The Soldier's Rebel Lover

‘Well, that certainly put me in my place,’ Isabella muttered to herself as she stared at his retreating back in disbelief. ‘Spurned for a horse!’ Her body was still throbbing with unsated desire as she padded over to the doorway of the hut. Dawn was just breaking. In the growing light she could see that Finlay was not tending the horses, but standing on the banks of the stream that ran through the valley, less than ten yards away. Which I suppose is some sort of consolation, she thought, managing a self-deprecating smile.

She watched as he pulled his shirt over his head. He was close enough for her to see the ripple of his muscles as he stretched. Her breath caught in her throat. His skin was paler than she had imagined. His waist tapered down to the band of his leather breeches, which hung low on his hips. A silvery line of darker, puckered skin ran the full length from his left shoulder down close to the line of his spine. It must have been a horrific wound to leave such a scar. He rarely talked of the army, yet he had been a soldier his entire adult life. It’s not the same, he’d told her, when she had compared her time as a soldier to his. She had been annoyed, she recalled. Looking at that scar, remembering how she had fallen apart when Estebe had shot himself, she was forced to acknowledge that she had been presumptuous. In fact, she knew very little about Finlay. Always, he turned their conversations away from himself. This man she was watching, this man who shared her biggest secret, whose body she ached for, was in many ways still a stranger. He joked about being called the Jock Upstart, but he was no mere soldier. A major, and promoted rather than commissioned. A hardened campaigner. A man accustomed to command. It was a wonder that he had tolerated her equivocation as long as he had. Not that he had any right to order her about, but...

Isabella sighed. Actually, under the circumstances, he had every right, and yet he had refrained from doing so. He was an honourable man. A very honourable man. An extremely honourable man. She had offered herself to him, and he had refused, not for lack of desire, but because she was under his protection. Even if she could persuade him that gratitude had played no role in her kissing him, he would still have torn himself free of her. She couldn’t help wishing he was not quite so honourable. But then he would not be Finlay.

He had picked up the leather bag that contained his shaving things, and was heading a few yards upstream now, towards the small cascade that fed the stream. The water would be ice-cold. Isabella looked on, mesmerised, as Finlay undid the buttons of his leather breeches. She should not be watching. She should look away. This was an invasion of privacy. Her mouth went dry as he slid the last item of clothing to the ground. His legs were long and well muscled. There was a tan line that stopped just above the knee. His buttocks were unexpectedly shapely. She really should not be looking. He stepped out of his breeches, kicking them to one side, and she had a brief glimpse of him from the front. Colour rushed to her cheeks as she saw the jutting length of his arousal. Her knowledge of male anatomy came only from art. In the flesh—Isabella put a hand to her fluttering heart as Finlay splashed into the stream and stood under the waterfall—in the flesh, this man at least was quite blood-heatingly delicious.

Not a feast, but a banquet. She recalled Finlay’s words in the printing-press room. He had his back to her now, stretching his arms high over his head, letting the freezing water fall in rivulets over his body. He seemed to be relishing the cold, embracing it. It occurred to her, with a shock, that the icy cascade was an antidote to his passion, and she looked with fresh eyes at the waterfall, thinking that she, too, could cool her throbbing body there. What would Finlay say if she joined him? She smiled, allowing herself to picture the scene, but she could not imagine having the nerve to carry it off, and even if she did, Finlay would most likely reject her.

He would be right to do so. Their perilous situation was clouding her judgement, making her foolish and rash, and she was neither. Her smile faded. As he began to lather himself, Isabella turned slowly and returned to the shack. The time had come to take back responsibility for her own life, for better or for worse. She had a lot to think about. Simple things, such as her entire future! Not to mention the small matter of getting out of Spain in one piece. No, Finlay was right. They needed to focus. She could not afford to be distracted by a pair of sea-blue eyes, a mane of auburn hair and a body that Michelangelo himself could have sculpted.

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