The Soldier's Rebel Lover

His response was to shake his head, smiling in a way that made her both embarrassed and uncertain. ‘Aye, that’s what he’d like the world to believe, for it is not the done thing, is it, for a man to admit he’s in thrall to his wife? You are not the only one in this household to lead a double life.’

Was he right? Certainly, Consuela had said that she loved Xavier, but Isabella had assumed she meant in a—a wifely way. A dutiful way. She had assumed that Consuela was as bloodless as—well, as bloodless as Isabella assumed a dutiful Spanish wife would be. She had assumed that there was nothing more to Consuela than the blank, cold, demure facade she presented, until Finlay suggested she look again.

‘You must think me very arrogant,’ she said, turning away from him, feeling very small. ‘It is no wonder that Consuela wishes to replace me with one of her own sisters. I have made no attempt to get to know her. Worse, I have assumed there was nothing worth knowing.’

‘Now you’re being daft.’ Finlay caught her shoulder, turning her back around to face him. ‘Look at all this,’ he said, waving at the stack of drying pamphlets. ‘You’ve been carrying the burden of El Fantasma for two years all alone, fighting for more years than that for your country. You’d be more than entitled to boast about what you’ve achieved, instead of which, what you’re concerned about is not having done enough.’

‘That is no excuse. Consuela is family.’

‘That’s true. She’s your brother’s wife, which makes her, in the way of things, above you in the hierarchy. Has she made any attempt to understand you? Has she confided in you?’

‘No, but...’

‘You were here first. That’s not Consuela’s fault, but your brother must have known you had the running of the place while he was off at the war. Has he tried to understand your feelings?’

‘He has tried to marry me off to his best friend. In Xavier’s eyes, that is taking care of me, I suppose, though I doubt very much if Gabriel would be so eager to offer for me if he knew his new bride was El Fantasma.’

She meant it as a poor attempt at a joke, but Finlay did not smile. ‘Is that what you’re thinking? To give it up and marry Torres?’

‘No.’ Her denial took her aback, for her tone was quite decisive. Was it only a few days ago, she had been contemplating quite the opposite?

‘Why not?’ Finlay spoke sharply.

Isabella shook her head in confusion. ‘I can’t,’ she said, again with absolute certainly. ‘If I told him the truth he would not wish to marry me, and if I married him I could not tell him the truth.’

It was a perfectly logical, perfectly reasonable, perfectly honourable response. Finlay looked unconvinced. ‘If you loved him...’

‘That has nothing to do with it. Consuela assures me that I would, after we were married but—you know this is none of your business, Finlay.’

‘Far be it for me to contradict your sister-in-law,’ he continued, ignoring her. ‘It may be true that love follows the wedding vows, but I reckon there has to be something there first of all.’

‘What something?’

‘A wee spark. Do you think of kissing him? Do you imagine making love to him?’

‘No!’ A lie. More accurately, she had tried and failed. She prayed that her flush of embarrassment could be attributed to the heat from the press. ‘It is not possible to imagine what one has not experienced. As you have pointed out on several occasions, I am a virgin,’ she said baldly.

‘It didn’t stop your imagination a wee minute ago.’

‘What...?’

‘When I said you were not a dinner, but a banquet.’ Finlay’s eyes were alight with devilment once more. ‘What was it that you imagined?’

‘Nothing. I have no idea what you meant by it.’

‘One of the problems I have with you is that I look at you and I have far too many ideas.’

Her skin was tingling. The tingling was spreading. ‘What kind of ideas?’

‘Indecent ones. Ideas I couldn’t possibly put into words.’

Finlay’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. It took Isabella’s every ounce of self-restraint not to lick it. His cheeks were high with colour. She could see his chest moving under his sweat-damped shirt. Was his heart beating as fast as hers? Did he ache, as she did, for the touch of his skin on hers? She would not make the first move. She could not bear it if he did not. ‘If not words, what about actions?’ Isabella asked. ‘An appetiser, perhaps?’

‘This sort of thing, do you mean?’ He kissed her. A fleeting, soft and utterly delicious kiss, his tongue licking into the corner of her mouth, his hand resting lightly on her breast, and then she was free.

‘I believe it is customary to serve more than one appetiser at a banquet.’ Surrendering to temptation, Isabella licked the sweat from his upper lip, allowing her breasts to brush fleetingly against his chest.

Finlay moaned and kissed her ardently. ‘That’s the problem with an appetiser,’ he said, gently easing her away.

Isabella looked at him blankly.