The Soldier's Rebel Lover

They headed west once more, travelling at a fast pace for some hours, which precluded conversation, before slowing to a walk to give the horses a breather in the late afternoon. ‘Tafalla is just ahead,’ Isabella said. ‘Were you ever there?’

Finlay shook his head. ‘No. I think it was used as a garrison late in the campaign, but I was never quartered there.’

‘It was one of the towns in the Navarre most heavily fortified by the French,’ Isabella told him. ‘Our partisan, Mina, he liberated it with the help of some of your British navy guns.’

‘I’ve heard of Mina, though I have never met him.’

‘Nor did I.’ Isabella made a face. ‘He would not have been interested in a mere woman, I don’t think. Now, if he had known I was El Fantasma—but no, I will not talk of that. El Fantasma no longer exists. Now I am merely Isabella Romero—whomever she may turn out to be. A woman of means, you need not worry about that,’ she said, with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Not only do I have all my jewellery, which will fetch a pretty penny, but I have the bulk of this quarter’s allowance. My papa left me well provided for, you know. I must find a way to make alternative arrangements with the bank to have the payments sent on to me.’

‘Isabella.’ Finlay drew his horse to a halt, leaning over to catch her reins at the same time. His expression was stern. ‘You can’t touch that money.’

All morning, as they rode, she had been trying to imagine herself in America, but the more she tried, the more terrified she became. She had promised Finlay she would go, she desperately wanted to fulfil that promise, but as the prospect became more real with every mile they travelled—the sheer terror of being on her own, of a future without shape ate away at her resolve. Her courage deserted her. ‘Finlay,’ she beseeched him now, unable to stop herself, ‘is there no alternative to my going to America? May I not remain in Spain and make a new life for myself where no one knows me? It is a big country.’

His expression became grim. ‘Not big enough. I thought I’d made it clear—those men will not give up. I know this is hard for you, and I’m right sorry to have to be the one to open your eyes, but you can’t carry on living as Isabella Romero.’

‘You mean I must take a new name, a new identity?’

‘Aye.’

‘That is why I cannot claim my allowance?’

‘Not the only reason.’

There was a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Finlay looked like a man trying to swallow poison. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ she asked.

He ran his fingers through his hair, then straightened his shoulders, giving her a direct look. ‘Isabella Romero has to die. There’s no other way to put an end to this.’

‘Die.’ She clutched at her breast. For a horrible moment she thought he had tricked her and meant it literally. But this was Finlay; he would not harm her, she knew that instinctively. She furrowed her brow. She remembered, vaguely, that conversation on the hillside the day before Estebe died. It seemed so long ago. ‘You mean that the world—Xavier, Consuela, my nephew, even the bank—must believe that I am dead?’

‘It is the only way to guarantee your safety. I thought you understood that. I thought I’d made it clear.’

‘Did you? I don’t know. I can’t remember. No, that is not fair of me, I know you did, only...’ Her voice was rising in panic. She tried breathing deeply, tried to remember. ‘I can’t go to America, Finlay,’ she said. ‘Please, there must be another way. I know that’s what you said, I know it’s what I promised, but I didn’t think— I mean, I have not thought— Surely there must be a safe haven somewhere that does not require me to go halfway across the world.’

Her horse was twitching nervously. Finlay dismounted and pulled her unresisting from the saddle, tethering both sets of reins to the stump of a fallen tree before taking her hands in his. ‘You can’t stay in Spain. You can’t come to England with me. I know a wee bit of the ways of these government men, Isabella, from my friend Jack. Their reach is frightening, and those in power across the Continent, they’re all in each other’s pockets. I doubt very much that there would be anywhere in Europe safe for you.’

‘But America!’

‘The New World, they call it. Think about it,’ he said, with a reassuring smile. ‘A place where you can start again, completely afresh. A place where none of the old rules apply, where the restrictions you’ve been fighting don’t exist. They say a man—or a woman—can do anything, achieve anything there, just by dint of hard work. It’s a land of equal opportunity, a blank canvas. Isn’t that precisely what you’ve been fighting for?’

‘I’ve been fighting to have such a society in my own country.’

‘A country that regards you as a traitor. You could help shape society in America, Isabella, not waste your time trying to dismantle the existing one in Spain.’

‘You make it sound like utopia.’