The Soldier's Rebel Lover

This time, the sharp crack of the bullet came clearly from inside the cottage, followed by the dull thud of a body falling to the floor This time, it was not Estebe but the Madrileños who cried out, though frustratingly, Finlay could still make out nothing of what they said. Locked tight against him, Isabella was weeping silently. They waited for what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes. Finlay, holding his dagger in his right hand, motioned to Isabella to get behind the woodpile, positioning himself behind the door, ready to pounce, but more minutes passed, followed by the sound of the carriage being manoeuvred around in the narrow street.

He crept out, watching as the strangers drove back down through the village. Only when the carriage turned out onto the track heading west did the villagers start to emerge from their cottages. ‘Wait here,’ Finlay said.

The table in Estebe’s cottage was overturned. Estebe lay on the floor, his splinted leg splayed at a very odd angle. A noise in the doorway alerted Finlay. ‘Isabella, don’t come any closer,’ he said, grabbing the tablecloth, but it was too late. Isabella looked at the place where the wine manager’s skull should be and screamed. It was a long, piercing, anguished scream that seemed to echo round the narrow village streets for an eternity.

* * *

Isabella sat slumped in her bedchamber, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the fire. She could not stop shaking. Again and again, she replayed the horrific scene in her mind, trying desperately to come up with a scenario in which she could have altered the outcome, trying equally desperately to assure herself there was nothing she could have done.

When the Madrileños had gone, her screams had given way to numb horror, leaving Finlay to deal with the situation. He had taken charge with an authority that was obeyed without question by the villagers. The version of events he presented them with had Estebe shot by the Madrileños as he’d attempted to escape captivity. Thanks to Finlay, Estebe’s body now lay in the village church.

But Isabella knew the true story. Estebe was dead by his own hand. Estebe, a man she had come to think of as invincible, had chosen death and purgatory over captivity and torture. Her deputy had died trying to save her, turning his gun on himself rather than risk betraying her. A huge shudder ran through her. Finlay had been right when he’d said those men were ruthless. At least Estebe’s suffering had been short-lived. She could not bear to contemplate what he would have endured if the Madrileños had taken him.

They would be back. Without a doubt they would be back. They had not believed Estebe’s claim to be El Fantasma. They would be back, and they would not give up until they found her. Fear clutched like icy fingers around her heart. Estebe had died trying to protect her. She could picture him all too vividly, lying there on the ground. The shockingly bright red of the freshly spilled blood. The unnatural angle of his splinted leg. And his poor head...

She shuddered so violently her teeth chattered. It was one thing to defy danger when it was merely an abstract concept, but to be confronted with the stark, terrible reality of it—that was very different matter.

She did not want to die. If they caught her, she was not sure she would be brave enough to take the option Estebe had done. The icy fingers closed tighter around her heart. Fear was a very, very cold creature, but anger, and action, they fired the blood. She could not allow his death to have been in vain. ‘No, now is not the time for tears,’ she told herself, getting up to pour a large measure of cognac with a shaky hand. ‘Now is the time for courage, and resolve.’ She swallowed the brandy in one cough-inducing gulp. Fire burned a path down her throat and into her belly. She poured herself another measure, and gulped it down, too.

‘Courage, Isabella,’ she muttered, pulling a portmanteau from a shelf in her cupboard and setting it on her bed. ‘There is much to be done.’

* * *

Finlay prowled restlessly around his bedchamber dressed only in his breeches and shirt. Dealing as best he could with Estebe’s tragic death had taken up too many precious hours already. Time was of the essence, with Romero due back imminently. Much more important, those Madrileños would be back. If only they had believed Estebe’s last, valiant claim to be the man they sought, it would have solved a wheen of problems. But they clearly, very clearly had not. And Finlay had faffed around far too much. He felt sick to the stomach, thinking how close Isabella had come to being captured. A lesson sorely learned, putting his inclinations over his duties. He should have had her out of here and on her way to the boat the moment she’d confessed her identity.