The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘And the health of the man in charge of it,’ Isabella said. Which was true, she thought as she made her way towards Estebe’s house at the far end of the village. Estebe and Xavier were childhood friends. Xavier believed there was no one more loyal than Estebe. When she had tried to discuss this with him though, concerned at the possibility of Estebe being torn between loyalty to his employer and loyalty to El Fantasma, Estebe had merely shrugged. ‘What Xavier does not know cannot harm him,’ he had said. ‘Xavier has everything, while we fight for those who have nothing. For me, there can be no question of which comes first.’ In one sense it was flattering, but as his sister, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Xavier, who not only trusted Estebe completely, but whose affection for the man stemmed back to those childhood days, and—unusually for Xavier—existed regardless of the huge disparity in their stations in life.

The winery manager, standing in the doorway of his cottage, was, as Señora Abrantes had predicted, on his feet, supporting his splinted leg with a stick. In his early thirties, he had the swarthy skin and black hair typical of the Basque, and the laconic temperament also typical of the region. Estebe rarely smiled, but when he did, Isabella was reminded that underneath that slightly surly exterior there was a very handsome man. She had asked him once, in an unguarded moment, why he had never married. He had informed her curtly that he was a soldier, she remembered. Like Finlay, he believed that soldiers should not take wives.

‘Is something wrong?’ Estebe said guardedly. ‘I thought we agreed it would be unwise for us to be seen together in public. It might arouse suspicions as to the nature of our relationship.’

‘I am here on official estate business, at my brother’s behest. He wants to know how your recovery is progressing, how soon you can return to work,’ Isabella replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. ‘I made a point of saying so to Señora Abrantes,’ she added sotto voce.

‘The doctor your brother sends says I must wear the splint a few more weeks, but I have told him the wine will not wait a few more weeks. You can tell Xavier I will return to my duties next week. Tell him to do nothing with the vintage until then. Tell him that I said patience is a virtue.’

‘Estebe,’ Isabella said in an urgent undertone, ‘I’m not really here for Xavier. I need to talk to you.’

‘You should not have come. People will talk, and we cannot afford any talk. Have you heard that young Zabala has disappeared?’

The man Consuela had mentioned last night. ‘He was one of ours?’ Isabella asked, dismayed.

Estebe shrugged. ‘It could be nothing, but—we will see. Since you are here, I want to talk to you about that man. The Englishman. I don’t know why he is here, but is it a coincidence that one of our men disappears shortly after he shows up?’

‘Estebe, Mr Urquhart is on our side. He’s the reason I’m here, not to ask after your health. If I could just explain...’

Estebe’s head jerked up. He pushed her out of the way, shading his eyes to scan the horizon. ‘Señorita Romero, you need to get out of here at once.’

‘What is it?’ She screwed up her eyes in an effort to see through the dust being raised. It was some sort of carriage. ‘I wonder...’

‘Isabella!’ Estebe grabbed her by the shoulder, dropping his stick. ‘You have to leave immediately. Do not let them see you. Do not, whatever happens, show yourself to them. Do you understand?’

It was his use of her name rather than the tone that made her blood run cold. ‘Are they— Do you think that they are...?’

‘I don’t know who they are, but I am certain it does not bode well,’ Estebe replied, his voice clipped as he limped over to the wooden dresser, pushing it away from the wall and retrieving a pistol, which he proceeded to load with astonishing speed before aiming it at her. ‘Get out. Believe me, if they capture you, you will wish I had put this bullet in your head.’

He meant it. Blood rushed from her head, making her stagger. She took a deep breath, clutching the door frame. The cart was at the other end of the street now. There were two men. Well dressed. She looked around frantically, wondering in terror if she had left it too late.

‘The woodshed,’ Estebe said, pushing her down the steps. ‘And remember, no matter what happens, you must keep silent. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’

Isabella dumbly nodded her reluctant assent and stumbled down into the dusty darkness of the woodshed as Estebe secured the door behind her.

* * *