The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘What!’ she exclaimed incredulously. ‘You cannot mean—are you saying that you have been sent here to rescue El Fantasma?’

‘That’s the gist of it.’

‘You don’t think that’s incredibly presumptuous? I am very sure he neither wants nor needs to be rescued.’

He shook his head, taken aback by her vehemence. ‘How can you be so certain?’

Isabella bit her lip, eyeing him speculatively, then gave a little shrug, followed by an enigmatic smile. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘I am El Fantasma.’

* * *

It took Finlay a full minute to unscramble his reeling senses before he could muster a response. ‘You are The Ghost? You are El Fantasma? By all that is— I can’t believe it.’

‘No,’ she said, drawing him an arch look, ‘you did not for a moment consider it could be me, did you?’

‘Not for a single second,’ he admitted frankly. She was beaming at him now, her golden eyes shining with a mixture of pride and glee. Finlay burst into laughter. It was ridiculous, outrageous, fantastical, though in a way it made an awful lot of sense. ‘Good Lord, does that brother of yours know?’ he asked.

Isabella tossed her head. ‘Of course not. No one knows, save for my deputy, Estebe.’

‘Estebe! By all that is...’ Finlay cursed under his breath.

‘Estebe himself has four deputies, though they do not know each other, of course, and below that—but you know how partisan groups are structured to protect anonymity and preserve security, I think. Estebe helps me with the printing press we use to publish our propaganda pamphlets. It is...’

‘Hidden in the winery cellars.’ Finlay finished for her as the pieces began to tumble into place.

Isabella’s smile faded. ‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t, but it’s obvious now that I—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘Have you any idea how dangerous a game you’re playing?’

‘It is not a game, and I am not stupid. Of course I know it is dangerous, but what does that matter, when we have so much at stake?’

‘Aye, such as the lives of your family. Your brother. For God’s sake, Isabella, that printing press in his cellar— If it was discovered...’

‘It will not be.’ Her voice hardened. ‘You do not understand, Finlay. We are fighting for our future.’

‘I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. What I’m trying to tell you is that if you carry on, you’ll have no future.’

Her eyes blazed. ‘If we stop, if we give up, the future will not be worth having! We sacrificed so much during the war—has it to be for nothing? We must fight on, if not with guns, then with words. Those in power do not want to hear what we have to say, but we will continue to say it until they listen.’

She spoke with such conviction, such passion, that he was momentarily disarmed. He could not doubt her claim to be the infamous partisan, but however inspiring she was, it was her very idealism that worried him, for it made her quite reckless and completely, misguidedly without fear. He’d seen far too many brave men slaughtered. A dose of healthy fear was essential to survival, in his book—not that he’d admit to it himself, mind.

‘I’m not doubting your sincerity, or indeed your cause,’ Finlay said, choosing his words carefully, eager not to estrange her further.

‘I am glad to hear that.’

‘Aye, but this government of yours, the men in Madrid who wield the power here in Spain, to put it bluntly, the louder you shout, the more determined they will be to shut you up.’

Isabella tossed her head again. ‘Do you not see, the very fact that they wish to do so is evidence of El Fantasma’s success? As the voice of protest grows, so, too, does our power to change things. We will force them to listen, Finlay. We will force them to act.’ She caught at his jacket sleeve, giving his arm a shake to emphasise her point. ‘Yes, it is dangerous because we say what they do not want to hear, but how much more dangerous would it be to remain silent?’

Silent was what she would be, as the grave, if she was not careful, but she looked so magnificent standing there, a fervent light in her eyes, a flush on her cheeks, a proud smile on her delightful lips, that Finlay found himself quite torn. She was so sure she was right, and he was equally certain she was wrong, but he could not bring himself to destroy her illusions. Not yet.

‘You’re a very brave lass. I still can’t quite believe that you are The Ghost,’ he said. Here he’d been, thinking the hard part of his mission was going to be tracking El Fantasma down, but the really tricky thing was going to be persuading her to come away with him. The irony of it, the sheer unlikelihood of it, made him shake his hand, marvelling at this twist of fate. Isabella was still clutching at his jacket. Finlay took her hand between his, fascinated by the slenderness of it, how delicate it looked in his own rough paw. ‘I’m still struggling to take it in,’ he said ruefully.

She chuckled. ‘We are neither of us what we appear to be, it seems.’

‘That’s for certain.’

‘And now we can stop pretending.’