The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘I believe we do,’ Finlay said with a smile he hoped was reassuring. He believed quite the contrary, but what to do about it, he needed to consider. He watched her go, standing in the shadow of one of the tall trees. She walked with the long, graceful stride he remembered until she came within sight of the house, when she stopped abruptly, looking up at one of the windows. When she resumed, her walk had that slow, floating grace that made her look as if she was gliding. He could tell from the line of her neck that her gaze was demurely lowered.

Was she playing the part of a lady for whoever was watching, or had she played the part of the feisty partisan to keep Finlay sweet—and quiet? Had she kissed him for the same reason? Had he initiated the kiss or she? He could remember only that he had wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted to kiss any woman for quite some time. Had she pretended to enjoy it as much as he had?

He cursed in Gaelic under his breath. ‘Kisses are not the point here,’ he told himself. ‘Forget the kisses and concentrate on what you came here for. You need to get her to give you the information you need, or decide she’s not going to, in which case you will need to rethink your strategy.’

Consulting his pocket watch, he cursed again. Señor Romero would be waiting to take him on the promised tour of the vineyards, a prospect Finlay was far from relishing, not least for fear of betraying his own ignorance. It was such a waste of time, too, and he had no idea how much time he had if he was to beat the Spanish to El Fantasma. It would be much more constructive to spend the time with Isabella. Much more constructive, and considerably more appealing, Finlay thought, shuddering as he anticipated long hours of Xavier’s obsequious condescension. He had to find a way of swapping the brother for the sister after today. It would be a challenge, but Finlay relished a challenge.

* * *

Isabella sat in the shade of a tree while her horse drank from a small stream. Taking advantage of the fact that Xavier was too engrossed in showing the Scotsman around the estate to wonder what his sister was doing, she had ridden out without an escort. She was hot and tired, but the tension she had hoped to work off was, if anything, aggravated.

She had to clear her head. She had to try to think straight. Take a step back. Gain perspective. Something. Isabella got to her feet and pulled off the long boots and stockings she wore under her riding habit. Picking up her skirts, she scrabbled down the banks into the stream, gasping as the icy water that tumbled down from the mountains caressed her skin.

It was painful and exhilarating at the same time. It struck her as pathetic that she was reduced to obtaining pleasure from paddling in a mountain stream. When Finlay Urquhart had kissed her this morning, it had been just like this, only more. Who would have thought that a man’s lips could have such an effect? She had felt wild, locked in his embrace. She had felt strangely free.

But what a stupid mess she had made of it afterwards. Isabella waded over to a large boulder in the middle of the burbling water and sat down, tilting her face up to the sun. Gabriel had never attempted to kiss her. Was it because it would be improper until they were betrothed, or because he did not want to? She tried to imagine kissing Gabriel, but instead of his dark good looks, she could picture only the Scotsman’s fascinating blue eyes, his wicked smile, the glint of his auburn hair. There was a recklessness about him that had appealed to her that night they had spent together two years ago. It still appealed.

Xavier would be utterly furious if he knew that his sister had been kissing a mere wine merchant. Isabella laughed, but her smile faded almost immediately. She had behaved shockingly. She had spoken much too freely. But, oh, it had been so good to do so. For long moments, she had been herself with the Scotsman. It had been a relief not to pretend that the Isabella he’d met before had never existed. It had felt so good. She longed to be that woman again, just for a little while. She would like to spend more time in his company, to cross conversational swords with him. He spoke to her as if she had a mind of her own. It made her realise, sadly, that almost no other man of her acquaintance did, save those she knew from the war, and they were now in a minority of one.