The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Riding towards the village, Finlay spotted the dust cloud raised by the open, rather ornate carriage. It looked so incongruous in the midst of such modest surroundings of farms and cottages that Finlay’s senses immediately went on high alert. Reining his horse back, he followed the carriage at a distance, taking care to keep out of sight, knowing that it could only be headed for the village, all the time hoping against hope that it was not. There were two male occupants. They could be here for any number of reasons, but he knew, with the sixth sense he relied upon when going into battle, that they were not. There was only one likely explanation, and it was an extremely alarming one.

When they turned into the village, Finlay tethered his horse by a ruined outbuilding and followed cautiously on foot. Isabella’s horse was pawing the ground by the tethering post, confirmation that he had guessed her intentions correctly—as if he’d needed it confirmed. The carriage was drawing up at the top of the little street. As he made his way stealthily towards it, he could sense the eyes of the villagers peering from their cottages. An old woman holding a piece of lacework beckoned him, but he ignored her.

The two men who descended from the carriage were well dressed. They pounded on the door of the furthest cottage calling Estebe’s name. ‘Señor Mendi! Señor Mendi!’

The accent was not local. Finlay no longer had any doubts. Madrileños! As the door opened, he braced himself, drawing his sgian-dubh from his boot. In the rush to follow Isabella he had not had time to retrieve his pistol, but the vicious little knife, a coming-of-age gift from his father, had served him well enough in the past.

‘Señor Mendi?’

Estebe, his leg in a splint, stood leaning on the door. ‘Who wants to know?’

Finlay could see no sign of Isabella. Creeping around the other side of the carriage, behind the backs of the strangers, he took a chance, allowing Estebe a brief glimpse of his presence. Either Isabella had briefed him, or Estebe, realising how dire the situation was, saw Finlay as the lesser of two evils. Whichever. The man gave him a tiny shake of his head, the smallest gesture to the side of the house where a lean-to stood.

Waiting for the coast to clear, he missed what the men said next, but it caused Estebe to open the door wider, ushering them into the cottage.

Isabella, her ear pressed to the adjoining wall of the cottage, had her back to the door, foolish lass. Finlay grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth before she could cry out. ‘It’s me,’ he whispered, and her rigid body ceased struggling immediately.

‘Government agents,’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Estebe said—he said that they may have taken one of his men a few days ago. Do you think that is why—how...?’

‘Hush. Aye.’

She was shaking piteously. He took no pleasure in being proved correct. The Spanish government were working their way up El Fantasma’s chain of command. The question was, would Estebe talk? Finlay pressed his ear up to the wall, but could hear only muffled words. Later, he would tear a strip or two off himself for not taking matters into his own hands much earlier. He could not find it in himself to be angry at Isabella, but he wished with all his heart that she’d been a wee bit less loyal to the man next door, and a bit more careful of her own safety. As he would have been? Aye, right enough.

He shook his head in frustration as the room next door went quiet. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered, just as a loud crash made Isabella jump, only his instinctive covering of her mouth once more preventing her from screaming.

It all happened so quickly after that. ‘Careful, he has a gun. Put the weapon down, señor,’ one of the Madrileños cried out, his voice ringing clearly through the connecting wall now. Then followed the sounds of a scuffle, another piece of furniture being upturned.

Isabella strained in Finlay’s firm grasp, her eyes above his muffling hand pleading with him to go to the rescue, but he held firm, shaking his head. He could take them on, he might well overpower them, but his remit was to protect El Fantasma at all costs, which meant he could not take the chance in acting rashly, no matter what the collateral damage turned out to be.

The front door of the cottage flew open, and a shot whizzed out into the open air. For a moment, Finlay thought that it would be one of the Madrileños who would pay the price, but then he heard Estebe’s voice. ‘I am El Fantasma,’ he shouted. ‘I would rather die than fall into your hands.’

‘We have good reason to believe that you are not. However, you can lead us to him. Put the gun down. Do not shoot. If you cooperate you will not be harmed. You have our word. Put the weapon down. There is no need for this.’

‘I tell you, I am El Fantasma.’