The Soldier's Rebel Lover

His breath caught in his chest. He had the oddest sensation, as if he were falling head first from a cliff. She was teasing him. Flirting. But as he gazed down at her, his chest tightened, and he knew, clear as day, what it was he felt for her, and it bore no relation at all to what he’d felt for his other flirts.

He would not name it. If he did not give it a name, there was a chance, a tiny wee chance, that it would pass, because what point was there in him feeling...that, when he was about to pack the object of his—that thing, off to America?

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous. We should eat. What do you think of that place over there?’ Finlay said, steering a slightly bewildered Isabella towards a brightly lit tavern on the corner of the square.

* * *

By the time they had gone through the ceremony of being formally seated at a table in the commodore, the back room reserved for diners in the tavern, and consumed a complimentary glass of the local aperitif, the awkward moment had passed. The dining room was basic, the food simple but excellent. They ate hungrily, enjoying a range of dishes. Morcilla, a variety of spicy blood sausage that reminded Finlay very much of the black pudding to be found back home in Scotland, menestra de verduras, a mixture of local vegetables and salty ham, a braised quail with tiny pale-green beans cooked in tomato, simply grilled lamb chops served with potatoes and cabbage, and the famous pimientos de piquillo—red peppers preserved in oil and stuffed with salted cod. The wine, Isabella informed him, was not as good as her brother’s. Finlay, who had always been a moderate drinker, partook sparingly, but Isabella, like many Spanish women he had met, seemed to be able to consume quite a few glasses without it having any noticeable effect.

They chatted about the food, relishing the first proper meal in over a week. They speculated about their fellow diners. Then, when they had been served an extremely good roncal cheese, Isabella raised the subject of his sister’s wedding again. Accustomed as he was to having his origins mocked, Finlay automatically embarked on one of his usual, heavily embroidered tales.

‘I think you are making this up,’ Isabella interrupted halfway through the yarn.

‘Not at all. Well, maybe a bit, but not all of it.’

She frowned. ‘Why would you do that? I am not a child, to be told stories. I do not want to hear family secrets or—or confidences. I was not prying. I simply wanted to understand you more. You have seen my home, you know so much about me, yet you tell me almost nothing about yourself.’

He had offended her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking about myself.’

Isabella propped her hand on her chin and studied him across the table. ‘The Jock Upstart,’ she said. ‘Was that one of the stories you tell in your officers’ mess?’

‘They would not be interested in the truth,’ Finlay said awkwardly, though he wasn’t sure, now he came to think about it, that he ever told anyone the truth, save Jack.

‘I am interested,’ Isabella said. ‘What is it like, to have three sisters? Consuela is very fond of hers. She is always writing letters to them. Do your sisters write to you?’

‘Aye, once every few months, with news of all my nephews and nieces. I’ve twelve of them,’ Finlay said with a grin.

Isabella’s eyes widened. ‘Twelve!’

‘And counting. Mhairi was expecting another the last I heard.’

‘I wonder sometimes what it would have been like, to have a sister.’

‘Someone to confide in?’ Finlay laid his hands over hers. ‘Your mother died when you were a bairn, didn’t she? It must have been hard, growing up without any female company.’

‘You said that to me that first night we met. I did not think—but now, I don’t know. Do you miss them, your family?’

He opened his mouth to assure her that he did, of course he did, then closed it again, frowning. ‘Honestly?’ He quirked his brow, and Isabella nodded. ‘I’ve been away for so long, that in a way they are strangers to me. They are my blood, I love them, but I’m no more part of their lives than they are mine. Aside from kinship, we have little in common.’

‘Though it must be a comfort to know that there are people who care for you, who would be there if you needed them.’

‘Aye,’ Finlay agreed with surprise, ‘that is true. The letters they write, they don’t make me want to go home, but it is a comfort indeed, seeing a picture drawn by my nephew, or reading one of my niece’s stories. Or reading about the fishing, and the peats and the tattie howking, whatever is the latest gossip my mother thinks fit for my ears,’ he said, smiling nostalgically. ‘It is good to hear that life can go on in that way, that people can be happy, when you are sitting in a foreign field in the aftermath of battle.’

‘What will you do now, Finlay? Now that Europe is at peace, and there are no more battles to fight?’