The Soldier's Rebel Lover

And a long, empty future ahead of her after that, Isabella thought. But she was not given to self-pity, and would not indulge in it now. ‘In less than a week, I will be at sea,’ she said with forced cheer. ‘If the boat is still waiting.’

‘It will be there. Jack gave his word,’ Finlay said heavily, unwittingly killing the tiny spark of hope.

‘Good,’ said Isabella bracingly. ‘That is at least one less thing to worry about.’

* * *

They were on their way before dawn had fully broken. The mountains to the east obscured the sunrise, and the dull, tarnished silver clouds above absorbed much of the sun’s light when it finally did make an appearance. Finlay fought the desolation that threatened to envelop him. He was not by nature morose, nor given to railing against fate, but as he looked at the woman riding by his side and tried to imagine life without her, his rage verged on the biblical.

Why the devil had the fates thrown them together like this, if they were so intent on pulling the pair of them asunder? Bloody fates. And bloody Wellington. The man was power mad. And he was a mite too bloody cautious. What did it matter that El Fantasma could tell a few tales that would embarrass him? True, a few of those tales would stir up quite a storm, but the duke was riding so high on the wave of triumph fuelled by the victory at Waterloo that Finlay reckoned even the revelation that Wellington was in the habit of eating bairns for breakfast wouldn’t cost him the political career he was hankering after. Bloody Wellington.

And while he was at it, bloody Jack, too. Jack could have told Wellington to stick his orders where the sun didn’t shine. Jack wasn’t even in the army anymore. But no, Jack and his principles had to take up El Fantasma’s cause, and Jack knew Finlay a bit too damned well, catching him when he was kicking his heels, desperate for orders. Any orders. Some bloody friend.

Finlay’s hands tightened on his reins, and his horse started. Quick as a flash, Isabella’s hand reached for his rein. ‘It’s fine. I was dwamming,’ he said, getting the horse back under control. ‘It means daydreaming.’

She smiled at him. It was a forced smile. Her big golden eyes were shadowed with something that looked distinctly like unhappiness. ‘You looked angry. I am sorry if...’

He was immediately contrite. ‘Don’t apologise. I’m like a bear with a sore heid, but it’s not your fault, Isabella.’

‘You do not regret last night?’

‘No. Dear heavens, no.’ He pulled up beside her, and she brought her horse to a halt. ‘Isabella, last night was— It was...’ Everything. The urge to tell her was powerful. ‘It was perfect,’ Finlay said. ‘I only hope that you do not...’

‘No, I don’t regret it. For me it was also—perfect. Only today, I think that I am a little sad, knowing that soon I will be saying goodbye to you.’ Her voice wobbled, but she smiled again valiantly. ‘Of course I am very much looking forward to my new life, but I will—I will miss you, Finlay.’

Dear God. There was a sheen of tears in her eyes. She was so brave. He loved her so much. He should thank Jack and Wellington and the fates for throwing them together instead of cursing them for it. If he had not come here to Spain, he would never have known what love was. And if he had not come here to Spain, Isabella would have...

Finlay shuddered. She was safe. They would not get their hands on her, even if he had to die saving her. She was safe and she was getting the chance of a new life. Without him, but a life. He must remember that. He leaned over in the saddle to kiss her softly. ‘I will miss you, too, Isabella. You are a woman like no other. I am glad, and I am honoured, that I have had the chance to know you.’

So much less than he felt, but it was enough, it seemed. She blushed. ‘And I, too, Finlay. Glad and deeply honoured.’

Chapter Twelve

They descended from the heights of La Puebla down a steep zigzag path and into the valley below through which the Zadorra River flowed, the site of the bloody Battle of Vitoria. It was a peaceful place, nature having reclaimed the battlefield, leaving little trace of the countless lives lost and the oceans of blood spilled more than two years before. Peaceful now that was, but Isabella sensed a certain melancholy linger in the air. Perhaps she was being fanciful, but she gave an involuntary shudder as she took in the scene.

‘It is hard to believe that this particular engagement could have been so decisive,’ she said, making a sweeping gesture.

‘There were more than ten thousand casualties in total,’ Finlay said grimly. ‘Our army lost three and a half thousand men. Five hundred Spanish died. Can anything be worth so many lives, so much sacrifice?’