The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Why not? he thought, joining her at the table. She deserved a fair hearing, even if the outcome was already, in his mind, decided.

Joining her at the table, he saw she had a large rectangular frame set in front of her. ‘This will be the front page of our next pamphlet.’ Isabella began to select tiny blocks of characters to place into it. ‘You see, all the letters have to be inserted in reverse. I used to practise with a mirror. Even after two years, I am still very slow.’

She didn’t look slow. Finlay watched her reaching for the individual characters with only a cursory glance, the columns of the page forming at an impressive speed. ‘This is called a forme,’ she said, indicating the frame. ‘When it is finished, it sits on the coffin, that flat bed on the press there, and you can apply the ink if you wish. We may as well take advantage of your presence and do some printing. It requires two people to operate the press, and with Estebe out of commission I have been unable to print anything. Unless assisting El Fantasma counts as insubordination?’

Treason, more like. Finlay sighed to himself. This pamphlet was never going to see the light of day if he had anything to do with it. Not that his so-called superiors gave a damn about El Fantasma’s pamphlets or, frankly, his cause.

‘This is El Fantasma’s symbol.’ Isabella held up the small woodcut on which was embossed the inverted shape of the phantom.

‘Aye, I saw that on one of your pamphlets back in England.’

‘Really?’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘I had not realised our message had spread so far and wide.’

She looked so pleased, he could not bring himself to burst her bubble. ‘What symbol would you use for me, then?’ Finlay asked instead.

Continuing to set characters into the frame at speed, she pursed her lips. ‘A man in a kilt? Though I think that would be too difficult to cut.’

‘And it might be mistaken for a woman in a skirt.’

She turned to him, her eyes dancing. ‘No one would mistake you in a plaid for a woman in a skirt.’

‘Any more than anyone would mistake you in a pair of breeches for a man.’

‘Yet I fooled you, did I not?’

‘For a few moments, in the dark. The minute I held you in my arms, I knew unmistakably what you were.’

* * *

Isabella’s heart did that funny skipping lurch it seemed to have developed since Finlay’s arrival in Spain. ‘You make it sound as if we were dancing,’ she said, trying to ignore it. ‘In fact, we were rolling around in a ditch.’

‘I’ve rolled around in a few ditches in my time,’ he replied, with one of his devilish smiles, ‘but I reckon that was the most memorable. And the most enjoyable.’

‘You are easily amused,’ she told him, trying and failing to suppress her own smile.

‘On the contrary. You undersell yourself, lass.’

Lass. It meant girl. Young woman. The way he said it, in that lilting accent of his, it felt more like a caress than a word. That smile of his was fascinating. How could a man smile in one way and seem merely amused, another and seem so—so tempting? Isabella dragged her eyes away. Now was not the time to be tempted to do anything other than finish the pamphlet.

‘And you, I think, overrate yourself, Finlay Urquhart,’ she said firmly. ‘I am not going to be charmed into kissing you.’

‘Not now, or not ever?’

‘Oh,’ Isabella said, smiling in what she hoped was a saucy way as she turned back to her work, ‘I never say never. Now, are you going to help me or not?’

Without waiting for a reply, she picked up the completed forme and slotted it carefully into position on the stone coffin bed of the press. Next, she measured ink onto the wool-stuffed pads and handed one to Finlay. ‘It must be applied very evenly. Watch, I will show you.’ She did so, then handed him the second pad. ‘Good. Careful now. Excellent.’

He had a deft touch, she noted. Trying to keep her mind firmly on the work in hand, Isabella turned her attention to dampening the paper. She had brought Finlay here this morning to persuade him that his mission was pointless. El Fantasma did not need to be rescued. El Fantasma was needed here. Yet here they were, printing El Fantasma’s latest pamphlet together, and all Isabella could think of was kissing!

And Finlay wasn’t helping, with that smile of his, and that tempting mouth of his, and those sea-blue eyes. Why did he have to be so—so distracting? Why could not the Duke of Wellington have sent a much older man with liver spots on his bald pate, or a man who did not like to wash or clean his teeth, or a man with those spindly legs and knobbly knees she hated, or—or any man, other than Finlay Urquhart!

Finlay Urquhart, who looked at her as if he would like her for dinner. Yes, she would like to be Finlay’s dinner, whatever that meant, though she should not be thinking of dinner or kisses or any of these things at the moment, Isabella scolded herself. The paper. The ink. The setting of type. Those were the things she ought to be thinking about.