The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘Aye, well, that’s for me to worry about. I will meet you back here at noon, and then we’ll take it from there.’

‘Very well.’ She turned on her heel and walked purposefully back towards the main house.

Finlay watched her go, allowing his gaze to linger only fleetingly on her retreating derrière, before turning away towards the winery. She had, he thought as he lit the lantern and made his way down the stone steps, accepted his orders with reasonably good grace, all considered. Poor lass. In fact she was bearing up remarkably well. She was not at all resigned to her fate, but she was at least finally reconciled to leaving.

He made his way towards the secret cellar with only one wrong turning. Señora Romero, now...she might pose a problem. It was a pity Isabella had let fall so much of the truth—though not the full truth, thank heavens for small mercies. The señora had no inkling that her sister-in-law was anything more than a conduit for El Fantasma. He’d have to find a way of keeping it that way. Would the cover story he’d dreamed up be sufficient?

He smiled grimly to himself. An elopement. Romero would be mortified at the idea of his sister and a wine merchant—a man who claimed to be a wine merchant. A word in Señora Romero’s ear and Finlay was sure that she could be persuaded to drum up a witness or two, a maid perhaps, who might have seen one of their early-morning trysts in the cypress walk. It was a good story, and a far more likely explanation of Isabella’s sudden disappearance than any link with El Fantasma. Xavier Romero and his family would be safe from questioning. Estebe...

Finlay paused in the act of moving the wine rack. If Estebe had been his deputy, he would have warned him, regardless of the risk. It was a matter of honour, as well as his duty as a commanding officer, just as Isabella had pointed out. And if it was his printing press hidden behind the wall here, he’d want to attend to it himself, too. The press, the pamphlets... Isabella poured her heart into them, yet she had not suggested...

‘Ach, bugger it!’ Finlay picked up the lantern and began to make his way as fast as he could back the way he had come. By God, he admired her. She was as stubborn as a mule, but her heart was in the right place. Even so, that lass had an awful lot to learn about insubordination. A smile crept over his face. The Basque Upstart. Aye, they were a well-matched pair, indeed!

* * *

Isabella brought her horse over to the mounting block in the courtyard and buttoned up the skirts of her riding habit before climbing agilely into the saddle. Today would be the last time, perhaps for years, perhaps forever, that she rode out to the village. Today she was leaving Hermoso Romero, leaving her family, leaving Estebe and El Fantasma behind. She couldn’t take it in. She felt sick thinking about it. The unknown future loomed like a giant black mountain in front of her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

Her horse fidgeted. She gave herself a little shake and urged him into a canter. Best not to think too far ahead. Best to think only of this next step, and after that— No, she would not even think of that. She would instead concentrate on taking in all she could of her homeland, to impress it on her memory for a future when it might be of comfort. But she would not think of that future yet. ‘Courage, Isabella. Courage.’

Her horse’s ears twitched. They had reached the outskirts of the village now. It was very quiet. Smoke from some of the chimneys floated lazily aloft, for the air was quite still. Isabella dismounted, tethering her horse by one of the many streams that ran through the valley here. She paused to say good day to old Señora Abrantes, who was sitting on a stool in her garden, working on one of the beautiful pieces of lace she crocheted. Her latest grandchild was asleep in a wooden cradle by her side. Matai, Isabella recalled. He had been baptised in the estate chapel just a few weeks previously.

‘He looks just like his papa,’ she said encouragingly, though in truth all babies, boys and girls, looked to her like little old grumpy men.

‘You’ve come to call on Estebe?’ Señora Abrantes asked.

‘Sí. My brother returns from Pamplona soon. He will be anxious to know how his manager fares.’

‘He has been walking a little, with a stick. That doctor your brother sent, he has been here many times. I think that Señor Romero is worried for the health of his wine.’