The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Chapter Twelve

They descended from the heights of La Puebla down a steep zigzag path and into the valley below through which the Zadorra River flowed, the site of the bloody Battle of Vitoria. It was a peaceful place, nature having reclaimed the battlefield, leaving little trace of the countless lives lost and the oceans of blood spilled more than two years before. Peaceful now that was, but Isabella sensed a certain melancholy linger in the air. Perhaps she was being fanciful, but she gave an involuntary shudder as she took in the scene.

‘It is hard to believe that this particular engagement could have been so decisive,’ she said, making a sweeping gesture.

‘There were more than ten thousand casualties in total,’ Finlay said grimly. ‘Our army lost three and a half thousand men. Five hundred Spanish died. Can anything be worth so many lives, so much sacrifice?’

The British and their allies had been positioned on the western banks of the river, he had told her. Isabella stared at the rural scene, trying to imagine the serried ranks of soldiers numbering in the thousands, the field-gun placements firing salvo after merciless salvo, the sound of muskets, the acrid smell of gunpowder as it drifted across the battlefield in a thick pall of smoke. She could not, but Finlay, his eyes blank, staring off into the distance, clearly could. ‘They say it was a pivotal moment, the turning point in the war,’ Isabella offered.

‘Aye. That’s what they always say when the body count climbs that high.’

‘But in this case, surely it is true. Not long after the Battle of Vitoria was won, Napoleon’s army was in retreat. The occupation of Spain was over.’

‘And you were free to build a new world, eh? Remind me how is that working out again.’

The bitterness in Finlay’s voice took Isabella aback. The viciousness of his barb stung. ‘You think it would have been better if the French had won?’

‘I think it would have been better if we had not had to fight at all,’ he said. ‘The French left wagons full of the spoils of war behind as they fled, did you know that? Not just gold, but all sorts. Our men plundered it. They went mad. Discipline broke down entirely. There was no stopping them. Bloodlust, that’s what it was. I hope you never witnessed it, Isabella. War can make a man less than human. I saw it with my own eyes but it is only now, with the benefit of some perspective that I begin to see how distasteful the whole bloody enterprise is. An enterprise that I was proud to be part of.’

‘But you did not behave...’

‘No,’ he said tersely, ‘I did not. Wellington called them the scum of the earth in a dispatch. The common soldier, who had won his precious victory, who had followed orders that took him hundreds of miles from home, tramped hundreds of miles across this country of yours, starving at times, suffering illness at others, frozen to the marrow often enough. Their wives trailing in their wake, too, some with bairns, having to suffer the same privations. And Wellington rewards them by calling them the scum of the earth.’

‘Because they committed atrocities, Finlay.’

He looked at her bleakly. ‘What is war itself, Isabella, if not an atrocity, an affront to humanity?’

‘No. Don’t say that. Don’t talk like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are a soldier, and fighting wars is what you do. You have spent your life saving the lives of others, forging peace, making the world a safer place, a better place. The wars you have fought have been just wars, Finlay. You are an honourable man, a brave man. You are Major Urquhart, the Jock Upstart. All your life, you have served your country, done your duty. You should be proud of that legacy.’

She finished in a rush, eyeing him anxiously. Every word she had spoken was true, but this rousing little speech had not the effect she intended. If anything, Finlay looked even more bleak. ‘In England, all anyone wants to talk about is the great victory of Waterloo. Children re-enact the battle with their little toy soldiers. If you tell a woman you were there, you’re guaranteed a grateful embrace. Wellington is toasted at every dinner party in London. Yet the men who won that battle for him, many of them are starving now. So many died or were wounded in all these wars we fought against the French, the country can’t afford to pay the pensions they’re entitled to. They’ll do anything to wriggle out of paying a widow, you know. They’ll tell a man it’s his own fault that he lost his legs, not the army’s. Jack was railing against the injustice of it when we discussed my mission here. I begin to see that he was absolutely right. You are not the only one, Isabella, whose hopes of a better future have been dashed.’

‘If Napoleon had not been defeated, the world would most likely be a worse place.’

He smiled at her wryly. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? Spain was on the winning side, was it not? And by your own admission, your country has gone backwards and not forward.’

She took his hand in hers, though she doubted the small gesture afforded him a tithe of the comfort she longed to give him. ‘You cannot mean that you wish Wellington had been defeated.’

‘No, of course not. But I wonder, I am truly beginning to wonder, if I have it in me to fight any more wars on his behalf. Or anyone else’s. I am getting tired of taking orders. I’m thinking it might be time I took my life into my own hands.’

‘Come with me to America, then,’ she said, before she could catch the words.

He touched her cheek. ‘They’d execute me for desertion if they caught me, not to mention the shame it would bring to my family and the stain on my character. No, whatever I do, I have to go back.’

‘You are not a man to run away from anything, are you, Finlay?’

‘You know me very well. Indeed, I am not.’

‘I wasn’t being serious about you coming with me,’ Isabella said, who had actually never been more serious in her whole life. ‘The Duke of Wellington might very well be persuaded that El Fantasma has been killed, since it is what he fervently hopes to hear, but his Jock Upstart leads a charmed life. He would know it was a ruse if you did not return.’

‘Aye, like as not.’ Finlay tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. This morning I was a bear with a sore heid, and now I’m having a fit of the blue devils. You’ll be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Aye,’ she said, ‘like as not.’

He was forced to laugh. ‘I’m thinking, once we leave Vitoria, it will be a hard and dangerous push to the coast. The boat will be waiting on standby at San Sebastian. She’s a fishing boat. The captain is one of Jack’s connections. A fine sailor, he assures me. He’ll take you on to Lisbon, where you’ll pick up a cargo ship bound for the New World. I’m afraid I don’t know the detail—that has been left in the hands of the fisherman. You can trust him with your life, Jack says...’

‘Finlay, you need not worry about me. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Trust me.’

‘I do. I have every faith in you. But I wish...’

‘No.’ Isabella put her finger to his lips. ‘Wheesht, now,’ she said. ‘You have saved my life. You have given me the chance of another life. That is a priceless gift, Finlay. I promise you, I will make the most of it in return.’

‘I know you will.’

‘So let us have no more of it.’ She looked up at the lowering sky. ‘It’s going to rain. We should think about finding somewhere to camp for the night.’

‘We’ll not be camping rough. Tonight you’ll have the bath and the feather bed I promised you.’ He shook his head when she made to protest. ‘It’s the last chance you’ll get for quite some time. Like I said, the authorities are likely to be hot on our tail all the way to the coast.’

‘Then they are likely to be here, in Vitoria, Finlay.’

He smiled at her. ‘One advantage I have, of having been in this place before, is that I made a few trustworthy acquaintances, and one of them just happens to be an innkeeper. You shall have a hot bath and a comfortable bed, and you shall be quite safe.’

‘Will you share it with me?’

He raised a quizzical brow. ‘The bath?’

‘I meant the bed, but you are welcome to share both. More than welcome. Very much more. It will be our last chance. I would like...’

‘Yes.’ He caught her in a tight embrace. ‘Yes. I would like that. More than like that. Very much more.’

* * *

Alesander Gebara, proprietor of the Hosteria Vasca, greeted Finlay like a long-lost brother, and seemed not at all surprised when informed of the need for discretion. ‘They are looking for an Englishman, the soldiers. You,’ he said, poking Finlay playfully in the chest, ‘are Scottish. So when they come again tonight, I can say no, no, I have seen no English. But it will be best, I think, if I serve you dinner in the privacy of your chamber.’

The inn was ancient, a veritable warren of narrow corridors and rickety staircases, but it had a charm all of its own. The bedchamber Señor Gebara ushered them into was low ceilinged, the heavy, dark oak exposed beams ran at odd angles and a massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, while an imposing tester bed took up most of the floor space, leaving room only for a small table and two chairs set in the window embrasure, and a chest of drawers tucked into a corner.

The innkeeper set about a flurry of activity, summoning a chambermaid to air the bed and set the fire. Another maid was put in charge of the bathing arrangements while Señor Gebara himself brought refreshments from the taproom. ‘The finest Rioja in the region,’ he said, pouring a glass for each of them.

Isabella took a sip and smilingly informed her host that it was indeed the best she had ever tasted, but she could not help thinking of her brother as she did so. Xavier would be safe as long as the Spanish soldiers were searching for her, but when they were forced to admit defeat, what then? Would the influence her brother wielded really be sufficient to keep him safe from harm?

She would never know. The knowledge gave her a sickening jolt. She would never know. A mixture of panic and fear made her feel faint. She couldn’t do this. She had thought herself so strong; she had prided herself on her courage and her daring. What a fool she had been. She was absolutely terrified. She couldn’t do this. She simply couldn’t.

A warm hand slid around her waist, pulling her up against a strong, solid body. Finlay’s smile was warm, too, his sea-blue eyes reassuring. He believed in her. When she had told him how worried she was about letting him down, he’d said she could not. The mist of her panic began to recede. She wouldn’t let him down. She would never let him down. Isabella smiled back. Finlay settled her more firmly against him, and returned to his conversation with Señor Gebara.

Isabella listened, sipping at her wine, enjoying the comfort of Finlay’s physical proximity, gradually beginning to relax again. It took two maids to carry the enormous copper bath into the room, which they then placed behind screens in front of the now blazing fire. The room was becoming delightfully warm. Steam rose from behind the screens as bucket after bucket of hot water was poured into the bath. The two men were talking of Spain, the changes since the British army and the French had left. The innkeeper sounded very like Estebe. It was not only his accent but the repressed passion that underscored his words. She wondered if he had ever read any of El Fantasma’s pamphlets. But Señor Gebara was clearly a prosperous man, his business thriving. He had a wife and a child now, he’d told Finlay. Such a man would not risk all he’d built, would he?

He caught her staring, and smiled warmly at her. He had a very nice smile. He was not much older than Finlay. ‘Forgive me, señora, I have allowed my tongue to run away with itself, talking of the old days. So many times, I have wondered what became of the Jock Upstart. Not that I doubted he would survive, because—what is it you always said, Finlay?’

‘A man who is born to be hanged can never be drowned.’

Señor Gebara laughed. ‘That is it, that is it. I am very pleased indeed to see that you are still evading your fate. Those soldiers... If they knew they were chasing the Jock Upstart, they would give up and go back to Madrid. You need have no fear, señora. While you have this man to protect you, you are perfectly safe.’

‘Ach, you don’t know the señora here,’ Finlay said. ‘She’s more than capable of protecting herself.’

‘A fellow soldier.’ The innkeeper nodded. ‘I see now why she has your heart, my friend. I am very glad that you, too, have found a woman to share your life.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘I lost my betrothed in the war,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought I would never love again, but my Maria, she has shown me that the human spirit is a strong thing, the human heart even stronger. I hope you are as happy with this Jock Upstart, señora, as I am with my Maria.’

Isabella did not need Finlay to caution her. She was pleased to be able to maintain the innkeeper’s misapprehension, to speak the truth for once. ‘I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy,’ she said. ‘None.’

* * *

Alesander left with promises to serve them the best dinner the region could provide in an hour. It was good to see his old friend and ally so happy, but Finlay couldn’t help envying the man, too. Alesander had made a new life for himself. Who’d have thought that the wild, bold and fearless guerrilla fighter he’d known would be so content running an inn? Though the way he’d spoken, Finlay would not be surprised to hear that Alesander was still, in his own quiet way, fighting for a better life for his wife and child. Not so very different after all from the man he’d known? Perhaps.

‘I like your friend very much,’ Isabella said. She was standing at the window, her cheek on the pane. ‘Finlay, do you not think that he is in the right of it? The human spirit is a very strong thing. Your friend has made a new life for himself. I would like it so much—so very, very much, if I could believe you could, too.’

He joined her at the window. She clutched his hand tightly. There were tears sparkling on her long lashes. She looked up at him beseechingly. I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy, she had said to Alesander. She had said it to maintain their cover, he knew that, but her words had, to his pathetically desperate heart, seemed to carry an undertone of truth. She did care, though. Best not to think about how much; he was heartsore enough.

‘Finlay?’

She wanted an answer. She needed the reassurance of an answer. He tried, he tried bloody hard, but he could not imagine what kind of new life he’d forge for himself, and he would not lie to her. ‘Isabella,’ he said, kissing the tears from her lids, ‘we’ve only got tonight before we spend a lifetime apart. Let’s not think about anything else. Not tonight.’

Her lips were soft, sweet, shaped perfectly for his. He ached for her in a new way. The desire was just as fierce, but his need to cherish her, to meld himself to her, to be as one with her, was so much stronger. They would make love, but not yet. He wanted to spin out every single moment of time with her, to be everything to her as she was to him, just for tonight, because tonight was all they would have. He had to make it enough for the memory to last forever.

He had never shared anything so intimate as a bath before. They undressed each other slowly in the fading light, lit only by the glow of the fire, and Finlay discovered that he was wrong about the urgency, the need, the desire, as they touched and stroked, and kissed and licked. The pace was not only his to set. Isabella, his beautiful, feisty Isabella, had a passion to match his. When she pulled him down onto the rug by the fire, he was hers to command. Her mouth, her hands, her hips, captured him as no other had. When she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her inch by gut-wrenching, achingly delightful inch, he moaned her name, could not resist telling her, in his own language, how much he loved her. They found their rhythm quickly. She seemed to know him instinctively, when to rock on top of him slowly and when to buck and thrust urgently. She came with wild abandon, her climax making him lose control, his own so powerful that he managed, only just, to lift her safely from him at the last second.

* * *

She would shed her skin for this man. There was nothing she would not do for him. Lying in his arms, her heart thudding wildly, her body singing with pleasure, Isabella closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to his heartbeat and whispered her love. She had behaved without any inhibitions because, quite simply, she had none with Finlay. He knew her as no one else ever had. Or would.

Pushing this last mournful thought to one side, Isabella sat up. They would have tonight. She was going to make the most of it. ‘The bath,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You promised you would join me.’

‘It will be a tight fit,’ he said, smiling back.

It was his wicked smile. It seemed she was not, after all, completely sated. ‘I think you have already proved that to both our satisfaction,’ Isabella said with a wicked smile of her own.

He laughed then, getting to his feet, his muscles rippling, picking her up and holding her high against him, flesh to flesh, skin to skin, and stepped with her into the bath. He set her down carefully. They stood facing each other and kissed again. The water was still warm. After the icy streams they had washed in of late, it felt hot.

Finlay picked up a tin pitcher and poured water over her. Her skin, alight with his lovemaking, felt every trickle. Another pitcher full. Then the soap. The lather made his hands slippery. His fingers slid over her shoulders, down her arms, back up to her breasts. Her body thrummed with anticipation.

Isabella picked up the jug. There was a delicious ache in postponing pleasure. Water trickled down Finlay’s chest, clinging to the rough hair there. Another pitcher full of water. She took the soap from him and began to lather. Her fingers slipped and slid over his skin, finding the ridges of old scars. They were long healed. Some were just the faintest of shadows; others ran deeper.

‘Where did you get this one?’ she asked, and he told her. ‘And this one?’ she asked. ‘And this one?’ There were scars on his shoulders. On his belly. On his thighs. The long, vicious scar on his back was from Corunna, he said. She kissed each one. When her lips reached the base of that worst marking, he turned her round, taking her into his arms. Their bodies slid together, against each other, adhering to each other with the soapsuds, and she forgot about the scars and concentrated on kissing him. By the time they finally stepped from the tub, the water was cold.

* * *

Dinner was, as Alesander had promised, excellent. Hearty Basque cuisine, venison in a rich wine stew flavoured with the blood sausages that reminded Finlay of home. They ate at the little table by the window, watching the bustle on the street below, for it was the hour of the paseo. Isabella wore one of his shirts. Another first. They’d also managed a couple of other firsts in the bath there, he thought with a grin.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Isabella asked.

‘What do you think?’

She chuckled. ‘I think that we are not going to be doing much sleeping in that big comfortable bed.’

‘You’re not tired, then?’

She shook her head. ‘I have the rest of my life to catch up on my sleep.’ Her smile wobbled, and his heart lurched in response, but before he could say anything, she had recovered, and took a reviving sip of wine. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘that your scars, they are like a chart of all the places you have been, all the battles you have fought.’

‘My body is like a campaign map, right enough,’ Finlay said, twirling his half-empty glass around on the table. ‘I’m thinking that I’ve scarcely room for any more entries, nor desire for them.’

Isabella reached for his hand and gently moved the glass away. ‘Today, at the site of that terrible battle, and seeing Señor Gebara, too, has brought back horrible memories, things you do not want to think about. I am so sorry.’

Finlay shook his head firmly. ‘I’m not.’ He stretched his legs out, and pushed his plate aside. ‘It’s how we keep going, when we’re at war—not thinking about it. It’s a habit they teach you in the army, not thinking about it, for if you do, you’d not survive. Or you’d run. Or worse.’ He glanced over at Isabella. ‘Some men can’t live with the memories, you know.’

She paled. ‘I did not know. Finlay, I...’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intentions of doing anything daft. Quite the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told you, it was a good thing, seeing that place again. And seeing Alesander. It’s given me pause for thought.’ He twined his fingers in hers. ‘You’ve made me question things. Right from the first moment we met, to be honest, you’ve forced me to confront a lot of unpalatable truths.’

‘Me?’

He smiled at her incredulous tone. ‘Aye, you. You’ve a habit of asking the kind of awkward questions that I prefer to avoid. Such as what I’ll do now that Wellington has brought us a peace that seems like to last.’

‘There will always be other wars to fight, Finlay.’

‘There will,’ he said sadly. ‘Indeed, there will, but I’m done with fighting other people’s battles. If this battered body of mine has to be inflicted with any more scars, I’d like them to be of my own devising.’

‘What does that mean?’

He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, lass. Despite my nickname, I’ve never really been an upstart, never been anything but unswervingly loyal to my country and my so-called superior officers, but where has it got me? And then there’s you. Look at you. Look what a love of your country has made of you. An exile. A traitor.’

‘Our cases are not the same.’

‘They are more similar than I’d have thought when first I came here. Like you, I’m done with soldiering.’

Across from him, Isabella looked shocked, though when she made to speak, Finlay shook his head. ‘I mean it,’ he said, and found with surprise that he did. ‘I’ve never in my life thought to be anything but a soldier, but now I’m done with it, and what’s more, I’m looking forward to telling Wellington so.’

‘What will he say?’

The question gave him pause, for despite his opinion of the man, as a soldier, Finlay had never had anything other than respect for the duke, and—if he was being really honest, which he might as well be now—no little awe. Not that he’d have to actually face the duke if he resigned. But would he feel he’d truly resigned unless he did? Wasn’t it his duty, and didn’t he always do his duty? He’d not be letting himself down at the last, that was for sure. Finlay shook his head again. ‘I don’t know what he’ll say, though I’ll find out soon enough.’

‘So you will confront him, then,’ Isabella said, with that uncanny ability to read his mind. ‘Even though you do not need to?’

‘As you said, I’m not a man to run away.’ Finlay got to his feet and began to stack the dishes onto a tray.

‘No. You are a man who does his duty. Even when he does not wish to.’

Thinking of tomorrow, he thought she’d never said a truer word. He did not want to think about tomorrow. Finlay set the tray outside the door. ‘Talking of wishes,’ he said, turning the key in the lock, ‘I’ve a few you could help me with, if you’re so inclined.’

He was relieved to see the shadow of melancholy leave her eyes, the sensuous tilt return to her lips. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

Finlay picked her up, setting her gently down on the bed. She stretched her arms over her head, stretching the hem of his shirt she wore up to the top of her thighs. He could see the shadow of her nipples, dark through the white cotton. Her hair was spread out like silk on the pillows.

‘I await your orders,’ she said.

Finlay pulled his shirt over his head and hurriedly stepped out of his breeches. ‘Then, lie back,’ he said, kneeling between her legs, ‘close your eyes and surrender.’

* * *

The following morning Señor Gebara brought their breakfast personally, tapping softly on the door just before daybreak. Finlay set the tray down on the table by the window and returned to the bed, pulling Isabella back into his arms. ‘The horses will be ready in half an hour. Alesander has provided us with some supplies, enough to get us to the coast, he says. We’ll be two, maybe three days, on the road.’

‘Then, we should make haste,’ Isabella said, making no move.

‘Aye.’

Finlay pulled her tighter. They had lain like this all night, in the sleepy intervals between their passionate lovemaking. Time had seemed suspended; the hours had stretched, seemingly endlessly ahead, until now. Now, as he ran his palm over her flank, as he nestled his chin into her hair, as she pressed herself closer, close enough for their hearts to beat against each other, time began to gallop out of control.

A few more minutes, Isabella thought. She just needed a few more minutes, and then she would be ready. She wrapped her arms tighter around Finlay’s waist. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat. She felt the stirrings of his arousal and pressed tighter. His erection hardened. She wriggled. She felt his sharp intake of breath. And then his resolute shifting.

‘Isabella...’

She leaped from the bed, tearing herself away from him, because the alternative was to cry and to cling, and she would not do that to him. She had promised she would not let him, or herself, down. ‘Is that fresh coffee? Would you like some?’

She began to dress. The very thoughtful Señor Gebara had had her undergarments laundered, her habit and boots brushed clean of the dust of the road. She was aware of Finlay watching her as she snatched at clothes and pulled them on, pouring coffee, wittering on about the fresh bread, the salty cheese, the smoky ham, as if she cared about anything other than the fact that every minute, every second, took them inexorably towards their separate fates.

She sat at the table and managed to force down her breakfast without choking. Her smile was manic, she knew that even without the look Finlay gave her, but he said nothing, eating his own breakfast steadily, taking a second cup of coffee, a faint frown furrowing his brow. She had no idea what he was thinking. He had that locked-away look, already putting a distance between them as he shaved. She knew he cared for her—how could she not, after the intensity and raw emotion of their coupling? She suspected he cared more than he would ever allow her to know. But she knew, too, with absolute certainty, that he would not allow himself to care enough, and she knew with equal certainty that she would never wish him to. She was not worth the sacrifice, and he would be sacrificing everything. His family. His career—even if he no longer wanted it. More important, his honour, and Finlay was a man who must always be honourable. A man who would always do his duty. As he was doing now.

As she must do hers. Last night was their goodbye. She had vowed she would make it as easy, as painless, as guilt-free as possible for him. He was not detached; he was not indifferent. He was trying to make it easy for her. Isabella pushed her coffee cup aside and got to her feet. ‘Time to go,’ she said, straightening her shoulders, head back, like the trooper he expected. ‘Time to face the future.’

* * *

Finlay stuck to the bargain he’d made with himself for the three days and two nights it took them to reach San Sebastian. He played the soldier, as he had always played the soldier, thinking only of executing his orders as best he could, of protecting and defending Isabella’s liberty, wary at every second of potential ambush, dragging his mind back again and again to the task in hand whenever it strayed into dangerous territory. He would not think of their impending parting. He would not allow his heart to ache. He would not wish for anything other than Isabella’s safe delivery to the waiting fishing boat, and then his own execution of the final elements of Jack’s plan, which would ensure her future safety.

They stood on the final crest above the fortress town of San Sebastian, the scene of the last battle he’d fought in Spain before heading for the Pyrenees in pursuit of the retreating French army. Below, the bay was fringed by a perfect, beautiful crescent of golden sand. A small islet was set like a jewel in the middle of the bay, breaking up the softly rolling waves. It reminded him of Oban bay, in some respects. The distinctively shaped Basque fishing boats, their hulls, to his Highland eyes, so vertiginous and bulky that he found it difficult to believe, looking at them bobbing in the protective embrace of the harbour wall, that they wouldn’t simply topple over in the lightest of swells. Isabella was bound for one of those boats. Isabella was bound for that sea, in the directly opposite direction he would take.

Isabella, his lovely Isabella, who had been so brave and so stoic, these past few days. Not a tear had she shed, nor a word of complaint had she uttered. Not a mention of that perfect night they’d shared had she made. No regrets. No looking back. Only onward, forward, to the new life she would forge. A new life in a new world. A world he would not inhabit.

His gut clenched. He thought he might be sick. The breeze ruffled her hair. She dipped her head to make some adjustment to her reins, and he thought he caught a glimpse of tears. Though it might be the wind. His heart contracted. His stomach roiled. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Fear. He was desperately afraid of losing her. He knew at that moment, knew despite all, that he could not let her go.

‘Isabella.’

She turned to face him. Tears. They were tears, but she forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. I will be fine. It is just— I will be fine,’ she said.

She was trying to reassure him. Hope did not spring, it burst forth like the first snowdrop of the year. A fragile shoot, but determinedly pushing itself towards the sun. He hadn’t allowed himself to consider how deeply her feelings for him ran; he had been too concerned with damping down his own, but if she cared even a fraction as much as he did...

‘Isabella...’

‘Finlay, don’t worry. I won’t let you down. I am—I am ready.’

She straightened in the saddle, determined to play the soldier she thought he expected, and it was his undoing. ‘Isabella, I love you so much. My own heart, I love you. I can’t let you go without me.’

* * *

She thought she had misheard him. She must have misheard him. She opened her mouth, but no words came. She could only stare stupidly.

‘Isabella.’

Finlay jumped down from his horse and pulled her from the saddle. These past few days, in their wild race across the mountains, his face had been set, his expression steadfastly distant. He had played the commanding officer, she had played the foot soldier, just as they had agreed. Now the light was back in his eyes. They were the colour of the sea below. Her heart, her poor about-to-be-broken heart, began to beat faster. She couldn’t possibly hope. There was no hope. None.

‘Isabella.’ He took her hands in his. The horses were untethered, she noticed, and then immediately lost interest. ‘Isabella.’ He shook his head, grinned, shook his head, frowned. ‘I’ve never said the word before.’

Say it again, she prayed, but said nothing, in case her prayers were misguided.

‘Never. I don’t know if I should... It’s—it’s likely all wrong, only— Ach, what a blithering eejit I am. I love you. I love you with all my heart, and no amount of telling myself all these other things matter more makes a whit of difference. I love you, lass, and I don’t want to have to live without you. I don’t know what that means. I can’t make any promises, I can’t even...’

‘I don’t care!’ Isabella threw her arms around him. ‘I don’t care what or how or if. All I care about is that I love you, and if you love me, too— Do you? Do you truly love me?’

Finlay laughed. ‘Could you ever have doubted it?’

‘Yes! You never once...’

‘I could not. And you...’

‘I could not. Oh, Finlay, how could I tell you that I loved you, how could I ask you to come with me, when it would mean you giving up everything that is important to you?’

‘You are everything. You are the only thing that is, or ever will be, important to me.’

‘But your family. The army. You will be court-martialled.’ Cold reality hit her. She dragged herself free of his embrace. ‘Finlay, I love you so much. Too much. I could not do this to you, put your life in danger, ask you to...’

‘You haven’t asked me,’ Finlay said gently, pulling her back into his arms. ‘I’m offering. I don’t have much, or I won’t, not if—when—I leave with you, but without you, I have nothing. I don’t know what kind of life we’ll make, lass, but I’m asking you for the chance to build it together. Will you give me that chance?’

She wanted to. Her heart cried out yes, but her head...her head needed some convincing yet, it seemed. ‘You said it yourself, Finlay, you’re not a man to run away. You have a duty to go back, even if it is only to resign. You cannot blight your honour with the shame of desertion, and you cannot take the risk of them catching you, for you will be hanged.’

‘I will not lie to you, I would wish it otherwise. I would wish that we could both go to England together, that I could put a clean and honourable end to my career, but I can’t. There are some sacrifices worth making. I love you. My duty is to my heart now, and not my country.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat that his words, his beautiful, heartfelt words caused. ‘But your family?’

Now he did flinch. She sensed true pain there, but still he shook his head. ‘I will be sacrificing no more than you, my love. We will make a new family together. If you’ll have me. It won’t be easy. It won’t be painless. We’ll miss what we’ve lost, but we won’t have lost the most important thing of all.’

‘Each other?’

‘Each other.’

She could resist no longer. The future, which had seemed like a huge, black abyss, now spread golden before her, not perfect, not rosy or easy, but one redolent with promise. ‘I love you, Finlay Urquhart, with all my heart.’

‘And I love you, Isabella Romero, with every fragment of mine.’