The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Now clean, shaved and dressed in fresh linen, he waited for her in the small salon, gazing morosely into a glass of sherry that he had barely touched. With every passing day she was becoming more precious to him. And yet, with every passing day, the inevitability of losing her forever loomed larger. Their worlds had collided all too briefly, but soon, very soon, they would part forever. Isabella was destined for a brand-new world, and he to return to his old, familiar one, where his career and his family awaited. It made him heartsore to think of it, and pointlessly so. He would not think of it.

Instead, he would make the most of what little time he had in her company. He would make the most of tonight for this bonny, clever, brave lass, who deserved so much more than the hand that fate had dealt her, and who was facing the dangers and the fears of the great unknown with such fortitude it made him want to weep like a bairn.

Fresh from her bath, Isabella wore a pretty olive-green gown trimmed with bronze that made her skin seem golden. A woollen scarf in the same shades was draped around her shoulders. She had braided her hair around her head in a way that reminded Finlay of images of Greek goddesses, though there was nothing at all ethereal in her smile, nor in his reaction to it. ‘You look ravishing,’ he said.

She blushed endearingly. Such a bonny thing, and yet she had not a trace of vanity in her. Finlay took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You look very...’

‘Do not dare try to tell me I’m beautiful,’ he teased.

She laughed. ‘It’s an insult, I remember. May I be permitted to say that you look very dashing instead?’

He grinned, holding out his arm. ‘I’ll settle for that. Shall we go for a stroll before dinner?’

‘I would like that very much,’ Isabella said.

Braziers and lanterns were already being lit in the Plaza Mayor. It was time for the traditional evening paseo or promenade. They did not join in, Finlay being all too aware that his distinctive auburn hair might draw unwanted attention, so they watched from the shadows. Couples and families strolled, exchanging greetings, passing comment on the unseasonably mild weather, speculating on the possibility of rain. Women compared toilettes, children ran laughing round and round the square in excited clusters, while the smaller ones gurgled from their carriages or their mother’s arms. Young and old, well-heeled and down-at-heel alike, everyone congregated in the square in the early evening.

‘It’s a right social mix, isn’t it?’ Finlay marvelled. ‘In London, Hyde Park is where they promenade, but it’s more of a fashion parade for the toffs than anything, and you certainly wouldnae get the— I don’t know what it is here. There’s no sense of people sticking to their own kind.’

Isabella chuckled. ‘You have met my brother. There is plenty of that behaviour to be found in Spain, but not for the paseo. Do they have such a custom in Scotland?’

‘No, we have not the weather for it,’ Finlay replied. ‘I think I told you we have more than our fair share of rain. Mind you, when there’s a wedding, then you’ll get everyone out parading in their finery. That’s a sight to behold.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, now, I’m talking about a kirk wedding mind. The last one I attended was for my youngest sister Sheena—I missed all the others, but I was home on leave for that one. My mother was baking for days before it. My mother makes the best scones in Scotland. They are a sort of cake, though not sweet, like a soft biscuit, and you eat them hot from the griddle with butter or crowdie, which is cheese.’

‘What other foods do they eat at wedding feasts? What does the bride wear? And the groom, does he wear the plaid? Me, I like the plaid very much,’ Isabella said, her eyes dancing, ‘though not, I think, on a man with thin legs. Or fat legs.’

‘A lady should not comment on a gentleman’s legs,’ Finlay said with mock outrage.

‘Ah but since you have told me that I am dead, then I am no longer a lady and therefore free to state that I think that you have a fine pair of legs and look most becoming in your kilt,’ Isabella retorted with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

He smiled down at her. ‘Then, since I’m not and never have been a gentleman, I’ll take the liberty of reminding you that you have a very delightful derrière.’

Colour tinged her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. Her mouth was curved into the most tantalising, teasing smile. He spoke without thinking. ‘If we were not in the midst of half the population of Tafalla, I would kiss you.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but half the population of Tafalla have just spent the past hour kissing each other.’

‘I didn’t mean that sort of kiss.’

Isabella held his gaze. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she whispered.