The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Epilogue

Oban, Argyll—six months later

The fishing village of Oban reminded Jack Trestain a little of San Sebastian. Funny how things sometimes came full circle. The same horseshoe bay, the island a short distance offshore, the sheltering haven of the harbour, the cluster of white houses lining the front. Admittedly the gently bobbing fishing boats were shallower, longer, the sky was a paler blue and it was significantly colder, but all the same...

Had the similarity struck Finlay when he had sailed for Lisbon with his Isabella all those months ago? He had not mentioned it in his letter, but then he’d had rather more important matters to occupy him. Such as how to arrange his death, along with the death of El Fantasma.

Jack smiled wryly to himself. Who would have thought that the partisan Finlay had encountered all those years ago would turn out to be a blue-blooded Spanish lady? And who would have imagined that the blue-blooded Spanish lady would turn out to be one of Spain’s most wanted rebel partisans? ‘No one, and it’s just as well,’ he said to himself as he stepped out of the fishing boat that had carried him here, after agreeing a time for his return journey with the captain, for his visit was a fleeting one with a sole but crucial purpose.

Jack sat on the edge of the harbour wall to garner his thoughts. It had been Celeste’s idea that he come here in person. ‘For you cannot write such things in a letter, mon amour,’ she had said. It was true. What he had to say was far too politically sensitive to commit to paper, but that wasn’t what his lovely wife-to-be had meant. Finlay’s family had already received one tragic letter out of the blue, posing more questions than answers, something Celeste was only too familiar with. On this occasion, he would be there in person to answer all their questions, ease their concerns. This time, they would get the truth. Or as much of it as was prudent to furnish them with.

Finlay’s missive had come to him via heaven knew what circuitous route, but by some miracle it had not, to Jack’s very experienced eyes, been tampered with. Short and pithy, it had been shocking, but it had also made Jack smile. Clearly, Finlay was head over ears in love with his partisan, though he had naturally said no such thing. Love, as Jack had recently learned, was capable of making a man do all sorts of rash and mad things. Such as ask his best friend to fake his death. You’re a master strategist, Finlay had written. I rely on you to give me a suitably fitting end.

Well, he’d managed that, all right. The fate that had met the brave Major Urquhart in the remote, rocky mountains of Spain, was deemed heroic when reported in the British press. There had been no overt mention of El Fantasma, of course, but there had been sufficient hints to entice the Spanish chaps to ask the English chaps for more background, and the top-secret information they’d received had convinced them. El Fantasma was dead, and Major Urquhart had died, presumably at the hands of the cut-throat partisan’s accomplices, but not before successfully completing his mission. The Romero family were safe from prosecution, just as Finlay had insisted. More important, Wellington had fallen for the story, relieved that a potentially awkward political scandal had been avoided, and had even been persuaded to grant Finlay a posthumous honour.

Jack looked at the medal now, sitting in its leather case. Finlay wouldn’t be interested in it, but his father would, and Jack was pretty sure that Mr and Mrs Urquhart would be able to put their son’s military pension to good use. It had taken a good deal of strong-arming to secure that pension. Jack had to make an effort to unfurl his fist, thinking about that. It shouldn’t have proved so difficult.

He patted his coat pocket, though there was no need. The paper with Finlay’s new name and whereabouts in America was safely tucked away there, along with the letter from the bank with the arrangement for payment of the monies due each quarter. It was a risk, telling these strangers that their son was alive, but one Jack was certain to be worth taking. Secrets and lies, he had learned from his lovely Celeste, could tear a family asunder. Finlay’s family might never see him again, but their love for him would reach across the oceans that separated them in the letters they could write, and one day, perhaps, Finlay and Isabella’s children would be able to visit their father’s Highland homeland. That was a thought to warm the heart.

Jack smiled. Mawkish idiot! Love had made him a sentimental fool. His smile widened. No, love had brought him happiness. He hoped Finlay and his Isabella were as happy as he and his Celeste. Reading between the lines of that letter, he’d wager that they were.

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