The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Chapter Eight

As Finlay eased the chapel door closed behind him, the smoky scent of candle wax and the evocative, cloying aroma of incense caught him unawares, hurtling him back in time to the services he’d attended in his childhood with his mother and sisters. He closed his eyes, remembering the sense of defiance that had preceded each clandestine trip to the ramshackle longhouse that had served as their place of worship, for the Catholic religion was officially proscribed in Scotland. It shamed him now, thinking of all the years in the army when he had neglected his church, but it was crime enough to be the Jock Upstart. To proclaim himself a Catholic to boot—no, that would have been beyond the pale. His faith had never truly left him, but he’d kept it well hidden. It wasn’t something he was proud of, looking back on it.

This morning, awaking from a fitful sleep, anxious as to how this pivotal day in his mission might play out, he had been drawn to the silence and sanctuary of the little chapel in the grounds of the estate. Leaning against the door, he drank in the stillness of the space, the hushed serenity he recalled from his youth, and which he had always found notably absent in the ceremonial services in huge churches and cathedrals he’d attended on regimental duty over the years.

This little church, though plain and modest on the outside, was rather ornate and beautiful inside. The nave was tiled with marble and flanked with a number of pillars, painted in bold, bright colours with scenes from the Bible. The vaulted ceiling was dark blue, speckled with stars and bordered with gold. The walls were a paler blue, hung with ornately framed paintings that looked, to his unpractised eye, to be of the Italian Renaissance period. The pews were padded with rich, crimson velvet. The candlesticks on the altar were wrought from solid gold. Above it, the stained glass would speckle the floor with vivid colours later in the day when the sun streamed in. So much wealth and opulence, left quite unattended. Xavier Romero clearly considered his possessions inviolate. One must be very sure of one’s position in society to be so complacent. Looking around him, Finlay was forced to reconsider the man’s standing. If it was discovered that his sister was El Fantasma— No, the possibility did not bear countenancing.

He did not notice Isabella at first. She was kneeling in the tiny chapel dedicated to St Vincent of Saragossa, the patron saint of winemakers, Finlay guessed, judging from the symbolism of the paintings. Her head was bowed low. Her hair was covered in a mantilla. There was something so vulnerable about the fall of lace over her head, the slight curve of her shoulders as she prayed. Whether she was aware of him or not, Finlay decided not to disturb her, retreating into the nave to light a candle and to make his own request for divine guidance.

It was not that he lacked the resolution to act. The situation demanded it. His orders demanded it. His word of honour to Jack demanded it. He could all but hear his friend’s voice in his ear. Finlay, you must get El Fantasma out of Spain at any cost.

It was worth it. By doing so, he would save Isabella’s life. In the light of this one salient fact, it was gie pathetic of him to wonder just how different his own life would be if circumstances had been different. Of all the women in the world to fall for, he’d chosen this one. Not that he had fallen heavily yet. No, a man did not fall in love in a matter of days. He had caught himself in time, but he’d be an eejit if he let himself fall any further in thrall to her.

He rubbed his eyes, gazing up at the beautiful stained-glass window in search of inspiration. He had wondered, in the middle of the night, if he dare enlist Romero’s help. The estate owner could have the printing press broken up. He could certainly insist on an end to Estebe’s participation, and force the winery manager to end all contact with his men. But Romero would most likely have his sister incarcerated in a nunnery as a consequence. Hidden away from the world she’d be safe, she’d be alive, but what kind of existence would that be for her? Finlay couldn’t bear to contemplate it.

If Isabella was a man, he would not have to wrestle with his conscience like this, he thought, looking over at her still bowed figure. If she was a man, he’d not be taking any account of those beguiling eyes of hers, or that sensuous mouth, or that delectable body. Or that determined, clever mind of hers, either. He cursed, then raised his eyes to the altar and apologised.

He was going round in circles. A promise was a promise, and he’d given one to Jack weeks before he’d met Isabella. Jack was depending on him. Blast it, when it came down to it, he was under orders, albeit orders that he intended to bend to a more palatable shape. ‘So stop dithering, laddie, and let’s get on with it,’ he muttered.

Isabella chose this point to get to her feet, and Finlay got up from the pew to join her at the font in the atrium. ‘You are a Catholic?’ she asked in surprise when he dipped his hand in the font to bless himself and genuflect.

‘I was raised one,’ he replied, stepping outside into the early-morning mist.

‘Did you come to church this morning in search of divine inspiration?’

‘Is that what you were praying for?’

‘No, I was praying for the wisdom to find a successful resolution to this quandary. Consuela came to my room last night.’

Isabella’s voice faltered several times as she recounted her sister-in-law’s visit. There were shadows under her eyes, which were heavy-lidded. She’d likely had less sleep even than he, poor lass. Finlay’s heart went out to her for the weight of the burden she was carrying, but he suspected that sympathy was the last thing she would want from him, and so he forced himself to listen in silence.

‘I feel quite—quite appalled, to think of the danger in which I have placed my family. You are right. It is time to put an end to El Fantasma,’ Isabella concluded. ‘I do not yet know what that means for me, but...’

‘It means you will have to quit Spain. You’ve no option.’

She flinched. ‘Of a certainty, it means leaving Hermoso Romero. As to the future—that I will think about later. For the moment, I have other more important matters to attend to.’

He did not like the way she tilted her chin when she spoke this last sentence. He did not like the way the sadness in her big golden eyes turned to something like defiance. ‘Such as?’ Finlay asked.

‘Such as Estebe,’ she said, and this time there was no mistaking the stubborn note in her voice. ‘It is my duty to warn him, to give him the chance to warn his men, too.’

‘Are you mad, woman?’

‘It is my duty to warn him,’ she repeated. ‘I would never forgive myself if I did not.’

Finlay rolled his eyes. It was exactly what he’d have said himself. ‘I understand that you feel it’s your duty, but it’s too much of a risk,’ he said. ‘No matter what Señora Romero might have promised you in the middle of the night, do you really think she’s going to keep something like this from your brother?’

‘Xavier will not be home until tomorrow.’

‘We can’t rely on that. We need to be away from here now.’

She turned on him fiercely. ‘I have been successfully running this operation for nearly two years without your advice. I do not require it now. If our situations were reversed, if Estebe was your second-in-command, you would not dream of leaving without alerting him to the danger he is in.’

She really was a feisty wee thing, and what was more she was in the right of it. But unlike Isabella, Estebe was a hardened soldier who knew the real risks. ‘No,’ Finlay said firmly. ‘No, I’m sorry, but from now on you’re following my orders. You need to go and pack. Take only what you can carry on horseback. And it might be an idea to bring anything valuable you have. Jack and I, we’ve made provision for you, but...’

‘I do not need your blood money.’

Pick your battles, Finlay told himself firmly. ‘Fine, then, have it your own way. I won’t force it on you. Now will you go back to the house and pack?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Attend to that blasted printing press.’

‘What is the point? Only Estebe and I know about it. Besides, it is far too big. You will never be able to destroy it on your own.’

‘At the very least, I can put it beyond use, and get rid of that damned incriminating pamphlet.’

Isabella opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. Obviously she, too, was picking her battles. ‘That is likely to take you some time,’ she said.

‘Aye, well, that’s for me to worry about. I will meet you back here at noon, and then we’ll take it from there.’

‘Very well.’ She turned on her heel and walked purposefully back towards the main house.

Finlay watched her go, allowing his gaze to linger only fleetingly on her retreating derrière, before turning away towards the winery. She had, he thought as he lit the lantern and made his way down the stone steps, accepted his orders with reasonably good grace, all considered. Poor lass. In fact she was bearing up remarkably well. She was not at all resigned to her fate, but she was at least finally reconciled to leaving.

He made his way towards the secret cellar with only one wrong turning. Señora Romero, now...she might pose a problem. It was a pity Isabella had let fall so much of the truth—though not the full truth, thank heavens for small mercies. The señora had no inkling that her sister-in-law was anything more than a conduit for El Fantasma. He’d have to find a way of keeping it that way. Would the cover story he’d dreamed up be sufficient?

He smiled grimly to himself. An elopement. Romero would be mortified at the idea of his sister and a wine merchant—a man who claimed to be a wine merchant. A word in Señora Romero’s ear and Finlay was sure that she could be persuaded to drum up a witness or two, a maid perhaps, who might have seen one of their early-morning trysts in the cypress walk. It was a good story, and a far more likely explanation of Isabella’s sudden disappearance than any link with El Fantasma. Xavier Romero and his family would be safe from questioning. Estebe...

Finlay paused in the act of moving the wine rack. If Estebe had been his deputy, he would have warned him, regardless of the risk. It was a matter of honour, as well as his duty as a commanding officer, just as Isabella had pointed out. And if it was his printing press hidden behind the wall here, he’d want to attend to it himself, too. The press, the pamphlets... Isabella poured her heart into them, yet she had not suggested...

‘Ach, bugger it!’ Finlay picked up the lantern and began to make his way as fast as he could back the way he had come. By God, he admired her. She was as stubborn as a mule, but her heart was in the right place. Even so, that lass had an awful lot to learn about insubordination. A smile crept over his face. The Basque Upstart. Aye, they were a well-matched pair, indeed!

* * *

Isabella brought her horse over to the mounting block in the courtyard and buttoned up the skirts of her riding habit before climbing agilely into the saddle. Today would be the last time, perhaps for years, perhaps forever, that she rode out to the village. Today she was leaving Hermoso Romero, leaving her family, leaving Estebe and El Fantasma behind. She couldn’t take it in. She felt sick thinking about it. The unknown future loomed like a giant black mountain in front of her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

Her horse fidgeted. She gave herself a little shake and urged him into a canter. Best not to think too far ahead. Best to think only of this next step, and after that— No, she would not even think of that. She would instead concentrate on taking in all she could of her homeland, to impress it on her memory for a future when it might be of comfort. But she would not think of that future yet. ‘Courage, Isabella. Courage.’

Her horse’s ears twitched. They had reached the outskirts of the village now. It was very quiet. Smoke from some of the chimneys floated lazily aloft, for the air was quite still. Isabella dismounted, tethering her horse by one of the many streams that ran through the valley here. She paused to say good day to old Señora Abrantes, who was sitting on a stool in her garden, working on one of the beautiful pieces of lace she crocheted. Her latest grandchild was asleep in a wooden cradle by her side. Matai, Isabella recalled. He had been baptised in the estate chapel just a few weeks previously.

‘He looks just like his papa,’ she said encouragingly, though in truth all babies, boys and girls, looked to her like little old grumpy men.

‘You’ve come to call on Estebe?’ Señora Abrantes asked.

‘Sí. My brother returns from Pamplona soon. He will be anxious to know how his manager fares.’

‘He has been walking a little, with a stick. That doctor your brother sent, he has been here many times. I think that Señor Romero is worried for the health of his wine.’

‘And the health of the man in charge of it,’ Isabella said. Which was true, she thought as she made her way towards Estebe’s house at the far end of the village. Estebe and Xavier were childhood friends. Xavier believed there was no one more loyal than Estebe. When she had tried to discuss this with him though, concerned at the possibility of Estebe being torn between loyalty to his employer and loyalty to El Fantasma, Estebe had merely shrugged. ‘What Xavier does not know cannot harm him,’ he had said. ‘Xavier has everything, while we fight for those who have nothing. For me, there can be no question of which comes first.’ In one sense it was flattering, but as his sister, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Xavier, who not only trusted Estebe completely, but whose affection for the man stemmed back to those childhood days, and—unusually for Xavier—existed regardless of the huge disparity in their stations in life.

The winery manager, standing in the doorway of his cottage, was, as Señora Abrantes had predicted, on his feet, supporting his splinted leg with a stick. In his early thirties, he had the swarthy skin and black hair typical of the Basque, and the laconic temperament also typical of the region. Estebe rarely smiled, but when he did, Isabella was reminded that underneath that slightly surly exterior there was a very handsome man. She had asked him once, in an unguarded moment, why he had never married. He had informed her curtly that he was a soldier, she remembered. Like Finlay, he believed that soldiers should not take wives.

‘Is something wrong?’ Estebe said guardedly. ‘I thought we agreed it would be unwise for us to be seen together in public. It might arouse suspicions as to the nature of our relationship.’

‘I am here on official estate business, at my brother’s behest. He wants to know how your recovery is progressing, how soon you can return to work,’ Isabella replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. ‘I made a point of saying so to Señora Abrantes,’ she added sotto voce.

‘The doctor your brother sends says I must wear the splint a few more weeks, but I have told him the wine will not wait a few more weeks. You can tell Xavier I will return to my duties next week. Tell him to do nothing with the vintage until then. Tell him that I said patience is a virtue.’

‘Estebe,’ Isabella said in an urgent undertone, ‘I’m not really here for Xavier. I need to talk to you.’

‘You should not have come. People will talk, and we cannot afford any talk. Have you heard that young Zabala has disappeared?’

The man Consuela had mentioned last night. ‘He was one of ours?’ Isabella asked, dismayed.

Estebe shrugged. ‘It could be nothing, but—we will see. Since you are here, I want to talk to you about that man. The Englishman. I don’t know why he is here, but is it a coincidence that one of our men disappears shortly after he shows up?’

‘Estebe, Mr Urquhart is on our side. He’s the reason I’m here, not to ask after your health. If I could just explain...’

Estebe’s head jerked up. He pushed her out of the way, shading his eyes to scan the horizon. ‘Señorita Romero, you need to get out of here at once.’

‘What is it?’ She screwed up her eyes in an effort to see through the dust being raised. It was some sort of carriage. ‘I wonder...’

‘Isabella!’ Estebe grabbed her by the shoulder, dropping his stick. ‘You have to leave immediately. Do not let them see you. Do not, whatever happens, show yourself to them. Do you understand?’

It was his use of her name rather than the tone that made her blood run cold. ‘Are they— Do you think that they are...?’

‘I don’t know who they are, but I am certain it does not bode well,’ Estebe replied, his voice clipped as he limped over to the wooden dresser, pushing it away from the wall and retrieving a pistol, which he proceeded to load with astonishing speed before aiming it at her. ‘Get out. Believe me, if they capture you, you will wish I had put this bullet in your head.’

He meant it. Blood rushed from her head, making her stagger. She took a deep breath, clutching the door frame. The cart was at the other end of the street now. There were two men. Well dressed. She looked around frantically, wondering in terror if she had left it too late.

‘The woodshed,’ Estebe said, pushing her down the steps. ‘And remember, no matter what happens, you must keep silent. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’

Isabella dumbly nodded her reluctant assent and stumbled down into the dusty darkness of the woodshed as Estebe secured the door behind her.

* * *

Riding towards the village, Finlay spotted the dust cloud raised by the open, rather ornate carriage. It looked so incongruous in the midst of such modest surroundings of farms and cottages that Finlay’s senses immediately went on high alert. Reining his horse back, he followed the carriage at a distance, taking care to keep out of sight, knowing that it could only be headed for the village, all the time hoping against hope that it was not. There were two male occupants. They could be here for any number of reasons, but he knew, with the sixth sense he relied upon when going into battle, that they were not. There was only one likely explanation, and it was an extremely alarming one.

When they turned into the village, Finlay tethered his horse by a ruined outbuilding and followed cautiously on foot. Isabella’s horse was pawing the ground by the tethering post, confirmation that he had guessed her intentions correctly—as if he’d needed it confirmed. The carriage was drawing up at the top of the little street. As he made his way stealthily towards it, he could sense the eyes of the villagers peering from their cottages. An old woman holding a piece of lacework beckoned him, but he ignored her.

The two men who descended from the carriage were well dressed. They pounded on the door of the furthest cottage calling Estebe’s name. ‘Señor Mendi! Señor Mendi!’

The accent was not local. Finlay no longer had any doubts. Madrileños! As the door opened, he braced himself, drawing his sgian-dubh from his boot. In the rush to follow Isabella he had not had time to retrieve his pistol, but the vicious little knife, a coming-of-age gift from his father, had served him well enough in the past.

‘Señor Mendi?’

Estebe, his leg in a splint, stood leaning on the door. ‘Who wants to know?’

Finlay could see no sign of Isabella. Creeping around the other side of the carriage, behind the backs of the strangers, he took a chance, allowing Estebe a brief glimpse of his presence. Either Isabella had briefed him, or Estebe, realising how dire the situation was, saw Finlay as the lesser of two evils. Whichever. The man gave him a tiny shake of his head, the smallest gesture to the side of the house where a lean-to stood.

Waiting for the coast to clear, he missed what the men said next, but it caused Estebe to open the door wider, ushering them into the cottage.

Isabella, her ear pressed to the adjoining wall of the cottage, had her back to the door, foolish lass. Finlay grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth before she could cry out. ‘It’s me,’ he whispered, and her rigid body ceased struggling immediately.

‘Government agents,’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Estebe said—he said that they may have taken one of his men a few days ago. Do you think that is why—how...?’

‘Hush. Aye.’

She was shaking piteously. He took no pleasure in being proved correct. The Spanish government were working their way up El Fantasma’s chain of command. The question was, would Estebe talk? Finlay pressed his ear up to the wall, but could hear only muffled words. Later, he would tear a strip or two off himself for not taking matters into his own hands much earlier. He could not find it in himself to be angry at Isabella, but he wished with all his heart that she’d been a wee bit less loyal to the man next door, and a bit more careful of her own safety. As he would have been? Aye, right enough.

He shook his head in frustration as the room next door went quiet. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered, just as a loud crash made Isabella jump, only his instinctive covering of her mouth once more preventing her from screaming.

It all happened so quickly after that. ‘Careful, he has a gun. Put the weapon down, señor,’ one of the Madrileños cried out, his voice ringing clearly through the connecting wall now. Then followed the sounds of a scuffle, another piece of furniture being upturned.

Isabella strained in Finlay’s firm grasp, her eyes above his muffling hand pleading with him to go to the rescue, but he held firm, shaking his head. He could take them on, he might well overpower them, but his remit was to protect El Fantasma at all costs, which meant he could not take the chance in acting rashly, no matter what the collateral damage turned out to be.

The front door of the cottage flew open, and a shot whizzed out into the open air. For a moment, Finlay thought that it would be one of the Madrileños who would pay the price, but then he heard Estebe’s voice. ‘I am El Fantasma,’ he shouted. ‘I would rather die than fall into your hands.’

‘We have good reason to believe that you are not. However, you can lead us to him. Put the gun down. Do not shoot. If you cooperate you will not be harmed. You have our word. Put the weapon down. There is no need for this.’

‘I tell you, I am El Fantasma.’

This time, the sharp crack of the bullet came clearly from inside the cottage, followed by the dull thud of a body falling to the floor This time, it was not Estebe but the Madrileños who cried out, though frustratingly, Finlay could still make out nothing of what they said. Locked tight against him, Isabella was weeping silently. They waited for what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes. Finlay, holding his dagger in his right hand, motioned to Isabella to get behind the woodpile, positioning himself behind the door, ready to pounce, but more minutes passed, followed by the sound of the carriage being manoeuvred around in the narrow street.

He crept out, watching as the strangers drove back down through the village. Only when the carriage turned out onto the track heading west did the villagers start to emerge from their cottages. ‘Wait here,’ Finlay said.

The table in Estebe’s cottage was overturned. Estebe lay on the floor, his splinted leg splayed at a very odd angle. A noise in the doorway alerted Finlay. ‘Isabella, don’t come any closer,’ he said, grabbing the tablecloth, but it was too late. Isabella looked at the place where the wine manager’s skull should be and screamed. It was a long, piercing, anguished scream that seemed to echo round the narrow village streets for an eternity.

* * *

Isabella sat slumped in her bedchamber, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the fire. She could not stop shaking. Again and again, she replayed the horrific scene in her mind, trying desperately to come up with a scenario in which she could have altered the outcome, trying equally desperately to assure herself there was nothing she could have done.

When the Madrileños had gone, her screams had given way to numb horror, leaving Finlay to deal with the situation. He had taken charge with an authority that was obeyed without question by the villagers. The version of events he presented them with had Estebe shot by the Madrileños as he’d attempted to escape captivity. Thanks to Finlay, Estebe’s body now lay in the village church.

But Isabella knew the true story. Estebe was dead by his own hand. Estebe, a man she had come to think of as invincible, had chosen death and purgatory over captivity and torture. Her deputy had died trying to save her, turning his gun on himself rather than risk betraying her. A huge shudder ran through her. Finlay had been right when he’d said those men were ruthless. At least Estebe’s suffering had been short-lived. She could not bear to contemplate what he would have endured if the Madrileños had taken him.

They would be back. Without a doubt they would be back. They had not believed Estebe’s claim to be El Fantasma. They would be back, and they would not give up until they found her. Fear clutched like icy fingers around her heart. Estebe had died trying to protect her. She could picture him all too vividly, lying there on the ground. The shockingly bright red of the freshly spilled blood. The unnatural angle of his splinted leg. And his poor head...

She shuddered so violently her teeth chattered. It was one thing to defy danger when it was merely an abstract concept, but to be confronted with the stark, terrible reality of it—that was very different matter.

She did not want to die. If they caught her, she was not sure she would be brave enough to take the option Estebe had done. The icy fingers closed tighter around her heart. Fear was a very, very cold creature, but anger, and action, they fired the blood. She could not allow his death to have been in vain. ‘No, now is not the time for tears,’ she told herself, getting up to pour a large measure of cognac with a shaky hand. ‘Now is the time for courage, and resolve.’ She swallowed the brandy in one cough-inducing gulp. Fire burned a path down her throat and into her belly. She poured herself another measure, and gulped it down, too.

‘Courage, Isabella,’ she muttered, pulling a portmanteau from a shelf in her cupboard and setting it on her bed. ‘There is much to be done.’

* * *

Finlay prowled restlessly around his bedchamber dressed only in his breeches and shirt. Dealing as best he could with Estebe’s tragic death had taken up too many precious hours already. Time was of the essence, with Romero due back imminently. Much more important, those Madrileños would be back. If only they had believed Estebe’s last, valiant claim to be the man they sought, it would have solved a wheen of problems. But they clearly, very clearly had not. And Finlay had faffed around far too much. He felt sick to the stomach, thinking how close Isabella had come to being captured. A lesson sorely learned, putting his inclinations over his duties. He should have had her out of here and on her way to the boat the moment she’d confessed her identity.

Poor wee soul, she had been distraught at what she’d seen this afternoon, though it had certainly brought home all he’d been saying. She’d barely said a word on the ride home, staring sightlessly ahead, though she’d sat straight enough in the saddle. She’d had the stuffing knocked out of her. It made his heart ache to think that instead of comforting her, he was going to have to wrench her away from her home and her family without even the chance to say goodbye.

He paced restlessly around the room, from window to door, window to door, his mind whirring. The elopement story might just about hold if Señora Romero was prepared to cultivate it after they were gone. It would be better if he could find a way to speak to her, but short of breaking into her bedchamber...

Finlay laughed shortly. No, if he was to break into any bedchamber it would be Isabella’s. Struck by this idea, he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony. Isabella’s room was two doors along. The curtains fluttered the window was open. He eyed the gap between the parapets. It was no more than five feet. And the fall was a good thirty, more than enough to break his legs if not to kill him. Anyone would think he’d not had enough high drama for the day. Returning to his bedchamber, Finlay decided he’d try the more conventional route.

* * *

‘Finlay. I was on the point of coming to find you. Come in.’

Isabella ushered him in, closing the door softly behind her. She was fully dressed, though her hair was not up, but tied in a long plait down her back.

‘How are you bearing up?’ he asked her.

‘I am sorry that I was of so little use to you earlier,’ she replied, ignoring his question. ‘I am very, very grateful for what you have done. If my brother knew— Xavier is—’ she gulped ‘—was, extremely fond of Estebe. That you have spared him the truth... For that, and for the sake of all of Estebe’s friends, I cannot thank you enough, Finlay.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘No. It was a great deal more than nothing. I deeply regret that I was not of more assistance, but I assure you, I am ready now to do—to do...’

She broke off, screwing her eyes tight shut, but when he tried to take her in his arms, she shook her head. ‘Please, do not—I do not deserve to be comforted. If I had listened to you, perhaps Estebe would still be alive. He is dead, and he died to save me. I owe it to him to try to save myself now. And I owe it to my family, too. My remaining here is dangerous for them. You were right. I did not truly understand the consequences of my—of El Fantasma’s actions, but I do now. So, I am ready to go with you,’ she concluded firmly. ‘I am ready to follow whatever arrangements you have made for me.’

‘America, I told you. It’s the only place you can be safe.’

The very idea terrified her, but she nodded her head stoically. ‘Then, I will go to America.’

Finlay bit his lip, eyeing her with some concern. ‘Isabella, you could not have saved Estebe. His death is not your fault.’

She had picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table and was now putting it into the half-packed portmanteau lying open on the bed. ‘If I had listened to you earlier, I could have warned him.’

‘They would still have come for him.’ This time, when she tried to shake him off, Finlay resisted, putting an arm around her waist to anchor her to him. ‘Even if you had warned him, what difference do you think it would have made. Would Estebe have fled?’

‘Of course not, but—Finlay, do you think they will kill them all? If I could warn them—though I know only a few of the names—if I could warn them, give them a chance to escape...’ she said, looking up at him pleadingly. ‘Do you think...?’

‘I think that Estebe’s death is warning enough. I think your conscience is clear on that matter, and even if it were not—Isabella, my conscience will not allow you to devote any more time to such matters. I should have gotten you out of here days ago.’

‘I would not have agreed to come.’

He smiled sadly. ‘I should not have allowed that fact to make any difference.’ She looked so vulnerable. His arms ached to embrace her. Catching himself in the act of bestowing a tender kiss on her forehead, Finlay let her go. ‘Right, then,’ he said brusquely, ‘to work. I’m glad to see you’ve packed. I’ve been thinking about how best to leave things here. We need a story that will explain our sudden disappearance without linking it in any way to Estebe’s death or, obviously, El Fantasma, so what I was thinking was, we could elope. Pretend to elope, that is. If you could write a letter...’

‘I have every intention of writing a letter,’ Isabella interrupted, ‘but it will be the truth.’

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘The truth?’

‘My confession. Those Madrileños did not believe Estebe when he said he was El Fantasma. They will be back, and they will be looking for a man close to Estebe, only more powerful. Who do you think they will settle on?’

‘Xavier,’ Finlay said with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

‘Xavier,’ Isabella repeated. ‘I will not allow my brother to pay the price for my actions.’

‘Isabella, he’s innocent.’

‘Finlay,’ she retorted with a sad smile, ‘innocent or guilty, it makes no difference with those men. You told me so yourself. Once they have him, he will confess to anything. I will not permit that to happen.’

‘No, I can see you wouldn’t.’ And he could see all his carefully laid plans toppling over like so many dominos. He could see the danger she was putting herself in. They’d have to flee north for their lives, for her confession would put those devils on their tails. She had no idea, and he had not the heart to tell her, that she was risking her own life for the sake of protecting her family. She was, however, once again doing exactly what he’d do himself.

Finlay sighed. ‘I’d best see what I can do to cover up the evidence, then. I doubt there’s much can be done with the press, but we must not leave that pamphlet.’

‘I’ll come with you. No,’ Isabella said, smiling wanly, ‘don’t try to stop me. Two pairs of hands will be quicker than one, and it’s time I started taking some responsibility for my actions. And I have you to thank for teaching that painful, but valuable, lesson.’