The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Finlay shook his head firmly. ‘I’m not.’ He stretched his legs out, and pushed his plate aside. ‘It’s how we keep going, when we’re at war—not thinking about it. It’s a habit they teach you in the army, not thinking about it, for if you do, you’d not survive. Or you’d run. Or worse.’ He glanced over at Isabella. ‘Some men can’t live with the memories, you know.’

She paled. ‘I did not know. Finlay, I...’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intentions of doing anything daft. Quite the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told you, it was a good thing, seeing that place again. And seeing Alesander. It’s given me pause for thought.’ He twined his fingers in hers. ‘You’ve made me question things. Right from the first moment we met, to be honest, you’ve forced me to confront a lot of unpalatable truths.’

‘Me?’

He smiled at her incredulous tone. ‘Aye, you. You’ve a habit of asking the kind of awkward questions that I prefer to avoid. Such as what I’ll do now that Wellington has brought us a peace that seems like to last.’

‘There will always be other wars to fight, Finlay.’

‘There will,’ he said sadly. ‘Indeed, there will, but I’m done with fighting other people’s battles. If this battered body of mine has to be inflicted with any more scars, I’d like them to be of my own devising.’

‘What does that mean?’

He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, lass. Despite my nickname, I’ve never really been an upstart, never been anything but unswervingly loyal to my country and my so-called superior officers, but where has it got me? And then there’s you. Look at you. Look what a love of your country has made of you. An exile. A traitor.’

‘Our cases are not the same.’

‘They are more similar than I’d have thought when first I came here. Like you, I’m done with soldiering.’

Across from him, Isabella looked shocked, though when she made to speak, Finlay shook his head. ‘I mean it,’ he said, and found with surprise that he did. ‘I’ve never in my life thought to be anything but a soldier, but now I’m done with it, and what’s more, I’m looking forward to telling Wellington so.’

‘What will he say?’

The question gave him pause, for despite his opinion of the man, as a soldier, Finlay had never had anything other than respect for the duke, and—if he was being really honest, which he might as well be now—no little awe. Not that he’d have to actually face the duke if he resigned. But would he feel he’d truly resigned unless he did? Wasn’t it his duty, and didn’t he always do his duty? He’d not be letting himself down at the last, that was for sure. Finlay shook his head again. ‘I don’t know what he’ll say, though I’ll find out soon enough.’

‘So you will confront him, then,’ Isabella said, with that uncanny ability to read his mind. ‘Even though you do not need to?’

‘As you said, I’m not a man to run away.’ Finlay got to his feet and began to stack the dishes onto a tray.

‘No. You are a man who does his duty. Even when he does not wish to.’

Thinking of tomorrow, he thought she’d never said a truer word. He did not want to think about tomorrow. Finlay set the tray outside the door. ‘Talking of wishes,’ he said, turning the key in the lock, ‘I’ve a few you could help me with, if you’re so inclined.’

He was relieved to see the shadow of melancholy leave her eyes, the sensuous tilt return to her lips. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

Finlay picked her up, setting her gently down on the bed. She stretched her arms over her head, stretching the hem of his shirt she wore up to the top of her thighs. He could see the shadow of her nipples, dark through the white cotton. Her hair was spread out like silk on the pillows.

‘I await your orders,’ she said.

Finlay pulled his shirt over his head and hurriedly stepped out of his breeches. ‘Then, lie back,’ he said, kneeling between her legs, ‘close your eyes and surrender.’

* * *

The following morning Señor Gebara brought their breakfast personally, tapping softly on the door just before daybreak. Finlay set the tray down on the table by the window and returned to the bed, pulling Isabella back into his arms. ‘The horses will be ready in half an hour. Alesander has provided us with some supplies, enough to get us to the coast, he says. We’ll be two, maybe three days, on the road.’

‘Then, we should make haste,’ Isabella said, making no move.

‘Aye.’

Finlay pulled her tighter. They had lain like this all night, in the sleepy intervals between their passionate lovemaking. Time had seemed suspended; the hours had stretched, seemingly endlessly ahead, until now. Now, as he ran his palm over her flank, as he nestled his chin into her hair, as she pressed herself closer, close enough for their hearts to beat against each other, time began to gallop out of control.