The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Chapter Eleven

Isabella awoke from a deep slumber to find that her head was cushioned on Finlay’s chest. She was lying on her side, with one of her legs wedged between his. His arm anchored her to him; his other hand was splayed across her bottom. She could feel his heart beating, slow and steady, through his shirt. She listened, keeping quite still, to his breathing. Also slow and steady. He was asleep. She did not want to move and risk waking him.

The cloud had cleared while she slept, and the stars were out, huge disks of silver in the inky blue sky, the half-moon glowing milky white. Finlay said the stars in Scotland seemed much farther away. She couldn’t imagine how that could be. He stirred, tightening his hold on her. She felt safe here with him. She wished the night would go on forever. She did not want to think of the morning, which would bring her another day closer to the coast, and to the ship that would take her to her new life. If she was not so completely alone, she might be looking forward to it almost as much as she had tried to persuade Finlay she was. A new world. Perhaps there would be an opportunity for a new El Fantasma. Not a partisan, but perhaps— Her mind skittered to a halt. Something. She would think of something tomorrow, and she would tell Finlay, and she would enthuse and speculate, and the guilt he was so patently feeling about sending her off alone to her fate would hopefully abate a little.

She owed him so much. She owed him her life. She couldn’t bear to think that he’d be fretting about her once she had sailed. He had his own life to be getting on with. He would be off to fight another war soon enough. Or off on another mission for the Duke of Wellington. She hoped for Finlay’s sake that he would be given something constructive to do. Though she hated the idea of him being in danger, she knew he would be miserable kicking his heels in the officers’ mess. The Jock Upstart was a man who thrived on action. Her heart lurched at the realisation that she would never know what he was doing, who he was with, what country he was in, even.

Perhaps he would, after all, return to the Highlands and raise a family. She could imagine him, very easily imagine him, with a brood of children—bairns, as he would call them. She could imagine them surprisingly easily. Their bairns. Hers and Finlay’s. She had never really thought about children, never imagined herself as a mother. Now, for a fleeting moment, the notion filled her with some soft and warm emotion that she’d never experienced before. ‘Stupid,’ Isabella muttered to herself. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

She was torturing herself. Better to focus on the real future, whatever that would be. It would be empty of Finlay—that was the only thing she knew for sure. Perhaps she should suggest they correspond, once she had settled in America. But she dismissed the idea immediately. A consolation to her, those letters might be, but they would be a burden to Finlay. The break, when it came, must be clean. In a few more days, only a few more days, they would part, and she must make very sure that the parting was as painless for Finlay as it could be. As to herself—no, truly, there was no point in thinking about her feelings.

She flattened her palm on his chest. He was so solid. She had never lain like this with a man. Slept with a man. It was such a very intimate thing to be doing, despite the fact that they were both more or less fully clothed. Asleep, even Finlay was vulnerable. In a sense, sleeping together was more intimate than making love. Not that anyone would believe that all she had done was slept in his arms. If it were discovered, her reputation would be ruined. If she had any left to ruin, that was. Though her reputation would not matter at all in the New World she was headed towards. No one would know anything about her past history. They would not know that she had spent the night alone, in a Highlander’s embrace. It was a terrible pity she had not anything more scandalous to conceal. Almost a waste.

Somehow her hand had slipped inside the opening of Finlay’s shirt. The rough hair of his chest prickled her palm. His nipple was unexpectedly hard. Was it as sensitive as hers? When she touched it, did it tingle the way hers did? Was there that shivering connection between his nipple and his—his arousal? There was certainly a connection between his nipple and her arousal. If she turned her head just the tiniest fraction, she could put her lips to the skin of his throat. It was a very, very appealing idea, but she dared not move lest she wake him. Though it was so very tempting. But it would be wrong. He had made it clear, very clear, that he would not make love to her. She was under his protection. She was an innocent. He was not a seducer of virgins.

In a few days’ time, she would be alone on a boat, and she would never see him again. No one save Finlay cared about her virginity. She would certainly be more than happy not to have to take it with her. Without her dowry and her pedigree, her virginity was not even a marketable asset. She turned her head a tiny fraction. Just a kiss. But she did not want to wake him. Just one tiny kiss. What was the harm in that?

Her lips touched his throat. His skin was warm. She licked him. He tasted slightly salty. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. She kissed his throat again. She could feel his pulse beating against her lips. His hand tightened on her rump, and she knew he was awake.

She froze, horrified. She lifted her head to apologise, but Finlay smiled softly. ‘Isabella,’ he said, ‘lovely Isabella. You’ve no idea how lovely.’

‘Finlay.’ In the moonlight, his skin was pale, his eyes dark. She reached up to touch his hair. ‘The colour of autumn leaves,’ she said. ‘All that time ago, when first we sat under the stars like this, that’s what I thought. That your eyes were colour of the summer sea. And your hair the colour of autumn leaves.’

He laughed softly. ‘I wanted to kiss you, that night. Under that blanket. Under those stars. I wanted very much to kiss you.’ His hand was caressing her bottom, the flat of his palm smoothing delightful circles. ‘I regretted the fact that I didn’t,’ he said.

‘And I, too.’ She smoothed her hand over his chest. She felt his heart leap, beat faster than before. Longing, so deep that it was almost painful, overwhelmed her. ‘I have so many regrets, Finlay. I don’t want this to be another. Make love to me.’

‘Isabella...’

‘Please,’ she interrupted, desperate to quell his conscience before it could put an end to things. ‘This has nothing to do with gratitude or guilt, Finlay. I know what I am doing. You will not be stealing my innocence. I am giving it to you. I know you want me. I know, too, that it can mean nothing.’

‘You’re wrong. Isabella, you are so wrong. It means everything. But I can’t resist you. I don’t want to resist you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.’

* * *

He loved her so much. I love you, he thought as he kissed her. I love you, Isabella, I love you. He poured his heart into his kisses. It would be his only chance to love her, to worship her, to show her how he felt. He kissed her hungrily, passionately, then softly, tenderly. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he said. ‘I want you so much.’ I love you so much.

He rolled her onto her back. He kissed her mouth, her throat, her neck, her shoulders, the mounds of her breasts above the neckline of her riding habit. She tugged at his shirt, slipping her hands beneath the fabric to stroke his skin, making his muscles clench in response, sending the blood shooting to his groin.

He eased her up, sitting her between his legs, and kissed the nape of her neck. Slowly, he began to unbraid her hair, teasing it loose with his fingers. Long, silken strands spread over her shoulders. He pulled her up against him, her back against his chest, cupping her breasts, kissing her neck, then began to unlace her riding habit, taking his time, planting kisses on every inch of skin revealed, slipping the top over her arms, kissing her shoulders, the crook of her elbows, before unlacing her stays and sliding her chemise down. He kissed the knot of her spine. He could feel her breathing, fast and shallow. He cupped her breasts, exposed now, rolling her nipples between his fingers, relishing the small moans of pleasure his touch elicited.

Hot skin, cold air. He pulled his shirt over his head and drew her back against him. The silken touch of her hair caressed his chest. He whispered her name, feathering kisses across her narrow shoulders. She arched back against him, her breathing more ragged. He wanted to see her face. Gently, he rolled her onto her back again. Another long, deep kiss, her tongue on his, making his shaft pulse and throb. He ached to be inside her, but he would not rush this, his one unique opportunity to make love to the woman he loved.

‘You are a banquet,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘A feast.’

Her response was a sensuous smile that sent his pulses racing. She ran her hands over the breadth of his chest, pressing her mouth to his throat. ‘You are not the only one with an appetite.’

‘I have never been so ravenous in my life,’ Finlay replied, taking her nipple into his mouth.

She gasped with pleasure. He tasted her lingeringly, licking and teasing her, first one nipple and then the other. Her fingers dug into his back. She arched under him. He kissed the delicate line of her ribcage, licking into the hollow of her navel, murmuring her name over and over. Her hands fluttered frantically over him, her untutored touch rousing him, the guttural little moans she made heating his blood, making his pulses race.

He pulled her habit and her petticoats off together. Her skin was creamy white in the moonlight. Her slim beauty, her delicate curves, were almost too much. ‘You are so lovely. I have never seen anything to match your loveliness,’ he said. He kissed the back of her knee, her calf, her ankle, as he removed her stocking. Then the same for the other leg. Isabella was watching him, wide-eyed, intent. He adored the way she watched him. Not a trace of modesty, as if she, too, was savouring every precious moment, as if she, too, was trying to memorise every inch of him. He could not resist claiming her lips again. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her naked breasts to his naked chest. Her nipples grazed his skin. He had never felt anything so arousing.

More kisses, far headier than any of the region’s wine. He could drink of her and drink of her and never have his fill. Easing her back down, he kissed his way down her body, the valley between her breasts, the dip of her belly, to the apex of her thighs. She was panting now, her fingers clutching at the edge of the blanket on which they lay. The flesh here was sweet, soft, faintly scented with her arousal. He eased her legs farther apart, and slid his tongue inside her. She bucked under him. The taste of her, the heat and wet of her, was heady.

He thought he might come. It took him every bit of self-control he possessed to wait, to get himself under control, but he did it. She was a feast he had waited a long time to consume. He wanted to enjoy every morsel. He slipped his hands under her bottom, tilting her towards him, and licked. She was already tight. Already on the brink. He was careful not to send her over, slowly licking and stroking just enough, then moving away, sliding his fingers inside her, thrusting slowly, carefully. Her moans had become pleas. Her hands were in his hair, on his shoulders, his arms. He licked again. He thrust again with his fingers. She cried out his name, a desperate sound. He licked again, slowly but relentlessly, and she came with a loud cry, pulsing against him, the taste of her so unbearably sweet, so uniquely his lovely Isabella, that he closed his eyes to relish it, telling her again and again, to the rhythm of her climax, whispering so softly that she could not hear him, that he loved her, loved her, loved her.

When the pulses faded to ripples, Finlay looked up to find her watching him again. He smiled. Isabella smiled back, a slow, sensuous, sated smile. He could call a halt now. He thought about it. But then she reached for him, pulling him towards her, her hands on the waistband of his breeches, shaking her head as if she had read his mind. ‘I am hungry, too,’ she said. ‘Take them off. I want to see you naked,’ she said urgently.

He wanted her to look. It was strange, he’d never felt like that before, but he wanted her to see him. He kissed her again before dragging his mouth from hers and hurriedly divesting himself of the last of his clothes. Even in the moonlight, he could see the flush of colour tingeing her cheeks. It was delightful. She was delightful.

‘May I touch you?’

‘You need to ask? I can think of nothing I want more.’ He knelt before her, once more between her legs. She sat up. Her blush was quite distinct now, but she was still looking at him in that intent, sultry way that made him ache with the need to be inside her. She touched his belly. With her finger, she traced the line of hair that arrowed down to his groin. She stroked his flanks. She traced the line of his buttocks. His muscles tightened in response. She reached for his shaft. He inhaled sharply, praying for self-control. Her touch was the faintest feathering, tracing the length of him with her fingertip. ‘Dear God,’ he said.

She yanked her hand away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ He couldn’t catch his breath. ‘No. I’m just— It is just...’

‘You like it?’ Her smile became feline. Predatory. She touched him again, feathering up and down the length of him. ‘I think you like it a lot?’

‘Aye,’ he said, snatching a kiss from her, ‘a lot.’

‘And this?’

She circled her fingers around his girth. He nodded, gritting his teeth.

‘And this?’

A slow stroke of her hand. Finlay nodded again. Pain and pleasure; he’d no idea they were such bedmates.

‘And this.’

Another stroke, more sure, but still slow. And another. He was going to come. He would not come. Not yet. ‘Isabella.’

She stopped at the warning note in his voice. Then she smiled at him again.

‘And this, Finlay?’

Her lips touched the tip of his shaft. He felt her tongue, hot on the most sensitive part of him. With a long, low groan of ecstasy and regret, he pulled himself free of her and laid her down, covering her body with his. ‘You are a sorceress,’ he said. ‘You are the most delightful, delicious, desirable sorceress, and you have me under your spell and I can’t wait any longer. Do you still want this, Isabella? Because if you don’t, now is the time to say so.’

For answer, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘I want this. I want you. More than anything.’

* * *

Her words were no lie. She ached in a way she had never ached before, her body yearning for him in a new way. She wanted him inside her. She wanted that sleek, silken part of him inside her. She tilted herself towards him in open invitation, worlds beyond modesty or embarrassment, caring nothing for her utter lack of experience, surrendering completely to her body’s instincts. His kiss was hard and deep. His tongue thrust into her mouth. She was hot, fevered, tense, urgent, but he entered her slowly. She opened her eyes to watch him. His gaze locked on hers as his body became part of her until he filled her. There was no pain. There was only delight. And more tension. Her muscles clenched around him. He pushed higher inside her, and she felt an odd fluttering sensation. Then he waited, watching her. She pulled him towards her for another kiss. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Permission for anything. Everything. She wanted all of him.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, yes.’

His first thrust was careful. The effort of control was etched on his face. Another thrust, harder this time. She was learning how to hold him and release him. Another thrust, and she felt the tension inside her building. They were finding a common rhythm now. Thrust, cling, release, thrust. Still he watched her. Still she held his gaze, seeing her pleasure reflected on his face, the power of giving that pleasure making her bolder, making her match his thrust with a tilt of her hips, holding him higher, clinging to him tighter, until her climax took her, sending her spiralling higher than she had ever flown, and Finlay cried out, pulling himself free of her to spend himself with an equally hoarse cry that was her name, and something in his native tongue she did not understand.

* * *

Afterwards, she could not sleep. She was afraid to speak. They lay entwined, skin on skin, watching the stars, listening to the whickering of the horses, the gentle burble of a distant stream. Finlay held her as if she was made of glass and he was afraid she might break. She clung to him as if she was afraid she would drown in a sea of emotion. As the waves of pleasure ebbed and the euphoria of their coupling faded, she was left feeling oddly desolate.

She felt the brush of his lips on her hair. His hand tightened possessively around her flank. She moved, burrowing closer. If she could climb inside his skin, she would. If she could live inside his skin, she would. That was when it struck her.

‘Madre de Dios.’

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ Her heart skipped a beat, then began to beat harder, as if she had been running. Madre de Dios. She was in love. Isabella closed her eyes in pain. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so blind? Of course she was in love with this man. Had she not just made love to him with her body and her mind, too? She was in love. Of all the foolish things she had done, surely this was the worst.

Finlay’s lips brushed her hair again. She found his hand, twining her fingers in his. Tears stung behind her lids. She could not let them fall. He would think she regretted what they had just done. Her heart began to slow. She did not regret it. She lifted his hand to hers and kissed his knuckles. She would never regret it, but he must never find out. She had already given him enough to feel guilty about. This— No, he must not know this. He cared deeply for her, she did not doubt that, but there was no question, none at all, of any possible future for them.

Despite this, she allowed herself to dream for a few precious moments. To imagine that they could lie like this every night, wrapped in each other’s loving embrace. That he could make love to her every night, spending himself inside her, in the hope of creating a new human life forged by them both. She allowed herself to dream of a little farm—no, croft—in the Highlands. They would attend the church in the longhouse he had described to her. Their children would play with the children of his three sisters. Everyone from the village would dance at their wedding. She would learn to cook, and to weave, and Finlay would...

Enough of this schoolgirl fantasy! The cold reality was that it was impossible for her to set foot on British soil. Furthermore, if it were known that he was harbouring El Fantasma, Major Finlay Urquhart would be court-martialled and most likely hanged. No, she had to vanish off the face of the earth and resurface in America under an assumed identity, and Finlay had to return to Britain in order to complete his mission and convince Wellington that El Fantasma had been eliminated. Failure to do that would also likely lead to him being hanged, this time for desertion.

Isabella sighed. If only things were different, he could sail with her to the New World. In America, there would be opportunity for any number of adventures. Stupid! If things were different, she would not have to go to America. If things were different, she would not have met Finlay again, and she would not be lying here under the stars, her body still tingling from his lovemaking. Time to stop dreaming and face facts. She was leaving everything behind, including her country and her family, everything she knew and loved. She had kept the pain of this at bay by simply avoiding thinking of it, but she knew, when she was alone, that it would come. She loved Finlay with all her heart. Which did not mean asking him to give up everything, as she had, and come away with her. No, what it meant was to ensure the exact opposite was the case. For his sake. And she’d better make damned sure she remembered that over the next few days.

The stars were beginning to fade. Isabella turned her face into Finlay’s chest. An errant tear escaped. She rubbed her cheek against the hard wall of muscle, hoping he would not notice.

He pulled her closer. ‘Try to sleep for a bit,’ he said softly. ‘We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

And a long, empty future ahead of her after that, Isabella thought. But she was not given to self-pity, and would not indulge in it now. ‘In less than a week, I will be at sea,’ she said with forced cheer. ‘If the boat is still waiting.’

‘It will be there. Jack gave his word,’ Finlay said heavily, unwittingly killing the tiny spark of hope.

‘Good,’ said Isabella bracingly. ‘That is at least one less thing to worry about.’

* * *

They were on their way before dawn had fully broken. The mountains to the east obscured the sunrise, and the dull, tarnished silver clouds above absorbed much of the sun’s light when it finally did make an appearance. Finlay fought the desolation that threatened to envelop him. He was not by nature morose, nor given to railing against fate, but as he looked at the woman riding by his side and tried to imagine life without her, his rage verged on the biblical.

Why the devil had the fates thrown them together like this, if they were so intent on pulling the pair of them asunder? Bloody fates. And bloody Wellington. The man was power mad. And he was a mite too bloody cautious. What did it matter that El Fantasma could tell a few tales that would embarrass him? True, a few of those tales would stir up quite a storm, but the duke was riding so high on the wave of triumph fuelled by the victory at Waterloo that Finlay reckoned even the revelation that Wellington was in the habit of eating bairns for breakfast wouldn’t cost him the political career he was hankering after. Bloody Wellington.

And while he was at it, bloody Jack, too. Jack could have told Wellington to stick his orders where the sun didn’t shine. Jack wasn’t even in the army anymore. But no, Jack and his principles had to take up El Fantasma’s cause, and Jack knew Finlay a bit too damned well, catching him when he was kicking his heels, desperate for orders. Any orders. Some bloody friend.

Finlay’s hands tightened on his reins, and his horse started. Quick as a flash, Isabella’s hand reached for his rein. ‘It’s fine. I was dwamming,’ he said, getting the horse back under control. ‘It means daydreaming.’

She smiled at him. It was a forced smile. Her big golden eyes were shadowed with something that looked distinctly like unhappiness. ‘You looked angry. I am sorry if...’

He was immediately contrite. ‘Don’t apologise. I’m like a bear with a sore heid, but it’s not your fault, Isabella.’

‘You do not regret last night?’

‘No. Dear heavens, no.’ He pulled up beside her, and she brought her horse to a halt. ‘Isabella, last night was— It was...’ Everything. The urge to tell her was powerful. ‘It was perfect,’ Finlay said. ‘I only hope that you do not...’

‘No, I don’t regret it. For me it was also—perfect. Only today, I think that I am a little sad, knowing that soon I will be saying goodbye to you.’ Her voice wobbled, but she smiled again valiantly. ‘Of course I am very much looking forward to my new life, but I will—I will miss you, Finlay.’

Dear God. There was a sheen of tears in her eyes. She was so brave. He loved her so much. He should thank Jack and Wellington and the fates for throwing them together instead of cursing them for it. If he had not come here to Spain, he would never have known what love was. And if he had not come here to Spain, Isabella would have...

Finlay shuddered. She was safe. They would not get their hands on her, even if he had to die saving her. She was safe and she was getting the chance of a new life. Without him, but a life. He must remember that. He leaned over in the saddle to kiss her softly. ‘I will miss you, too, Isabella. You are a woman like no other. I am glad, and I am honoured, that I have had the chance to know you.’

So much less than he felt, but it was enough, it seemed. She blushed. ‘And I, too, Finlay. Glad and deeply honoured.’