The Soldier's Rebel Lover

She had become so accustomed to spending long periods lying wide awake, alternated with fevered nightmares of trying to escape endless dark tunnels, that it was a surprise when Isabella struggled to open her eyes. She was lying on the wooden shelf that served for a bed in a ramshackle shepherd’s hut. She could remember arriving here, remember Finlay lighting a fire, forcing herself to eat, forcing herself to lie down and close her eyes, waiting for the darkness and the guilt and remorse to envelop her. Instead, it had been as if all the bones had been removed from her body. She had slept dreamlessly. And now she felt—different.

She was warm, surprisingly comfortable. The blanket covering her smelled faintly of horse. She turned onto her side. The door of the shelter was ajar, giving her a glimpse of the grey, predawn sky and Finlay a few yards distant, sitting by the horses, on guard as he had been every night. Did he ever sleep? For the first time, she wondered what it was he was watching out for, who it was he expected.

The dull stupor that had enveloped her since leaving Hermoso Romero had gone, and so, too, had the heavy pall of grief and regret, leaving her mind clear. Isabella counted the days since their flight, and was surprised to discover that this must be the fifth. Almost a week since Estebe died, since she left her home and her family, who were more dear to her than she had realised. But they would be better off without her. Consuela could have her sister come to live with her. Xavier would most likely mourn the loss of his winery manager more than his sister.

Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘Be honest,’ she told herself. ‘Xavier will be so shocked at what he reads in that letter you left, he will be thankful you did not wait to say goodbye. “Finally,” he will say to himself, “now I understand why my sister was such an unnatural woman. Gabriel has had a lucky escape.”’ Which was very true, though she doubted very much that Xavier would go so far as to inform his friend of the exact nature of his good fortune.

Isabella sat up abruptly. She had been quite distraught when she had written the letter admitting to being El Fantasma, intent only on sparing her family by accepting sole responsibility. But what, exactly, had she imagined Xavier would do with such a confession? Show it to the government officials when they came calling, as they inevitably would? Why should they believe him? What credence would such a confession truly have, when Xavier was a much more likely candidate to be El Fantasma than his demure little sister?

The letter had made no mention of the printing press. The pamphlets she and Finlay had shredded, El Fantasma’s last words, had been forced down the well, the pulpy mess anointed with ink and scattered with metal lettering. As she had pulled the wine rack over the concealed door for the last time, Isabella had wondered if any curious soul would ever discover it. Her nephew, perhaps? A few weeks ago, she would have smiled at the idea of passing on El Fantasma’s legacy to an as-yet unborn niece. Now the notion filled her with horror.

The Madrileños would demand proof from Xavier, and when he had none to give them—what would they do to him? Remembering Estebe’s determination not to fall into the men’s clutches, Isabella shuddered. Consuela might tell them about the printing press, but would that not rather condemn rather than acquit him? Isabella clutched at her head. She had been so proud of the fact that no one would ever believe El Fantasma was a woman. Now—Madre di Dios, what a fool she was! No one would believe her confession. Pride truly did come before a fall.

* * *

‘Finlay!’

The panic in Isabella’s voice was unmistakable. He ran to the bothy just as she jumped out of the makeshift bed and grabbed him by the arm. ‘What is it?’

‘I have to go back. Xavier—they’ll never believe him. I have to go back.’

She was dressed only in her underwear. Her hair was tumbling down her back, free from the long plait she usually wore. Her face, which had been so pale and set for days, was now flushed, her eyes bright. Thank the stars she was back to something like herself. He caught her hands between his. ‘Wheesht, now, you know that’s not possible.’

‘I have to,’ she said urgently. ‘They will come for him, and even with the letter— Finlay, they won’t believe him. They’ll take him away. I can’t let them take him away. I can’t let them— We have to go back, Finlay.’

‘We can’t. There’s no going back. I’m sorry.’

‘But...’

‘No, Isabella. Listen to me now,’ he said, before she could speak again. ‘You’re in the right of it. That confession of yours won’t protect your brother. It’s an unlikely story, I’d be the first to admit, that the great El Fantasma is a mere woman. Indeed, I’d have had a great difficulty believing it myself, had I not become acquainted with you in that ditch beside an arms cache during the war.’