The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Chapter Ten

They headed west once more, travelling at a fast pace for some hours, which precluded conversation, before slowing to a walk to give the horses a breather in the late afternoon. ‘Tafalla is just ahead,’ Isabella said. ‘Were you ever there?’

Finlay shook his head. ‘No. I think it was used as a garrison late in the campaign, but I was never quartered there.’

‘It was one of the towns in the Navarre most heavily fortified by the French,’ Isabella told him. ‘Our partisan, Mina, he liberated it with the help of some of your British navy guns.’

‘I’ve heard of Mina, though I have never met him.’

‘Nor did I.’ Isabella made a face. ‘He would not have been interested in a mere woman, I don’t think. Now, if he had known I was El Fantasma—but no, I will not talk of that. El Fantasma no longer exists. Now I am merely Isabella Romero—whomever she may turn out to be. A woman of means, you need not worry about that,’ she said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Not only do I have all my jewellery, which will fetch a pretty penny, but I have the bulk of this quarter’s allowance. My papa left me well provided for, you know. I must find a way to make alternative arrangements with the bank to have the payments sent on to me.’

‘Isabella.’ Finlay drew his horse to a halt, leaning over to catch her reins at the same time. His expression was stern. ‘You can’t touch that money.’

All morning, as they rode, she had been trying to imagine herself in America, but the more she tried, the more terrified she became. She had promised Finlay she would go, she desperately wanted to fulfil that promise, but as the prospect became more real with every mile they travelled—the sheer terror of being on her own, of a future without shape ate away at her resolve. Her courage deserted her. ‘Finlay,’ she beseeched him now, unable to stop herself, ‘is there no alternative to my going to America? May I not remain in Spain and make a new life for myself where no one knows me? It is a big country.’

His expression became grim. ‘Not big enough. I thought I’d made it clear—those men will not give up. I know this is hard for you, and I’m right sorry to have to be the one to open your eyes, but you can’t carry on living as Isabella Romero.’

‘You mean I must take a new name, a new identity?’

‘Aye.’

‘That is why I cannot claim my allowance?’

‘Not the only reason.’

There was a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Finlay looked like a man trying to swallow poison. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked.

He ran his fingers through his hair, then straightened his shoulders, giving her a direct look. ‘Isabella Romero has to die. There’s no other way to put an end to this.’

‘Die.’ She clutched at her breast. For a horrible moment she thought he had tricked her and meant it literally. But this was Finlay; he would not harm her, she knew that instinctively. She furrowed her brow. She remembered, vaguely, that conversation on the hillside the day before Estebe died. It seemed so long ago. ‘You mean that the world—Xavier, Consuela, my nephew, even the bank—must believe that I am dead?’

‘It is the only way to guarantee your safety. I thought you understood that. I thought I’d made it clear.’

‘Did you? I don’t know. I can’t remember. No, that is not fair of me, I know you did, only...’ Her voice was rising in panic. She tried breathing deeply, tried to remember. ‘I can’t go to America, Finlay,’ she said. ‘Please, there must be another way. I know that’s what you said, I know it’s what I promised, but I didn’t think— I mean, I have not thought— Surely there must be a safe haven somewhere that does not require me to go halfway across the world.’

Her horse was twitching nervously. Finlay dismounted and pulled her unresisting from the saddle, tethering both sets of reins to the stump of a fallen tree before taking her hands in his. ‘You can’t stay in Spain. You can’t come to England with me. I know a wee bit of the ways of these government men, Isabella, from my friend Jack. Their reach is frightening, and those in power across the Continent, they’re all in each other’s pockets. I doubt very much that there would be anywhere in Europe safe for you.’

‘But America!’

‘The New World, they call it. Think about it,’ he said, with a reassuring smile. ‘A place where you can start again, completely afresh. A place where none of the old rules apply, where the restrictions you’ve been fighting don’t exist. They say a man—or a woman—can do anything, achieve anything there, just by dint of hard work. It’s a land of equal opportunity, a blank canvas. Isn’t that precisely what you’ve been fighting for?’

‘I’ve been fighting to have such a society in my own country.’

‘A country that regards you as a traitor. You could help shape society in America, Isabella, not waste your time trying to dismantle the existing one in Spain.’

‘You make it sound like utopia.’

Finlay’s smile faltered. His grip on her tightened. ‘I’m sure it’s not, but there exists the opportunity to make it so. If anyone can contribute to that it’s you.’

‘You’re just saying that to reassure me.’

His eyes darkened. His smile disappeared all together. For a moment, she thought he looked quite desolate, but then he shook his head. ‘I’m saying it because I believe it to be true. You’re apprehensive, and no wonder. It will be a—a challenge. You’ll be lonely. Things will be strange and unfamiliar. But you’ll be alive, Isabella. I look at you, and I know you can do anything you set your mind to. Take this chance, lass, I’m begging you to take this chance, because it’s the only one you have.’

He meant it. He was telling her the plain, unvarnished truth, just as he had told her the plain, unvarnished truth about the horrors she’d be subjected to if she was captured. If she did not leave Spain, she would die. If she went to England, she would die. If she travelled to France or to Italy, or to Prussia, or even Russia, they would find her eventually, and she would die. She did not want to die. Faced with the very real prospect, she was filled with defiance and determination, and a very strong will to live, indeed. ‘I don’t want to die,’ she said.

He pulled her into his arms and held her so tight she could hardly breathe. ‘You won’t. I won’t let them get to you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise you.’

Her face was muffled against his coat. She could feel his heart beating against her cheek. She knew he would lay down his life for her if he had to. She had already witnessed one life sacrificed for her. She could not risk another. And especially not this one. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said wretchedly. ‘I’m so sorry, Finlay. I will do as you say.’

‘Don’t cry. Oh, God, Isabella, don’t cry.’

‘I’m not crying.’

‘You’ve every right to.’ Finlay mopped her tears with his handkerchief. ‘You’re being so brave.’

‘I’m not. I’m being—what is it? Feart. I am feart.’

‘If you were not, I’d worry about your sanity. If it was me, I’d be feart. If I could find a way to escort you myself...’

‘Don’t be daft,’ she said softly. ‘You have to arrange El Fantasma’s tragic death, and then you have to go back to England and tell the great duke what has happened, and then you have to go back to the army and once again become Major Finlay Urquhart, the Jock Upstart, and forget all about me.’

‘I’ll never forget you, Isabella. I will never, ever be able to forget you.’

‘I can see how it might be difficult to forget a woman who put your life in mortal danger,’ she said lightly, in an effort to lighten the mood.

‘It’s not that I will remember. I have much more pleasant memories of our time together than that to keep me warm at night.’

Isabella felt herself blush slightly. His visage was no longer grim. His sea-blue eyes were no longer pained. She would have to be very careful not to make him fret for her. She did not want to be a source of worry. She had caused him enough worry. She would do her very best to be the bold, bright, brave partisan he thought her. She would not only comply with the future he had arranged for her, she would embrace it. ‘So I’m to sail for America,’ Isabella said. ‘Should we not then be heading north, for the coast?’

‘In good time. They will be searching for us there. It’s the obvious place to look.’

‘Which is why we’re heading west. For how much longer?’

‘It’s been nigh on a week and there’s been no sign of any pursuers. Another day and I think we will be safe enough.’ Finlay looked up at the sky, which had turned from blue to grey, with clouds like lumps of charcoal. ‘In fact, I see no reason why we should not sleep in a decent bed tonight, partake of a decent dinner.’

‘You think that’s wise?’

‘I reckon you deserve it.’ Finlay touched her cheek. ‘Not a word of complaint have I heard from you about living and sleeping rough for the past week. You’ve been a trooper.’

Isabella beamed. ‘That is the best compliment you could pay me, but I do not need a feather bed and a proper dinner if you think it is too risky.’

‘You shall have both. And a bath, too, in water that’s a wee bit warmer than melted ice. It’s the least I can do.’ He leaned into her. She thought he was going to kiss her, but his lips brushed her forehead, and then he let her go, turning toward the horses. ‘To Tafalla it is, then.’

* * *

The town was set on a wide cultivated plain, reached by traversing another ancient trail over the Valdorba Mountains. The warren of narrow medieval streets clustered with houses built from mellow honey-coloured stone rose steeply up towards a citadel. The more modern part of the town was built on the flatter land around the Cidacos River, and it was here that they had found lodgings at a small inn, hiring a private salon and two bedchambers. Finlay had made all the arrangements, under the name of Mr and Mrs Upstart, in his halting Spanish. ‘Just my little joke,’ he had told her with a grin.

Now clean, shaved and dressed in fresh linen, he waited for her in the small salon, gazing morosely into a glass of sherry that he had barely touched. With every passing day she was becoming more precious to him. And yet, with every passing day, the inevitability of losing her forever loomed larger. Their worlds had collided all too briefly, but soon, very soon, they would part forever. Isabella was destined for a brand-new world, and he to return to his old, familiar one, where his career and his family awaited. It made him heartsore to think of it, and pointlessly so. He would not think of it.

Instead, he would make the most of what little time he had in her company. He would make the most of tonight for this bonny, clever, brave lass, who deserved so much more than the hand that fate had dealt her, and who was facing the dangers and the fears of the great unknown with such fortitude it made him want to weep like a bairn.

Fresh from her bath, Isabella wore a pretty olive-green gown trimmed with bronze that made her skin seem golden. A woollen scarf in the same shades was draped around her shoulders. She had braided her hair around her head in a way that reminded Finlay of images of Greek goddesses, though there was nothing at all ethereal in her smile, nor in his reaction to it. ‘You look ravishing,’ he said.

She blushed endearingly. Such a bonny thing, and yet she had not a trace of vanity in her. Finlay took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You look very...’

‘Do not dare try to tell me I’m beautiful,’ he teased.

She laughed. ‘It’s an insult, I remember. May I be permitted to say that you look very dashing instead?’

He grinned, holding out his arm. ‘I’ll settle for that. Shall we go for a stroll before dinner?’

‘I would like that very much,’ Isabella said.

Braziers and lanterns were already being lit in the Plaza Mayor. It was time for the traditional evening paseo or promenade. They did not join in, Finlay being all too aware that his distinctive auburn hair might draw unwanted attention, so they watched from the shadows. Couples and families strolled, exchanging greetings, passing comment on the unseasonably mild weather, speculating on the possibility of rain. Women compared toilettes, children ran laughing round and round the square in excited clusters, while the smaller ones gurgled from their carriages or their mother’s arms. Young and old, well-heeled and down-at-heel alike, everyone congregated in the square in the early evening.

‘It’s a right social mix, isn’t it?’ Finlay marvelled. ‘In London, Hyde Park is where they promenade, but it’s more of a fashion parade for the toffs than anything, and you certainly wouldnae get the— I don’t know what it is here. There’s no sense of people sticking to their own kind.’

Isabella chuckled. ‘You have met my brother. There is plenty of that behaviour to be found in Spain, but not for the paseo. Do they have such a custom in Scotland?’

‘No, we have not the weather for it,’ Finlay replied. ‘I think I told you we have more than our fair share of rain. Mind you, when there’s a wedding, then you’ll get everyone out parading in their finery. That’s a sight to behold.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, now, I’m talking about a kirk wedding mind. The last one I attended was for my youngest sister Sheena—I missed all the others, but I was home on leave for that one. My mother was baking for days before it. My mother makes the best scones in Scotland. They are a sort of cake, though not sweet, like a soft biscuit, and you eat them hot from the griddle with butter or crowdie, which is cheese.’

‘What other foods do they eat at wedding feasts? What does the bride wear? And the groom, does he wear the plaid? Me, I like the plaid very much,’ Isabella said, her eyes dancing, ‘though not, I think, on a man with thin legs. Or fat legs.’

‘A lady should not comment on a gentleman’s legs,’ Finlay said with mock outrage.

‘Ah but since you have told me that I am dead, then I am no longer a lady and therefore free to state that I think that you have a fine pair of legs and look most becoming in your kilt,’ Isabella retorted with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

He smiled down at her. ‘Then, since I’m not and never have been a gentleman, I’ll take the liberty of reminding you that you have a very delightful derrière.’

Colour tinged her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. Her mouth was curved into the most tantalising, teasing smile. He spoke without thinking. ‘If we were not in the midst of half the population of Tafalla, I would kiss you.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but half the population of Tafalla have just spent the past hour kissing each other.’

‘I didn’t mean that sort of kiss.’

Isabella held his gaze. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she whispered.

His breath caught in his chest. He had the oddest sensation, as if he were falling head first from a cliff. She was teasing him. Flirting. But as he gazed down at her, his chest tightened, and he knew, clear as day, what it was he felt for her, and it bore no relation at all to what he’d felt for his other flirts.

He would not name it. If he did not give it a name, there was a chance, a tiny wee chance, that it would pass, because what point was there in him feeling...that, when he was about to pack the object of his—that thing, off to America?

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous. We should eat. What do you think of that place over there?’ Finlay said, steering a slightly bewildered Isabella towards a brightly lit tavern on the corner of the square.

* * *

By the time they had gone through the ceremony of being formally seated at a table in the commodore, the back room reserved for diners in the tavern, and consumed a complimentary glass of the local aperitif, the awkward moment had passed. The dining room was basic, the food simple but excellent. They ate hungrily, enjoying a range of dishes. Morcilla, a variety of spicy blood sausage that reminded Finlay very much of the black pudding to be found back home in Scotland, menestra de verduras, a mixture of local vegetables and salty ham, a braised quail with tiny pale-green beans cooked in tomato, simply grilled lamb chops served with potatoes and cabbage, and the famous pimientos de piquillo—red peppers preserved in oil and stuffed with salted cod. The wine, Isabella informed him, was not as good as her brother’s. Finlay, who had always been a moderate drinker, partook sparingly, but Isabella, like many Spanish women he had met, seemed to be able to consume quite a few glasses without it having any noticeable effect.

They chatted about the food, relishing the first proper meal in over a week. They speculated about their fellow diners. Then, when they had been served an extremely good roncal cheese, Isabella raised the subject of his sister’s wedding again. Accustomed as he was to having his origins mocked, Finlay automatically embarked on one of his usual, heavily embroidered tales.

‘I think you are making this up,’ Isabella interrupted halfway through the yarn.

‘Not at all. Well, maybe a bit, but not all of it.’

She frowned. ‘Why would you do that? I am not a child, to be told stories. I do not want to hear family secrets or—or confidences. I was not prying. I simply wanted to understand you more. You have seen my home, you know so much about me, yet you tell me almost nothing about yourself.’

He had offended her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about myself.’

Isabella propped her hand on her chin and studied him across the table. ‘The Jock Upstart,’ she said. ‘Was that one of the stories you tell in your officers’ mess?’

‘They would not be interested in the truth,’ Finlay said awkwardly, though he wasn’t sure, now he came to think about it, that he ever told anyone the truth, save Jack.

‘I am interested,’ Isabella said. ‘What is it like, to have three sisters? Consuela is very fond of hers. She is always writing letters to them. Do your sisters write to you?’

‘Aye, once every few months, with news of all my nephews and nieces. I’ve twelve of them,’ Finlay said with a grin.

Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘Twelve!’

‘And counting. Mhairi was expecting another the last I heard.’

‘I wonder sometimes what it would have been like, to have a sister.’

‘Someone to confide in?’ Finlay laid his hands over hers. ‘Your mother died when you were a bairn, didn’t she? It must have been hard, growing up without any female company.’

‘You said that to me that first night we met. I did not think—but now, I don’t know. Do you miss them, your family?’

He opened his mouth to assure her that he did, of course he did, then closed it again, frowning. ‘Honestly?’ He quirked his brow, and Isabella nodded. ‘I’ve been away for so long, that in a way they are strangers to me. They are my blood, I love them, but I’m no more part of their lives than they are mine. Aside from kinship, we have little in common.’

‘Though it must be a comfort to know that there are people who care for you, who would be there if you needed them.’

‘Aye,’ Finlay agreed with surprise, ‘that is true. The letters they write, they don’t make me want to go home, but it is a comfort indeed, seeing a picture drawn by my nephew, or reading one of my niece’s stories. Or reading about the fishing, and the peats and the tattie howking, whatever is the latest gossip my mother thinks fit for my ears,’ he said, smiling nostalgically. ‘It is good to hear that life can go on in that way, that people can be happy, when you are sitting in a foreign field in the aftermath of battle.’

‘What will you do now, Finlay? Now that Europe is at peace, and there are no more battles to fight?’

A damned good question. One of the many lessons this mission had taught him was that he was no peacetime soldier. ‘There are always other wars,’ he said, thinking, with little enthusiasm, of the rumours he’d heard about India. ‘When Wellington hears of my success in silencing El Fantasma, perhaps there will be other such missions, too.’

‘You think he will believe you? You have not told me what it is, exactly, that you will tell him.’

‘That’s Jack’s territory.’ The light had faded a wee bit from her big golden eyes. She was tired. And he’d been prattling on about his family, and his damned career, when all the while the poor lass had no family now, and much less of a clue than he about her future. ‘Let’s get you back to the inn,’ Finlay said, pressing her hand. ‘I’ll just go through and pay the shot.’

They were standing at the bar when he opened the connecting door. Two men, dressed in the uniform of the Spanish army, drinking a glass of wine. Not officers, but guards, Finlay reckoned. Their boots were dusty. He heard only one word. ‘English.’ But it was enough.

Retreating quietly back into the commodore, Finlay returned to the table. ‘We have to leave. Quietly. Don’t panic,’ he whispered into Isabella’s ear, putting her shawl around her shoulders and throwing some coins onto the table. Fortunately the room had emptied, the few diners left talking intimately over their wine and cheese. Even more fortunately, Isabella asked no questions, doing exactly as he asked, getting to her feet, following the pressure of his hand on her back, to the door that led to the kitchens.

‘Soldiers,’ he said, as the door closed behind them. ‘Spanish army. Two, looking for us. I don’t know if there are any more. I’m sorry, but it looks as though you won’t be able to enjoy the luxury of a feather bed tonight after all.’

* * *

She had not quite believed they were after her. Despite what Finlay had said, despite the urgency with which they travelled, despite the unequivocal evidence of their existence that fateful day at Estebe’s house, Isabella had been unable to wholly credit the tenacity of the Spanish government in tracking down El Fantasma, unable to believe that the pamphlets she had written, printed in the cellars of Hermoso Romero, could result in this merciless vendetta. As she scurried along at Finlay’s side through the back streets of Tafalla, her heart in her mouth, she no longer doubted. Finlay’s concerns were very real. America seemed, of a sudden, a very attractive prospect, if only because it was so very far away. She did not want to be caught. She desperately, desperately did not want them to catch Finlay.

‘Should we separate?’ she panted. ‘Finlay, I don’t want them to...’

‘Isabella, I’m not going anywhere without you.’

‘But they are looking for two of us.’

‘An Englishman and a Spanish woman, that’s what they said. If anything, it’s me who’s putting you in danger.’

Isabella’s hands tightened on his arm. ‘You won’t leave me,’ she said, before she could stop herself.

He smiled down at her. Even as they fled for their lives, that smile did things to her insides. ‘I won’t leave you.’ His smile faded. ‘Not until you’re safe on that boat. And the sooner we get you there the better. We’ll start to head for the north coast tonight.’

‘You said that is where they would concentrate the search for us. But now here they are in Tafalla in the west.’

‘They’ve clearly enough men spare to cover all the options. Ours is not the only army kicking its heels in peacetime. King Ferdinand’s men haven’t enough to do, either, by the looks of it.’

She was going to be sick. Fear, such as she had never felt during the war, made her break out in a cold sweat. She stumbled, and would have fallen if Finlay had not had her anchored firmly to his side. ‘Courage, lass,’ he said.

Isabella managed a weak smile, swallowed the nausea and picked up the pace again. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘You couldn’t.’

His faith, whether misplaced or not, kept her going through the next fraught hours as they hurriedly reclaimed baggage and horses from the inn. They were heading home, east, Finlay told the landlady, a family crisis. He did not pretend that the false trail was likely to do anything other than give their pursuers a choice of three alternative directions. ‘And if there’s only the two soldiers, we might just get lucky, though we can’t count on it,’ he’d said.

* * *

They rode through the darkness, across the flat land that spread out to Logrono, for the route directly north was too mountainous. Towards dawn, as the horses were flagging and the terrain was becoming more difficult, they quit the main road and stopped to rest in the shelter of a valley where the mountains rose steeply around them. Shaking, exhausted and oddly exhilarated, Isabella sat huddled in a blanket coaxing a tiny fire into life while Finlay tended to the sweating horses.

‘We are likely safe enough here for a few hours,’ he said, sitting down beside her. ‘You should try to sleep.’

‘I don’t think I could.’

He put his arm around her. ‘Try.’

She did because he wanted her to, without any expectation of success.

* * *

When she opened her eyes it was daylight, and the smell of coffee brewing on the trivet greeted her. Finlay, astonishingly clean-shaven, his hair damp, handed her a tin mug. ‘I have some good news,’ he said.

‘Let me guess, there has been an uprising in Pamplona and all the soldiers in the area have been recalled to suppress it.’

‘Now, that would be remarkably good news,’ he said, sitting down beside her and stretching his long legs out in front of him. ‘Mine isn’t quite in that category. How are you feeling?’

‘You let me sleep for the whole night.’

‘What little was left of it.’

Noticing that there was only one cup of coffee, Isabella handed Finlay the mug. ‘We can share,’ she said, when he looked as if he would refuse.

‘Thank you.’

He took a sip and handed it back. She took a sip, putting her mouth where his had been. He was watching her. She took another sip. His hand lingered on hers when she handed the mug back. His eyes lingered on her mouth. Her breath caught. Finlay sipped, placing his lips exactly where hers had been. Her heart bumped. She leaned towards him. He leaned towards her. He handed her the mug. His lips brushed hers. He tasted of coffee. She felt the sharp intake of his breath. He kissed her, slowly, his tongue licking along the inside of her lower lip. Then he handed her the mug. ‘You finish it.’

At least he did not walk away, or head off to tend to the horses. Isabella finished the coffee. ‘You haven’t told me the good news.’

‘I recognise this place. I’ve been here before, during the campaign. There’s a mountain pass we can follow, well away from the main routes, that will take us towards Vitoria, and from there we can head to San Sebastian.’

‘Vitoria. It was a very bloody battle for the English—British, I think.’

Finlay grimaced. ‘I confess, it’s not a place I’ve any yearning to see again.’

‘You have seen such terrible things. That day, when you opened my eyes to reality, when you told me what they would do to me if they caught me...’

‘I’m sorry I had to do that.’

‘I know you are,’ Isabella said, setting down the mug and touching his hand. ‘I know what it cost you to speak as you did, and I am very grateful. If you had been less blunt, I would have been less convinced. How do you do it, Finlay? How is it that you seem so—so divorced from what you have seen, what you have had to do? You are not a savage. You have a conscience, stronger than most, I think.’

‘If you’re talking about guilt, I have plenty of it.’ He frowned down at the dying fire. ‘You don’t think of it, not when you’re on active service. You think only of the next manoeuvre, the next battle. You can’t afford to look back. That way can lie madness—and I mean that.’ He glanced up at her, his eyes dark. ‘You must have heard something of what our men did after Burgos. Some of the atrocities. I was there in the aftermath, Isabella. There was no stopping them. The lust for blood, it wasn’t just revenge, it went deeper than that. It was as if some of them—it was as if they were possessed by an evil spirit. I sound like your Inquisition, but it’s the only way of describing it.’

‘Though, you never took part in such things,’ Isabella said. It was not a question. She was absolutely certain of it.

Finlay shook his head. ‘No, but my men did. I carry some of the blame.’

‘No!’

‘I was their commanding officer. I seem to remember you saying some such thing with regard to Estebe.’

‘I will always have that guilt as part of me. Is that what you mean?’

‘I won’t lie to you, that’s what I mean.’

‘Finlay, one of the things I like so much about you is that you don’t lie to me. Not even when you want to.’ She touched his hand again, and this time he turned it around to clasp her fingers. ‘You treat me as if I have a mind of my own.’

‘A very decided one,’ he said.

She smiled softly. ‘Like the Jock Upstart, I do not take kindly to being given orders. We are very alike in that way.’

‘Who’d have thought it?’ He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss onto her palm, allowing his mouth to linger for a moment, warm on her skin. ‘We must go. We’ve a few days yet before we reach the coast, and the path is treacherous so we need to make the most of the daylight.’

* * *

They travelled all day, leading the horses over the roughest terrain, making slow but steady progress north. It was hard going, but Isabella made not a word of complaint, and though her steps flagged as dusk approached, she insisted on continuing for another mile, until darkness prevented them travelling further. Cheese and stale bread were all they had to eat, but she made no protest about this meagre fare, either.

There was sparse shelter provided by an overhanging rocky outcrop. ‘You take the blankets,’ Finlay said. ‘I’ll keep watch.’

‘There is no need. No one is following us up here. You will feel better for a sleep, and we will be warmer if we share.’ She smiled up at him, her face shadowed by the flickers of the tiny fire they had lit. ‘We did it once before, do you remember?’

‘I do.’ His heart gave a painful twist as he sat down beside her. More than two years ago, it had been. Against all odds they had met in the strangest of circumstances, and here they were again about to huddle under a blanket together for warmth. He hadn’t thought himself a man who believed in destiny. He wished fervently that fate had drawn him a kinder hand. Twice, he had crossed paths with the woman who owned his heart, and soon they would be parted forever. He could not resist putting his arm around her and drawing her closer. He loved her. Pointless to deny it any longer. Time to stop pretending it was anything else. He loved her, and he always would.

‘It is a strange coincidence, being here like this for the second time, is it not?’ Isabella asked.

‘I was thinking the very same thing myself.’ Finlay shifted on the hard ground, tucking the blanket around them. Her cheek rested on his shoulder. Her hair tickled his chin. He breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of her, and closed his eyes, trying to etch the feel of her body against his, the softness of her, the shape of her, deep in his mind, achingly conscious that he would have so few chances left just to hold her like this.

‘We talked of America that night,’ Isabella said. ‘I never thought I would travel there. I never imagined it would be my home.’

‘Isabella, if there was any...’

‘Wheesht,’ she said, putting her fingers to his mouth, her accent making the word sound like a caress. ‘I have been thinking of what you said. America is a new world. A country where ideals are not simply dreams. You are right, Finlay. It is a country where I can start again. I don’t know what I will do, but there are so many possibilities. You were right. It is a good place for me to go. Thank you.’

He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but there was a note of real enthusiasm in her voice that was surely not manufactured. She was not simply making the best of things, she was trying her wee heart out to embrace her fate. He loved her so much. Gràdh, mo chrìdh, he said to himself, touching his lips to the silky mass of her hair. ‘You should sleep now,’ he added aloud. ‘We’ve a way to go in the morning.’

‘Buenas noches, Finlay.’

‘Oidhche mhath, Isabella.’

‘Oika va?’

He chuckled softly. ‘Not bad. You’ve an ear for the Gaelic. Goodnight, lass.’

She nestled her head into his shoulder. He kissed her hair again, tightening his arm around the slim curve of her waist. Her breathing slowed. She was asleep almost immediately. ‘Gràdh, mo chrìdh,’ Finlay whispered, wanting to say the words to her just once, though she could not hear. ‘Love of my heart you are, Isabella. Love of my heart.’