The Soldier's Rebel Lover

A few more minutes, Isabella thought. She just needed a few more minutes, and then she would be ready. She wrapped her arms tighter around Finlay’s waist. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat. She felt the stirrings of his arousal and pressed tighter. His erection hardened. She wriggled. She felt his sharp intake of breath. And then his resolute shifting.

‘Isabella...’

She leaped from the bed, tearing herself away from him, because the alternative was to cry and to cling, and she would not do that to him. She had promised she would not let him, or herself, down. ‘Is that fresh coffee? Would you like some?’

She began to dress. The very thoughtful Señor Gebara had had her undergarments laundered, her habit and boots brushed clean of the dust of the road. She was aware of Finlay watching her as she snatched at clothes and pulled them on, pouring coffee, wittering on about the fresh bread, the salty cheese, the smoky ham, as if she cared about anything other than the fact that every minute, every second, took them inexorably towards their separate fates.

She sat at the table and managed to force down her breakfast without choking. Her smile was manic, she knew that even without the look Finlay gave her, but he said nothing, eating his own breakfast steadily, taking a second cup of coffee, a faint frown furrowing his brow. She had no idea what he was thinking. He had that locked-away look, already putting a distance between them as he shaved. She knew he cared for her—how could she not, after the intensity and raw emotion of their coupling? She suspected he cared more than he would ever allow her to know. But she knew, too, with absolute certainty, that he would not allow himself to care enough, and she knew with equal certainty that she would never wish him to. She was not worth the sacrifice, and he would be sacrificing everything. His family. His career—even if he no longer wanted it. More important, his honour, and Finlay was a man who must always be honourable. A man who would always do his duty. As he was doing now.

As she must do hers. Last night was their goodbye. She had vowed she would make it as easy, as painless, as guilt-free as possible for him. He was not detached; he was not indifferent. He was trying to make it easy for her. Isabella pushed her coffee cup aside and got to her feet. ‘Time to go,’ she said, straightening her shoulders, head back, like the trooper he expected. ‘Time to face the future.’

* * *

Finlay stuck to the bargain he’d made with himself for the three days and two nights it took them to reach San Sebastian. He played the soldier, as he had always played the soldier, thinking only of executing his orders as best he could, of protecting and defending Isabella’s liberty, wary at every second of potential ambush, dragging his mind back again and again to the task in hand whenever it strayed into dangerous territory. He would not think of their impending parting. He would not allow his heart to ache. He would not wish for anything other than Isabella’s safe delivery to the waiting fishing boat, and then his own execution of the final elements of Jack’s plan, which would ensure her future safety.

They stood on the final crest above the fortress town of San Sebastian, the scene of the last battle he’d fought in Spain before heading for the Pyrenees in pursuit of the retreating French army. Below, the bay was fringed by a perfect, beautiful crescent of golden sand. A small islet was set like a jewel in the middle of the bay, breaking up the softly rolling waves. It reminded him of Oban bay, in some respects. The distinctively shaped Basque fishing boats, their hulls, to his Highland eyes, so vertiginous and bulky that he found it difficult to believe, looking at them bobbing in the protective embrace of the harbour wall, that they wouldn’t simply topple over in the lightest of swells. Isabella was bound for one of those boats. Isabella was bound for that sea, in the directly opposite direction he would take.

Isabella, his lovely Isabella, who had been so brave and so stoic, these past few days. Not a tear had she shed, nor a word of complaint had she uttered. Not a mention of that perfect night they’d shared had she made. No regrets. No looking back. Only onward, forward, to the new life she would forge. A new life in a new world. A world he would not inhabit.

His gut clenched. He thought he might be sick. The breeze ruffled her hair. She dipped her head to make some adjustment to her reins, and he thought he caught a glimpse of tears. Though it might be the wind. His heart contracted. His stomach roiled. It took him a moment to recognise it for what it was. Fear. He was desperately afraid of losing her. He knew at that moment, knew despite all, that he could not let her go.

‘Isabella.’

She turned to face him. Tears. They were tears, but she forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. I will be fine. It is just— I will be fine,’ she said.