The Soldier's Rebel Lover

The entrance to the wine cellars was through a huge trapdoor set in the floor of the main pressing room. The heavy oak and iron hinges were lifted by means of a pulley that Isabella attached to the ringed handle. Finlay found it turned very easily, revealing a steep set of stone steps disappearing into the gloom below.

‘This is the original entrance. There is another, much wider one, cut when oak casks were introduced to the process, but I thought you would like to see this,’ Isabella said.

She was wearing a long cloak over her cotton gown. The thick walls of the winery’s working buildings kept the rooms cool. The air coming up from the cellar entrance was chilly. Finlay was glad of his coat. Isabella lit two lamps and handed him one. ‘Be careful—the steps are very worn in places.’

His instinct was to insist on going first, but he managed to restrain himself and follow in her wake, just as he had done on the hillside track two years previously. The staircase was narrow enough for him to touch the rock on either side. In places as they descended, the arched roof was no more than a few inches from the top of his head. Isabella moved sure-footedly, swiftly enough for her cloak to flutter out behind her. Señora Romero was in the right of it; Isabella was obviously no stranger to this place.

As they stopped at the bottom of the steps and Finlay lifted his lamp high, he whistled. ‘What a place for a wean to play.’

‘Wane?’

‘Wean, bairn, child,’ he clarified.

‘Ah, yes. When I was a little girl I loved to come here.’

‘I’ll bet you did. It’s absolutely cavernous.’

‘Oh, this is just the beginning. Wait till you see.’

The passageway led off in both directions. They turned to the right through an arched entranceway into a wider corridor, one side of which was stacked high with oak barrels. The individual cellars themselves led off the passage, each with vaulted ceilings cut directly out of the limestone. Dusty bottles, some shrouded with cobwebs, lay in wooden racks, stacked along every wall and set in islands on the stone floors.

‘Each cellar is devoted to a different vintage,’ Isabella told him, pointing to the marked boards. ‘Farther along there are some very old vintages, indeed. This year’s wine is still maturing in the casks, which are stored on the other side of the cellars.’

The lamps made shadows on the pale limestone. As they made their way farther into the cellars the rooms became smaller, the ceilings lower. ‘So you and your brother played here as children, then,’ Finlay said, looking round one of the smallest rooms, where the bottles were encrusted by a thick film of dust.

‘I told you, Xavier has a fear of very small spaces, he rarely comes down here if he can help it.’

‘And you—you are not afraid of the rats, señorita? I’d imagine there are plenty down here.’

‘They are more afraid of me than I of them.’

There seemed to be another archway at the end of the room, smaller than the rest, and the gap covered by one of the tall wine racks. ‘What’s through here?’ Finlay asked.

‘Nothing. It is blocked off.’ Isabella put her lamp down on a small table in the centre of the room, and after a few moments’ pondering in front of one of the racks, selected a bottle. Blowing the dust off the neck, she produced a corkscrew from a cupboard built into the table and expertly opened the bottle, sniffing the cork delicately. ‘It is far too cold, of course, and it should be allowed to breathe, but this is one of our better wines, I think you’ll find.’

Two glasses were produced from the same cupboard. They sat down on the stools by the table, and Isabella poured the wine. ‘Salud!’

‘Salud!’ The wine was soft and fruity, to Finlay’s untutored palate. ‘It’s very nice,’ he said, taking a second appreciative sip.

Isabella laughed. ‘I hope you manage to be a little more enthusiastic with Xavier.’

‘It’s extremely nice?’ he suggested, grinning.

Isabella picked up her glass. ‘You must first talk to him about the nose,’ she said, swirling the wine around before sniffing. ‘So this one, it is sweet, like cherry, do you smell it?’

Finlay nodded, mimicking her actions, though his eyes were on Isabella. She was explaining the layers of taste now, swirling the wine around in her mouth. There was a cobweb clinging to her hair. Her eyes really were golden, like a tiger’s. And her mouth— He had an absurd wish to be the wine swirling around in her mouth. Her lips would taste of it. What had she said, cherries? Yes, her lips would taste of cherries, and...

‘You are not tasting, Mr—Finlay.’

He took a sip of wine. ‘Cherries,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘Strawberries,’ he answered, looking at her mouth.

‘Really? I do not...’

Finlay leaned over to touch his lips to hers. ‘Strawberries,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’ He tucked back a silky strand of hair from her face and pressed his mouth to the pulse behind her ear. ‘Lavender?’

‘My soap.’