The Soldier's Rebel Lover

Her brother drew her one of his looks. ‘The first dance is about to start. I believe Gabriel wishes...’

Isabella threw the wine merchant another beseeching glance. Fortunately, he seemed to be able to read this look easily. ‘If you would do me the honour, Señorita Romero, I would very much like to dance with you.’

‘Gracias.’ In a daze, she took his arm, propelling him towards the dance floor before Xavier could protest or stake Gabriel’s prior claim.

‘This,’ the Scotsman said to her sotto voce as they joined the set, ‘is rather a turn up for the books. A very unexpected surprise, to put it mildly.’

The vague, ludicrous hope that he had not recognised her, or that he would ignore their previous meeting completely, fled. Isabella felt quite sick. The first chords of the dance were struck, forcing them to separate. She cast an anxious glance around her. They had spoken in whispers, but even if Xavier was not watching, that cold little mouse of his wife would be.

As the dance began, fortunately one that required only simple steps as they progressed up the line, she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium. The shock of seeing the Scottish soldier again, and in such incongruous circumstances, had fractured her usually immaculate composure. There was too much at stake. She had to pull herself together.

He was alive. In the shock of the meeting, this salient fact had escaped her. She had occasionally wondered what had become of him as the conflict in Spain had drawn to a close and the British and French had taken their battles into the Pyrenees. He had clearly survived that false end to the war. He must have left the army then and established himself in business. He had obviously done very well indeed for himself, though that was not really surprising. He had struck her as a very, very determined and resourceful man.

He had also struck her as a very attractive man. That had been no trick of the moonlight, and judging by the way every other woman in the room was slanting him glances, she was not the only one to think so. She was drawn to him just as she had been before, despite the fact that he could turn her world upside down. When he had brushed a kiss to her fingertips, the memory of his lips on her skin all that time ago had come rushing back with unexpected force. Isabella had no idea whether it was this, or the reality of his touch now, or the underlying terror of exposure that made her shiver. Whichever, it had taken her by surprise, for she had not thought of him in a long time.

He cut as fine a figure in his evening clothes as he had in his Scottish plaid. The tight breeches clung to his muscled legs; the coat made the most of his broad shoulders. She couldn’t help comparing him to Gabriel, the man whom Xavier was eager for her to marry. There was no doubt her brother’s friend was more handsome, but Gabriel’s was the kind of beauty that reminded Isabella of a work of art. She could admire it, she could see he was aesthetically pleasing, but there was none of the almost feral pull that she felt towards this mysterious Scotsman.

Finally, the dance brought them together. ‘May I compliment you on your toilette,’ he said with a devilish smile. ‘So very different from the outfit you wore the last time we met, though I must confess, your gown does not do justice as your trousers did to your delightful derrière.’

Colour flamed in her face. She ought to be outraged, but Isabella was briefly, shockingly inclined to laugh. ‘A gentleman does not remark on a lady’s derrière.’

‘I seem to recall telling you when last we met that I am not a gentleman, señorita. And now I come to think of it, I recall also that you took umbrage at being called a lady.’

She had forgotten what that particular smile of his did to her, and how very difficult it was to resist smiling back as the dance parted them once more. He was dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

‘I never got the chance to thank you,’ he said when they next crossed the set. ‘I’m told your guerrillas did a very thorough job.’

They circled, hands brushing lightly. ‘Of course we did,’ Isabella replied in a whisper. ‘Did you think I would not keep my word?’

He could not answer, for they were once again on opposite sides of the floor, but he shook his head and silently mouthed the word no.

The set moved up. They were separated by ten or twelve feet of dance floor, but she was aware of him watching her. She tried to keep her eyes demurely lowered, but could not resist glancing over at him every now and then. She was merely doing what every other woman in the room was doing. He was the only stranger at the ball, but it was not that that made the female guests flutter their lashes and their fans. Hadn’t she recognised that night they had met, that he was a man who would attract a second and a third glance? Here was the proof of it, and there, in that sensual smile and those sea-blue eyes, was the warning she ought to heed. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, Isabella repeated to herself.

She had to make sure he did not talk. She had to! This thought plummeted her back to earth. When next the dance brought them together she rushed into speech. ‘I must ask you to keep our previous acquaintance a secret.’ There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice, but this was not a time for subtlety. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘It is very important.’

‘Why is that?’

The music was coming to an end. Isabella’s heart was pounding. ‘I will explain, I promise you, but not here.’

She made her curtsy, and the Scotsman made his bow. ‘Where?’

‘Promise me you will say nothing,’ Isabella hissed, ‘until we talk.’

He frowned, seemingly quite unaware of the urgency. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab at his coat sleeve and shake him. Instead, she forced herself to wait what seemed like an eternity for him to consider, though it must have been mere seconds before he finally asked her where, and when.

Consuela was beckoning. Gabriel was by her side. Isabella began to panic. ‘Tomorrow morning. Meet me in the courtyard behind the chapel at eight. Promise me...’

He nodded, his expression still quite unreadable. ‘Until tomorrow.’

He had not promised, and now it was too late. ‘Isabella.’ Consuela arrived with Gabriel in tow. ‘I have assured Señor Torres that you will give him your hand for this next dance.’

Gabriel’s smile would have most other ladies swooning. Isabella, who had become adept at mimicking other ladies’ responses, was tonight incapable of producing more than a forced smile.

‘Indeed, I hope that you will,’ Gabriel said, ‘else I will think you prefer the company of an Englishman to a true Spaniard, and that will break my heart.’

Isabella stared at him blankly. ‘Mr Urquhart is Scottish, not English.’

‘A minor distinction.’

‘Indeed, it is not.’

The Scotsman spoke the same words as she did at the same time. A small, embarrassed silence ensued. ‘Mr Urquhart was just explaining the difference to me while we danced. To call a Scottish man English is like calling a Basque man Spanish.’

Another silence met this well-intentioned remark. Isabella resorted to her fan. Gabriel stared off into the distance. The visitor made a flourishing bow. ‘Señora Romero, would it offend your husband if I asked for the hand of his beautiful wife for the next dance?’

Consuela coloured and gave the faintest of nods. ‘If you will excuse us.’ Gabriel made a very small bow as the orchestra struck up the introductory chords.

The Scotsman made no effort to return Gabriel’s bow, Isabella noticed, and felt, in the way his hand tightened on her arm, that Gabriel had noticed, too. He swept her onto the dance floor. Looking over her shoulder, Isabella saw Consuela smile and blush coquettishly in response to some remark made by Mr Urquhart.

‘You are looking very lovely tonight. There is no other woman in the room who can hold a candle to you.’

Gabriel’s compliments, like his smile, were practised and meaningless. He was rich, he was well born and he was handsome. He had no cause to doubt that he was an excellent catch, and enjoyed enthusiastic encouragement of his suit from Xavier. Isabella was nearly twenty-six. Too old, in the eyes of most of her acquaintance, to hope for such an excellent match. To be wooed by Gabriel Torres was flattering indeed. Looking at him now, as he executed one of the more complex dance steps with precision, Isabella could nonetheless summon nothing stronger than indifference.

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