The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘Xavier,’ Isabella repeated. ‘I will not allow my brother to pay the price for my actions.’

‘Isabella, he’s innocent.’

‘Finlay,’ she retorted with a sad smile, ‘innocent or guilty, it makes no difference with those men. You told me so yourself. Once they have him, he will confess to anything. I will not permit that to happen.’

‘No, I can see you wouldn’t.’ And he could see all his carefully laid plans toppling over like so many dominos. He could see the danger she was putting herself in. They’d have to flee north for their lives, for her confession would put those devils on their tails. She had no idea, and he had not the heart to tell her, that she was risking her own life for the sake of protecting her family. She was, however, once again doing exactly what he’d do himself.

Finlay sighed. ‘I’d best see what I can do to cover up the evidence, then. I doubt there’s much can be done with the press, but we must not leave that pamphlet.’

‘I’ll come with you. No,’ Isabella said, smiling wanly, ‘don’t try to stop me. Two pairs of hands will be quicker than one, and it’s time I started taking some responsibility for my actions. And I have you to thank for teaching that painful, but valuable, lesson.’

Chapter Nine

Four days later

They had ridden hard each day in their desperation to get as far away from Hermoso Romero as quickly as possible, stopping only for a few hours’ fitful sleep and to rest and water the horses. The road ahead, the steady gallop of the steeds who carried them, were their only focus. The landscape thereabouts afforded little in the way of cover. The roads were no more than rough dirt tracks in places, meandering through the rolling hills, the lower slopes of which were covered in a patchwork of vines. This was her land, her home territory, but to Isabella it felt disconcertingly alien, almost as if she was the stranger here, not Finlay. Which she was, she supposed, since she had forgone the right to call it home. She forced herself to sit upright in the saddle, concentrating on looking forward, not back. Quite literally.

Pamplona and then north was the obvious and quickest route to the coast and the ship that would take her across the ocean, but Finlay insisted that was too risky, since any pursuers would know that and follow suit. No, better to take a more circuitous route. It might be slower but it would significantly improve their chances of avoiding capture. Isabella did not question him. In truth she did not care where they went. When he opted to follow one of the old pilgrim routes that lead to Santiago de Compostela, she did as he bid her. She had never been to the city. She wished fervently that it truly was their destination. She did not want to think about the country where she was to make a new life. Fear froze her imagination whenever she tried.

She barely spoke as they travelled. She had not cried, not since Estebe—no, she would not think of that. She did not deserve the release of tears. She did not deserve Finlay’s sympathy, the comfort of his strong, reassuring embrace. Not that he offered it. The man who rode beside her was unquestionably a soldier. No trace in that steely expression of the sensual Highlander who had charmed her. This man had a duty to perform, and he was clearly set on executing it. Well, she, too, had a duty, to the memory of Estebe. He had died to protect her. She would not allow his sacrifice to have been in vain, so she could do nothing save put as much distance between herself and her family as possible, in order to protect them. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done save do as Finlay bade her without question: eat what was put in front of her, lie down and close her eyes in whatever shack or shepherd’s hut he found each night, feign sleep until he roused her at dawn, continue on in the saddle each morning without complaint. An obedient and uncomplaining trooper, that was what he required, and so that was what she would be.

They were following the River Aragon today, and reached the outskirts of the little town of Sanguesa in the late afternoon. One of the many overnight refuges for weary pilgrims that dotted the Camino Way, the jumble of whitewashed houses was perched on the hillside looking, from a distance, like a set of steps leading up to the magnificent Romanesque church of Santa Maria la Real. Finlay reined his horse in, casting an anxious look at the sky, which looked as if it augured rain.

‘I’m sorry, lass, but we can’t risk staying in town,’ he said regretfully, ‘much as a proper meal and a comfy bed for the night would be a welcome treat.’

‘No matter,’ Isabella replied, casting an uninterested gaze at the town. ‘If we follow the river, we can take shelter in the next valley.’

* * *