The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Her brother was no fool, and Finlay knew as much about wine as she did about Paris fashions. The moment Xavier stopped boasting and pontificating about his precious Rioja and started asking searching questions, Finlay’s cover would be blown. How did he plan to extricate himself? He would not go to the lengths of placing an order, she was fairly certain. ‘No, of that I am absolutely certain,’ Isabella said aloud. ‘Lies, they do not sit well with Finlay Urquhart.’

Leaning on the balustrade, she looked out along the side of the house. She could see the adjacent balcony that served as Finlay’s bedchamber. The room was dark, the window to his balcony closed. Was he sleeping? She pictured him sprawled on his back, one arm above his head. His nightshirt would be open at the neck. Though perhaps he did not wear one? Would his chest be smooth? No, a smattering of hair. Dark auburn, it would be. She closed her eyes, recalling his contours under her hand. He was solid, not slim like Gabriel. Yes, that was it. Solid.

Today, on the hillside, he had given her a taste of what Consuela had hinted at. Remembering the way he had touched her, kissed her, the feel of his lips on hers, his tongue, his hands—she wanted more. The urgent tension he had left her with, that tightly furled feeling inside her had given her just a flavour of what could exist between a man and a woman. How much more was there to experience?

She shivered. What had Consuela meant when she said that she would like to be devoured? Isabella didn’t like to think of Finlay devouring any other woman, though he had doubtless savoured many. She tried to imagine kissing Gabriel as she had kissed Finlay, but it was no use. Gabriel would be shocked to the core. A good Spanish woman went to her wedding bed innocent of such things. Isabella turned away from the stars and headed back inside. How she very much did not want to be a good Spanish woman!

It was late. The warming pan was cold on her feet. She pulled it out from under the blankets and set it on the hearth before getting back into bed. The very few who had known her in the past as El Fantasma treated her as an honorary man. They had respected her. Some had feared her. All had obeyed her orders unquestioningly. Finlay had been excited by her revelation. He had not seen her as a threat, but a challenge. To him, she was no honorary man. Not an equal precisely, but— Was there such a thing as equal and different? He made her feel less masculine and wholly feminine. It was very strange. And really, not the point at all.

She plumped her pillow and turned onto her other side. There was a point, but she couldn’t remember— Ah, yes, now she did. Lies. Finlay did not like to tell lies. His deceit made him extremely uncomfortable, which meant there must be a very, very important reason for him to resort to it.

Isabella sat up in bed and began to unravel her long plait. What if the net truly was closing in on El Fantasma? Certainly, the more vociferous liberals were now being persecuted. El Fantasma stood for all that the government wished to repress. He was subversive, but was he really dangerous enough for the state to pursue him?

The idea was much more thrilling than frightening. If it was true, it meant they really were starting to make a difference. Isabella ran her fingers through her hair and began to divide it up and plait it again. There were times when it felt as if the country she had fought for had gone backwards since the end of the war. It was not just the withdrawal of the constitution or the persecution of its supporters, it was the return of the Inquisition, the loss of freedom of the press. All that bloodshed, all that sacrifice, to go back to how things were before. She had put her life on the line for her country, for change. No politician in Madrid was going to stop her speaking out! None! She would not allow it. Absolutely, she would not!

And as to danger? For a moment, recalling just how vociferous Finlay had been, Isabella felt a little bit sick. She hadn’t ever considered the risk to Xavier of the printing press being found in his cellars. ‘But who would find it!’ She tied her plait tightly. The sickness faded. ‘This to danger,’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘We cannot stop now. The fight must go on.’

The problem, she mused, was that Finlay did not understand. If she could make him see how important their cause was then he would leave, explain to the great Duke of Wellington that El Fantasma was in no need of rescue. Tomorrow, she would show him, quite literally. Smiling, Isabella snuggled back down under her sheets. Tomorrow, Finlay would start to see things her way.

* * *

‘I should have guessed.’ The small wine cellar looked just as it had when Isabella had brought him here a few days ago, though the bottle and the glasses had gone from the table. ‘It’s behind here, then?’ Finlay studied the wall that she had claimed to be blocked. ‘How does one gain access?’