The Soldier's Rebel Lover

A tap on the door made her jump. Isabella turned and saw her sister-in-law slip into the room. ‘Consuela. What are you doing here so late—is something wrong? Is Ramon...?’

‘My son is safe and well in his nursery. I intend to ensure that he remains so. Which is why I am here.’ Consuela turned the key in the look and crossed the room, taking one of the chairs by the fireside. ‘I would have come earlier, but I have had to spend the past hour with the wife of one of Xavier’s tenants. It seems the man has disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘What man?’

Consuela waved her hand dismissively. ‘I cannot remember the name. He works for Estebe. He will be off on a drunken spree, I don’t doubt. Or run off with another man’s wife. Of course, when I hinted at such, the woman became quite furious, claimed her husband never drank and never looked at another woman, but...’

They are working their way up the chain. That was what Finlay had said. No, she was being foolish. It was simply a coincidence. ‘How long has he been missing?’ Isabella asked.

‘Almost a week. I don’t know what the woman expects me to do. I told her to come back when Xavier has returned. But I did not come here to discuss missing farm workers. Sit down, Isabella, and pour me a glass of that cognac, if you please. It is time you and I had a little talk.’

‘Can it not wait until morning? I am very tired.’ The fact that the missing tenant worked for Estebe was a coincidence, nothing more. She was edgy, and no wonder. The last thing she wanted was to listen to another lecture on marriage. ‘Really, Consuela, if you have come to further Gabriel’s suit, I should tell you that you are wasting your time.’

‘That is not why I am here, but that is indeed one of the things I suspected. Sit down, Isabella. I do not care how tired you are, this will not wait.’

There was something in her tone that made her heart sink. Consuela sounded quite implacable. She sounded horribly certain, just as Finlay had done earlier today. Isabella dropped abruptly onto the chair. ‘What is it you wish to say?

Consuela took a measured sip of cognac. ‘Why is Finlay Urquhart here?’

The question took Isabella utterly by surprise. ‘To buy wine. But you already know that.’

‘Do not play games with me. There is no time,’ her sister-in-law said with an angry sigh. ‘He knows even less about wine than I do. Xavier was suspicious from the first day—so much so, that he decided to check Mr Urquhart’s credentials. What business did you imagine was keeping him so long in Pamplona?’

‘I had no idea what my brother was doing since he rarely takes me into his confidence. Has Xavier proof that Finlay—Mr Urquhart—has he irrefutable proof that he is not a wine merchant?’

Consuela shrugged impatiently. ‘What is he, Isabella? Who is he? And how is he connected with whatever it is you have secreted in my husband’s wine cellars?’

A trickle of sweat running down her spine made Isabella shiver. Fear made knots in her stomach. ‘What do you know of that?’ she asked, the shock of this revelation on top of the tumultuous events earlier so severe that denial did not even occur to her.

Consuela curled her lip. ‘You think you are the only one with eyes?’

‘Clearly not.’

‘I have watched you sneaking out of the house at night. At first I thought it was to meet a lover, but you had not the look of a woman who had experience of such matters until lately. You have allowed Mr Urquhart to take liberties, I think. That was foolish of you, but not, I think the most foolish thing you have done.’

Her throat was dry. She must not panic. She must—she must— Dear heavens, what was she to do? ‘Consuela...’

‘What is in the cellar, Isabella?’

Her life was crashing around her ears. She was beyond prevaricating. ‘A printing press,’ she whispered.

Consuela’s hand went to her breast. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Madre de Dios, are you insane?’ She jumped to her feet, clutching at the mantel for support. ‘It is illegal to merely own such a thing, far less print anything. If it is discovered, Xavier could be imprisoned. Worse. A printing press! And what is it that you are printing?’ She swayed, the blood draining from her face. ‘That madman. The spectre. No, that is not right. The Ghost.’

‘El Fantasma.’

Consuela swayed. ‘You are actually printing that man’s material here, at Hermoso Romero? Has that man been here? Isabella, if you have—if they discover—it does not bear thinking about. They would hang Xavier. They would hang us all. What have you been thinking?’

Not thinking. She had not been thinking. Finlay had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. Hadn’t wanted to listen. Isabella felt sick. She felt faint. Dimly, she was aware that Consuela had not guessed the whole truth. Yet. ‘I— It will— I will put an end to it,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, I...’