The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘From my father,’ he told her when she asked. ‘He learned from his father, who most likely learned from his. There has always been a still in our family for the whisky.’

Isabella perched on the top of a finished barrel to watch as he ran his hands over the staves waiting to be formed into another barrel. ‘Will you take it over from your father, then—the farm, making the whisky?’

Finlay turned his attention to one of the finished barrels. ‘I used to joke about it in the mess, my wee Highland hame.’ He picked up a coopering hammer. ‘Some of them—the other officers, I mean—to hear them talk, you’d think I was born in a sheep pen. They think everyone north of Glasgow lives off porridge and neeps—that’s turnip, which I know you have here.’ He grinned. ‘I used to come up with some fine tall tales for them.’

‘Tell me what it is really like,’ Isabella said. ‘Your family farm, and the place where they live—it is by the sea, yes? You said before that your father has a fishing boat.’

‘He does. Nothing fancy, just a single sail. They are built wide and shallow where I come from, not like the Spanish fishing boats, and they catch very different fish.’

‘And the farm?’

‘We call it a croft. Our farmers are crofters, which means they do a bit of everything. The croft sits up on the hill above the village. The house is long and low, with a thatched roof. Half of it forms the barn for the beasts. We have harsh winters, and it rains a lot. Warm rain in the summer, freezing in the winter. I don’t miss that at all.’

‘And your sisters, do they live in the farm—croft? I think you said you had four?’

‘Three. It can feel like five or six mind, when they are all in the same room. Mhairi, Sheena and Jean. They are all married now, with their own crofts, and have a gaggle of bairns between them.’

He talked of them all with obvious affection. As she listened, Isabella couldn’t help comparing his childhood with her own. It had been harsh, there was no doubt about it, though he did not dwell on it, but they were obviously a loving family.

‘You have been back then, since the war?’ she asked. ‘I think you told me it had been many years since you had been home.’

Finlay’s smile faded. ‘Aye, I’ve been back.’

‘After such a long time away, you must have found it very changed.’

He looked troubled. ‘No, it was almost exactly the same.’

‘And your family, they were all well?’

‘Aye.’ He put the hammer down with a sigh. ‘They were all very well, and very pleased to see me, and I—ach, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It obviously does.’

‘What I meant was, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I can see that from the way you are scowling at me.’

‘I don’t scowl.’

She wrinkled her face into a fair imitation of his expression. ‘What is that, then?’

Finlay was forced to laugh. ‘What it means is, when I say I don’t want to talk about something, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘After the war,’ Isabella said, picking her words carefully, ‘I found it very difficult to go back to being Señorita Romero again. I felt as if I was acting a part.’

‘You look to me as if you’re still acting. Not now, but with other people, your brother—’

‘Who thinks it’s high time I was married,’ Isabella interrupted hurriedly. He was suspicious. It was imprudent of her to have embarked upon this comparison between them, but she had never been able to discuss how she felt before, and most likely would never be able to discuss it again. ‘Xavier is right,’ she continued. ‘I am much older than most Spanish brides, but I—I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I am afraid Gabriel will be disappointed in his side of the bargain. He is a nice man. He is a perfect husband for me. Everyone thinks so. Perfect. Only I am not sure that I could be such a perfect wife. Or—or want to be. Do you understand what I mean?’

Finlay shrugged, picking up the hammer again, turning it over in his hand.

Deflated, Isabella slid down from the barrel. ‘Never mind.’

He caught her arm as she passed him. ‘I do understand.’ His smile was crooked. ‘I do. It’s what I thought I wanted, what I used to think about on the nights before a battle, when it seemed morning would never come. Going back to the croft. Taking over from my father. Settling down. It’s what I always thought I’d do, when peace came. Thing is, I never really thought peace would come, and now it’s here...’

‘You are not so sure anymore?’

He flinched. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s one thing I’m very sure of. I’m not cut out to be a crofter.’

‘So that is why you became a wine merchant?’ She waited, but he merely shrugged. ‘Do you miss the war, Finlay?’

‘Not exactly. Certainly not the bloodshed and the suffering.’

‘But the excitement of it. Knowing you made a difference, that your contribution was vital. Knowing that so many men relied on you. The responsibility.’ Isabella smiled. ‘And the danger.’

‘Aye. All of that. People don’t understand it, but the army has been my life.’

‘It was my life, too, for a time, during the occupation. I miss it, too, just as you do.’