The Soldier's Rebel Lover

He had never shared anything so intimate as a bath before. They undressed each other slowly in the fading light, lit only by the glow of the fire, and Finlay discovered that he was wrong about the urgency, the need, the desire, as they touched and stroked, and kissed and licked. The pace was not only his to set. Isabella, his beautiful, feisty Isabella, had a passion to match his. When she pulled him down onto the rug by the fire, he was hers to command. Her mouth, her hands, her hips, captured him as no other had. When she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her inch by gut-wrenching, achingly delightful inch, he moaned her name, could not resist telling her, in his own language, how much he loved her. They found their rhythm quickly. She seemed to know him instinctively, when to rock on top of him slowly and when to buck and thrust urgently. She came with wild abandon, her climax making him lose control, his own so powerful that he managed, only just, to lift her safely from him at the last second.

* * *

She would shed her skin for this man. There was nothing she would not do for him. Lying in his arms, her heart thudding wildly, her body singing with pleasure, Isabella closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to his heartbeat and whispered her love. She had behaved without any inhibitions because, quite simply, she had none with Finlay. He knew her as no one else ever had. Or would.

Pushing this last mournful thought to one side, Isabella sat up. They would have tonight. She was going to make the most of it. ‘The bath,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You promised you would join me.’

‘It will be a tight fit,’ he said, smiling back.

It was his wicked smile. It seemed she was not, after all, completely sated. ‘I think you have already proved that to both our satisfaction,’ Isabella said with a wicked smile of her own.

He laughed then, getting to his feet, his muscles rippling, picking her up and holding her high against him, flesh to flesh, skin to skin, and stepped with her into the bath. He set her down carefully. They stood facing each other and kissed again. The water was still warm. After the icy streams they had washed in of late, it felt hot.

Finlay picked up a tin pitcher and poured water over her. Her skin, alight with his lovemaking, felt every trickle. Another pitcher full. Then the soap. The lather made his hands slippery. His fingers slid over her shoulders, down her arms, back up to her breasts. Her body thrummed with anticipation.

Isabella picked up the jug. There was a delicious ache in postponing pleasure. Water trickled down Finlay’s chest, clinging to the rough hair there. Another pitcher full of water. She took the soap from him and began to lather. Her fingers slipped and slid over his skin, finding the ridges of old scars. They were long healed. Some were just the faintest of shadows; others ran deeper.

‘Where did you get this one?’ she asked, and he told her. ‘And this one?’ she asked. ‘And this one?’ There were scars on his shoulders. On his belly. On his thighs. The long, vicious scar on his back was from Corunna, he said. She kissed each one. When her lips reached the base of that worst marking, he turned her round, taking her into his arms. Their bodies slid together, against each other, adhering to each other with the soapsuds, and she forgot about the scars and concentrated on kissing him. By the time they finally stepped from the tub, the water was cold.

* * *

Dinner was, as Alesander had promised, excellent. Hearty Basque cuisine, venison in a rich wine stew flavoured with the blood sausages that reminded Finlay of home. They ate at the little table by the window, watching the bustle on the street below, for it was the hour of the paseo. Isabella wore one of his shirts. Another first. They’d also managed a couple of other firsts in the bath there, he thought with a grin.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Isabella asked.

‘What do you think?’

She chuckled. ‘I think that we are not going to be doing much sleeping in that big comfortable bed.’

‘You’re not tired, then?’

She shook her head. ‘I have the rest of my life to catch up on my sleep.’ Her smile wobbled, and his heart lurched in response, but before he could say anything, she had recovered, and took a reviving sip of wine. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘that your scars, they are like a chart of all the places you have been, all the battles you have fought.’

‘My body is like a campaign map, right enough,’ Finlay said, twirling his half-empty glass around on the table. ‘I’m thinking that I’ve scarcely room for any more entries, nor desire for them.’

Isabella reached for his hand and gently moved the glass away. ‘Today, at the site of that terrible battle, and seeing Señor Gebara, too, has brought back horrible memories, things you do not want to think about. I am so sorry.’