visit Estebe, the head winemaker, and—but here, you may as well read it for yourself.’ Consuela pushed the letter across the table.

Isabella took the letter, raising her brows at the list of tasks her brother had compiled for her. Necessity and greed had forced Xavier into trusting her with an important task. Though not enough to actually write to her himself.

‘Mr Urquhart is tardy this morning,’ Consuela said, eyeing the clock.

Isabella, who had been anxiously thinking the same thing, began to rearrange the bread on her plate. ‘You like our foreign guest, don’t you?’

Consuela bristled slightly. ‘I hope you are not implying that my behaviour has been improper in any way?’

‘Not at all. Only that he is very handsome and extremely charming. All women like him, I think. Even I do.’ Though I am fairly certain he is a fraud and not who he purports to be. The butterflies in her tummy started beating their wings again. She wished that there was another conclusion, but once again decided there was not.

‘Isabella, you know that it would not be appropriate, or wise, to grow to like this man too much? He is charming, but he is a wine merchant. You think I am empty-headed. I know you do, because you never discuss anything of any import with me save my son, and...’

‘Consuela, I...’

‘No, let me speak for once. You think that because I say nothing I don’t see what’s happening under my nose, but I do. The way you look at Mr Urquhart... You have never looked at Gabriel like that.’

‘Gabriel has never looked at me the way Mr Urquhart does.’

Consuela, to her surprise, giggled. ‘Mr Urquhart looks at you as if he would like to have you for his dinner. I think that it would be very nice, to be Mr Urquhart’s dinner, to be devoured by him.’

‘What on earth can you mean by that?’

Her sister-in-law gave her a coy look. ‘You must trust me on that, and you must wait to find out for yourself when you are married. You are going to marry Gabriel, aren’t you?’

‘Everyone seems to expect it, but my feelings for him are tepid at best, since we are being frank.’

Consuela rolled her eyes. ‘I forget you have no mother to guide you. I will tell you, then, what my mother told me. Love blossoms after marriage, not before. It is perfectly natural, when you think about it. Until a woman truly knows her husband, as his wife, she can have no reason to love him any more than she loves any other suitor.’

‘Do you love Xavier?’

Consuela looked surprised. ‘But of course. He is my husband. It happened just as my mother predicted. She is never wrong. It will happen to you, too, when you marry Gabriel.’

Love was not a subject to which Isabella had given much consideration, and it was not one that much interested her, either. Consuela’s persistence, though, made one thing clear that had not occurred to Isabella before. ‘It would suit you for me to be married off and gone from Hermoso Romero, wouldn’t it? I am sorry. I have endeavoured not to interfere in the running of your household since you arrived as Xavier’s bride two years ago. I have been at pains to give you your place, but you must appreciate that I have been de facto mistress of Hermoso Romero for many years.’

‘I do understand that, and I assure you, it is not a big problem for me. I don’t dislike you. I don’t see you as a threat, Isabella, though I know you think I do. Xavier thinks that because you are his sister and I am his wife, that you should also be my sister. But you’re not,’ Consuela said simply. ‘The truth is I would love my real sister to come here to live, but while you are here Xavier will not countenance it. So for that reason, you understand, your presence is—inconvenient.’

‘Oh.’ Isabella felt like a fool. She also felt—rejected. ‘I had no idea.’

‘You have never asked. I am very relieved that you have broached the subject now.’

Mortified, she remembered that Finlay had hinted she do so. What a fool she had been. ‘Yes. I see.’ Isabella smiled weakly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It is easily remedied. Gabriel Torres is waiting only for a sign from you and he will propose. I am glad we have cleared the air. And now here is Mr Urquhart at last.’ Consuela rose from the table. ‘I have had a letter from my husband. Isabella will explain. You must excuse me. I promised to take my son for a drive in the carriage today.’

The door closed on a swish of silken skirts. ‘My sister-in-law has just informed me that I am to marry Gabriel in order to allow her sister to come and live here in my place,’ Isabella said dully. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘I did, yes. I’m sorry.’

‘There is no need. At least now I understand my position.’

‘It’s a damned unfair one. This has been your home much longer that it’s been hers.’

Her own thoughts exactly. Hearing them expressed aloud made Isabella feel marginally better. Finlay had poured himself a cup of coffee, though he had not sat down. He had a tiny nick on his chin, a cut from shaving. There was a rebellious kink of hair standing up like a question mark at his hairline. It was oddly endearing. He was wearing buckskin breeches and top boots. She wondered if his legs had lost their tan. Looking up, she caught his eye. ‘Do you miss wearing your kilt?’ she asked.

‘In London, it caused more bother than it was worth. Ladies either found it indecent or intriguing. A fair few found it to be both. I was never quite sure whether it was indecently intriguing or intriguingly indecent! Do you miss wearing your breeches?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Isabella smiled faintly. ‘In Spain, we pretend that ladies do not have legs, you know.’

Finlay laughed. ‘It is no different for ladies in England.’

‘You seem to know a lot about English ladies and fashion, unless you were inventing it for Consuela’s benefit.’

‘I’ve been to my fair share of balls and formal dinners.’

‘Do you know the steps to this new dance, the waltz? Xavier thinks it is too shocking to be danced in polite society.’

‘I reckon I could teach you. Do you want to be shocked, Isabella?’

She began to rearrange the untouched bread on her plate again. ‘Your turning up here is quite shocking enough. Since you left the army, though, you will have had little time for balls and parties, I would imagine, while building your business. All work and no play, as the saying goes.’

Silence fell. Finlay poured another cup of coffee, but still did not sit down. He was waiting for her to speak. A knot formed in her stomach. ‘I have something...’ Isabella cleared her throat. ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

‘I agree, we do.’

‘Finlay, I do not profess to know why you are here, but it is of a certainty not to purchase wine.’

‘No, I’m not.’ He finished his coffee in one gulp. ‘Take a walk with me, and I’ll tell you the real reason I am here.’

* * *

Isabella had pulled a fringed shawl around her shoulders. Her gown was simple but elegant, the plain white material relieved by a bold pattern of what looked to be strawberries running around the hem and diagonally across the skirt. The high waist suited her tall, slim figure. Her feet were clad not in the delicate slippers favoured by her sister-in-law, but in much more sturdy and practical boots. She kept pace easily at his side as they walked, despite her narrow skirts. There were gold highlights in her hair, sparked to life by the weak winter sunshine. The cold morning air caught in his lungs, their breath visible as they continued on their way.

On balance, Finlay had come to the conclusion overnight that Isabella would not betray him. He had pondered the possibility of inventing another story to fob her off for a few more days, but quickly abandoned that idea. Though he disliked Xavier Romero, Finlay disliked the lies he was obliged to tell the man even more, the false expectations he was raising.

But lying to Isabella... That was a whole different kettle of fish. There had existed, from the very first time they had met, an unmistakable spark between them that he, for one, had never experienced before. It went against the grain with him not to be straight with her, though he was fairly certain she was doing a fair bit of dissembling herself. If she was, as he hoped, merely protecting his quarry, he could not blame her for that. In fact, it was a rather admirable display of loyalty.

He led the way past the chapel, along the cypress tree walk and out onto a path that climbed between the serried ranks of vines to an ancient wooden bench with a panoramic view out over the estate. Isabella did not speak as they snaked their way up the hillside. He sensed her tension as they sat down, saw it in the rigid way she held herself, her hands clasped together under her shawl.

‘Right, then,’ Finlay said. ‘I’ll speak first and save you the trouble of asking. I’m not a wine merchant. In fact, I’m still a soldier, same as I’ve always been.’

Isabella jumped to her feet. ‘So everything you have told me has been a lie?’

‘No! Not all. My family, the croft, all that is true.’

‘But you did not leave the army when Napoleon was sent to Elba? You presumably fought at Waterloo, then?’

‘Aye.’ He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back onto the bench. ‘Who I fought and when are beside the point. Listen to me now, because it’s vitally important. Lives are at stake here, including my own if things go badly. I had no option but to lie to you until I knew whether or not I could trust you. It’s been two years since we met after all, and a lot can change in two years. When I arrived here, I wasn’t even certain that I’d be able to find you.’

‘Find me? You mean you came here looking for me?’

Finlay grinned. ‘I came looking for a wee peasant lassie, and there you were in that fine white lace mantilla and that silk gown, not only a lady, but the sister of the estate owner. I couldn’t believe it. I damn near panicked, I can tell you.’

‘You hid it very well,’ Isabella responded tartly. ‘Unlike me.’

‘Aye, that was one of the things that set me off wondering about you from the first, but then when you explained about your brother, and I could see for myself he was no friend of the liberal cause, I thought that was the cause of your panic. But the real Isabella kept popping through the lady’s demure facade that you have clearly donned since the end of the war. I am hoping I’m not the only one who is not what he appears. In fact, I am staking quite a lot on it.’

‘Why?’ she asked baldly.

‘You told me once that you knew how to get in touch with a partisan known as El Fantasma, in order to convince me that the partisans be allowed to attack a French arms cache. The fact that they succeeded proves to me that your claim was genuine. El Fantasma is clearly known to you.’ He felt her flinch at the name, and though she said nothing, it was enough. ‘Isabella, the man is in deep trouble. I think you know where he might be found. I think you might still be involved in some way with his cause. I need you to take me to him.’

‘Take you to him?’ she repeated blankly.

‘To El Fantasma. His life is at risk.’

‘For El Fantasma there are always risks.’ Isabella waved her hand dismissively. ‘You think he cares about that?’

‘Frankly, he’d be a fool not to care. There’s bravery and then there’s sheer recklessness.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Perhaps he thinks that the cause he fights for is more important than anything else.’

‘More important even than his life?’ Finlay snapped. ‘Isabella, the British government believe that your Spanish government are determined to track him down, and the net is closing around him. I’m here to prevent that happening.’

‘What!’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘You cannot mean—are you saying that you have been sent here to rescue El Fantasma?’

‘That’s the gist of it.’

‘You don’t think that’s incredibly presumptuous? I am very sure he neither wants nor needs to be rescued.’

He shook his head, taken aback by her vehemence. ‘How can you be so certain?’

Isabella bit her lip, eyeing him speculatively, then gave a little shrug, followed by an enigmatic smile. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘I am El Fantasma.’

* * *

It took Finlay a full minute to unscramble his reeling senses before he could muster a response. ‘You are The Ghost? You are El Fantasma? By all that is— I can’t believe it.’

‘No,’ she said, drawing him an arch look, ‘you did not for a moment consider it could be me, did you?’

‘Not for a single second,’ he admitted frankly. She was beaming at him now, her golden eyes shining with a mixture of pride and glee. Finlay burst into laughter. It was ridiculous, outrageous, fantastical, though in a way it made an awful lot of sense. ‘Good Lord, does that brother of yours know?’ he asked.

Isabella tossed her head. ‘Of course not. No one knows, save for my deputy, Estebe.’

‘Estebe! By all that is...’ Finlay cursed under his breath.

‘Estebe himself has four deputies, though they do not know each other, of course, and below that—but you know how partisan groups are structured to protect anonymity and preserve security, I think. Estebe helps me with the printing press we use to publish our propaganda pamphlets. It is...’

‘Hidden in the winery cellars.’ Finlay finished for her as the pieces began to tumble into place.

Isabella’s smile faded. ‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t, but it’s obvious now that I—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Have you any idea how dangerous a game you’re playing?’

‘It is not a game, and I am not stupid. Of course I know it is dangerous, but what does that matter, when we have so much at stake?’

‘Aye, such as the lives of your family. Your brother. For God’s sake, Isabella, that printing press in his cellar— If it was discovered...’

‘It will not be.’ Her voice hardened. ‘You do not understand, Finlay. We are fighting for our future.’

‘I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. What I’m trying to tell you is that if you carry on, you’ll have no future.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘If we stop, if we give up, the future will not be worth having! We sacrificed so much during the war—has it to be for nothing? We must fight on, if not with guns, then with words. Those in power do not want to hear what we have to say, but we will continue to say it until they listen.’

She spoke with such conviction, such passion, that he was momentarily disarmed. He could not doubt her claim to be the infamous partisan, but however inspiring she was, it was her very idealism that worried him, for it made her quite reckless and completely, misguidedly without fear. He’d seen far too many brave men slaughtered. A dose of healthy fear was essential to survival, in his book—not that he’d admit to it himself, mind.

‘I’m not doubting your sincerity, or indeed your cause,’ Finlay said, choosing his words carefully, eager not to estrange her further.

‘I am glad to hear that.’

‘Aye, but this government of yours, the men in Madrid who wield the power here in Spain, to put it bluntly, the louder you shout, the more determined they will be to shut you up.’

Isabella tossed her head again. ‘Do you not see, the very fact that they wish to do so is evidence of El Fantasma’s success? As the voice of protest grows, so, too, does our power to change things. We will force them to listen, Finlay. We will force them to act.’ She caught at his jacket sleeve, giving his arm a shake to emphasise her point. ‘Yes, it is dangerous because we say what they do not want to hear, but how much more dangerous would it be to remain silent?’

Silent was what she would be, as the grave, if she was not careful, but she looked so magnificent standing there, a fervent light in her eyes, a flush on her cheeks, a proud smile on her delightful lips, that Finlay found himself quite torn. She was so sure she was right, and he was equally certain she was wrong, but he could not bring himself to destroy her illusions. Not yet.

‘You’re a very brave lass. I still can’t quite believe that you are The Ghost,’ he said. Here he’d been, thinking the hard part of his mission was going to be tracking El Fantasma down, but the really tricky thing was going to be persuading her to come away with him. The irony of it, the sheer unlikelihood of it, made him shake his hand, marvelling at this twist of fate. Isabella was still clutching at his jacket. Finlay took her hand between his, fascinated by the slenderness of it, how delicate it looked in his own rough paw. ‘I’m still struggling to take it in,’ he said ruefully.

She chuckled. ‘We are neither of us what we appear to be, it seems.’

‘That’s for certain.’

‘And now we can stop pretending.’

‘That is very true,’ he said, much struck by this. He smiled, revelling in the simple pleasure of looking at her for the first time without any barricades or withheld secrets between them. ‘You do know,’ he said, ‘that I haven’t been pretending all the time. I did not pretend to enjoy your company. I did not pretend to enjoy your conversation.’

‘Since we are in the business of confessions,’ she said, ‘I will admit that I, too, have very much enjoyed our conversations. Being alone with you, I have not had to pretend to be the dutiful, and frankly boring, Lady Isabella.’

Did she know how bewitching her smile was? Did she realise what it did to him, that smile? And the way she looked at him with those big eyes of hers... Did she know she was playing with fire? Almost without meaning to—almost—he pulled her closer. ‘Above all, you do know that I did not pretend to enjoy kissing you, don’t you?’

‘No? Why, then, did you kiss me, Major Urquhart?’

He tried to remind himself that she was an innocent, but the demure Spanish lady she purported to be was nowhere to be seen in this feisty, bold, brave, beautiful woman smiling seductively up at him. ‘I kissed you,’ Finlay said roughly, ‘for the very simple reason that you are irresistible.’

‘I think that is what is known as serendipity,’ Isabella replied, ‘for it’s the very same reason I kissed you back.’

‘Serendipity,’ Finlay said, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I’ve always wondered what it tasted like.’

‘Strawberries, and lavender, and vintage wine, I believe is how you described it.’

‘No,’ he said decidedly. ‘It tastes of nothing other than essence of you. The most intoxicating and delicious taste imaginable.’

* * *

There was a different quality to Finlay’s smile that excited Isabella. There was something different in the way he looked at her, too, a gleam in his sea-blue eyes, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. There was a very different quality to their kiss, too. This time it was he who was tentative, she who was daring. He kissed her as if he was not sure who he was kissing. She kissed him back with the boldness, the wild elation she felt at finally being able to reveal her true self.

Her response ensured he was not tentative for long. The pressure of his lips increased as she opened her mouth. The touch of his tongue on hers set her aflame. His hands slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her hard up against him. She slid her hands under his coat, flattening her palms against the smooth silk of his waistcoat, feeling the rippling of his muscles as she touched him, up the length of his spine, back down, to the waistband of his breeches.

His mouth was hot on hers. She closed her eyes, the sunlight dappling crimson inside her lids, and slid her hands over the smooth leather of his breeches to the taut muscles of his buttocks. He moaned, plunging his tongue into her mouth. She could feel the unmistakable ridge of his arousal pressing between her thighs. Heat trickled through her. She felt potent, wild, that intense, fierce focus from the old days. The pinpoint of danger, though this time the threat was not of capture but surrender.

Still they kissed. His jacket fell to the ground. They were on the bench now, and she was splayed on top of him, her skirts rucked high, his erection pressing against her. She flattened her palms over his shoulders. His breath was ragged. His kisses grew wilder and more passionate. Her own lips pressed against his, as if they would meld. His hand on her breast made her gasp. Her nipple hardened sweetly, painfully beneath her corset. She wanted to moan with frustration for the layers that lay between them, his skin, her nipple. She dug her fingers into his hair, clutching the soft silkiness, tilting her hips to rub herself against him, panting as his mouth devoured hers, as his hand tightened on her breast, as something inside her tightened like a knot, too.

She tensed her thighs against his. More kisses. Behind her closed lids, crimson, blood red. Her blood hot. Danger. She remembered then, seeing him that first night at the ball. Dangerous. He was dangerous. He was so delightfully dangerous. And she was so unafraid.

Finlay muttered something soft in what she assumed must be Gaelic, and dragged his mouth from hers. Gently, he began to disentangle himself from her. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I— I didn’t mean to— And here, of all places. What the devil was I thinking!’

His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated. His hair was in wild disarray. The pins had come out of hers. Isabella knew she ought to be shocked at her own behaviour, but all she could think about was the tension inside her, the urgent need for release, the feeling of hanging on a precipice, desperate to let go, the slow realisation that she would instead have to clamber back down to reality. ‘I don’t believe either of us was thinking,’ she said, trying to herd her errant thoughts into some sort of coherency.

‘No, I don’t suppose we were.’ Finlay stooped to gather some of her hairpins from the ground, handing them to her with a rueful smile. ‘You are the most distracting lass I’ve ever come across. I look at you, and my head says one thing and my body something else entirely.’

‘My body is not in the least bit interested in what my head is saying at this moment.’

Finlay’s eyes darkened. ‘Dear heavens, nor is mine.’ He reached for her, then pulled his hand away as if he had been burned. ‘We need to talk. We need to decide—you are El Fantasma. I still can’t get my head around that one.’ He gave himself a little shake. ‘Aye. Right. El Fantasma. We need to think about what we do next. I had already taken the precaution of making some prior arrangements on the assumption I would track him—you—down, but...’

His words brought Isabella tumbling firmly back to earth. ‘I am not interested in your arrangements. There’s nothing to think about, nothing to discuss,’ she said sharply. ‘Now you know the truth, you can return to England forthwith and tell the Duke of Wellington that El Fantasma thanks him for his concern but has no desire for, or need of rescue.’

He stared at her for a long moment. She could not read his thoughts. In truth, she did not really wish to contemplate his leaving here, not just yet. It would be a huge relief to be able to be herself for a little while longer, in this beguiling man’s company.

‘Isabella, can you not see...’

‘Finlay, can you not see!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘I know what I am doing. You have no right to interfere.’

‘I’m trying to save your life.’

‘And I am trying to save many, many other lives,’ she declared hotly. ‘I wish I had not told you.’

He paused in the act of putting his coat on. ‘Why did you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never told anyone else. I suppose I hoped you would understand.’ She began to stick pins randomly into her hair. ‘I thought that you would see we were similar. You were wrong when you told me I don’t know what it is to be a soldier, don’t you see? I am a soldier, just like you. You cannot expect me to do anything other than stay and fight this battle, when it is exactly what you would do if the roles were reversed.’

He was silent for a long time, his brow furrowed. When he spoke again, it was with a deliberate detachment. ‘There’s little to be gained by us arguing from implacably opposed viewpoints. We both have a lot to digest and reflect on. I’m going for a wee walk. I’ll see you at dinner.’

He turned and began to make his way up the track, leaving Isabella to stare at his retreating back, fighting the urge to call him back to convince him of the validity of her case and the equally strong urge to call him back and demand that he finish what he had started.

* * *

Finlay strode off up the hill towards the tree line. Is fheàrr teicheadh math na droch fhuireach. Better a good retreat than a bad stand. He was not running away, but though it went against the grain with him to leave Isabella alone after all that had happened, he knew if he stayed it would be a strategic miscalculation.

‘You need to start thinking with your head, and stop letting yourself be driven by your other body parts, my lad,’ he muttered under his breath. He could feel Isabella’s eyes on him as he climbed the steep path. He quickened his pace, forcing himself to ignore the urge to look back. Upward, onward, away he marched, just short of a run, enjoying the way the exercise made his heart beat faster, the way the fresh air stabbed at his lungs. And finally, as he cleared the tree line and emerged on the next ridge and his calf muscles began to protest, finally, his head began to clear itself of the fog of confusion triggered by this latest bewildering turn of events.

He stopped, taking deep, recuperative breaths, and looked at the landscape spread out below him. Ochre soil, the warm yellow stone of Hermoso Romero, the regimented row of pruned vines, the soft green foliage of cypress trees, the pale winter blue of the sky and the silvery lemon of the winter sun. It was a beautiful place, no doubt about it. If he lived here, he’d be loath to leave. But it wasn’t all this beauty that made Isabella determined to remain here—it was all the things you couldn’t see. The poverty. The injustice. The constraints of the old ways. The same feudal culture that made her brother the region’s biggest landowner and one of its most influential men. It was ironic that Xavier Romero represented all the things Isabella wanted to change.

‘And I can’t blame her for fighting for change, since by and large I share her views,’ Finlay said, smiling to himself as he recalled the fire in Isabella’s eyes as she had spoken of El Fantasma’s cause. He squatted down on his heels, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The death of the old ways, a new beginning, a new world. Hadn’t he been fighting for the same things himself?

His face hardened. Waterloo, the battle that had finally defeated Napoleon, the battle that had brought peace to Europe, had taken place five months ago. He sat back heavily, causing a limestone rock to clatter down the path. Peace was a fine thing and to be welcomed. No more death. No more bloodshed. He had not lied when he’d told Isabella he didn’t miss that. Peace would bring prosperity, the press said.

‘To the likes of Wellington, to those who had always been prosperous, aye, that it would, but what about the rest of us?’ Finlay muttered. London was already full of ex-soldiers, cast out of the military once their usefulness had expired, reduced to begging on the streets. Back home, in the Highlands, things were just the same as ever, the crofters just as poor as ever. And it was as Jack had said—no one wanted to know. Nothing had really changed, despite all the sacrifice. Was this what he’d fought for?

Here in Spain, it was worse. Here in Spain, they’d taken a few more steps backwards. But Isabella had not given up. Isabella was still fighting, though it was, in Finlay’s opinion, a very lost cause, indeed. Did that make her wrong? Was her deluded optimism better or worse than his pragmatism?

An unanswerable question. But one thing he did know, Isabella’s deluded optimism was clouding her judgement. She thought herself a hardened soldier, she thought her cause more important than her life, but she had no idea. It was all very well to wave away a theoretical threat, but the reality was something else entirely. Finlay, all too easily able to imagine what would happen if she was caught, shuddered at the horrors Isabella would be forced to endure. Indeed, not only Isabella, but her brother and his wife, too, like as not. Yet she seemed quite unable to grasp this fact. Or mayhap she simply didn’t want to acknowledge it? Aye, that was more likely.

He picked up a rock and threw it so forcefully down the mountainside that the limestone split into a cloud of powder. Reluctant as he was to spell it out to her, that was what he had to do. Better to fill her head with horrors than to have to face the reality of them, surely? He picked up another small rock, rolling it over in his palm. The idea was extremely unpalatable. Isabella’s idealism was her Achilles’ heel but it was also her shield. What right had he to tell her to stop fighting her battles? What right had he to destroy her illusions? None, and what was more, he did not want to.

Yet what he wanted was quite beside the point. The case was simple. Isabella’s life was in mortal danger. Finlay had been sent here to get El Fantasma out of Spain. He was here under Wellington’s, albeit indirect, orders. More important, he was here to keep a solemn promise made to Jack. More important still, if he could not get Isabella to see sense, she might very easily be taken, tortured or executed before he spirited her away.

Still, the thought of acting against her very decided wishes and taking matters into his own hands gave him pause. Finlay got to his feet and hurled the rock down the mountainside. One more chance. He’d give her one more chance to see sense. There was time yet for that.