COMRADES IN ARMS

War heroes, heartbreakers … husbands?

The close friendship between Lieutenant Colonel Jack Trestain and Major Finlay Urquhart was forged in the heat of Waterloo’s battlefield.

Famed for their daring and courage, these are Wellington’s most elite soldiers, but now they’re facing their biggest challenge yet—falling in love!

If you enjoyed

The Soldier’s Dark Secret

you’ll love

The Soldier’s Rebel Lover

the second instalment of this fabulously intense and dramatic duet from Marguerite Kaye!

Praise for Marguerite Kaye

‘A poignant, sensual historical romance that kept me reading late into the night.’

—Romance Junkies on Rumours that Ruined a Lady

‘Kaye offers up another sexy romp … with characters who stay with fans long after the last page.’

—RT Book Reviews on Unwed and Unrepentant

‘Each novella is a passionate love story in its own right; each a testament that love can survive everything— even war.’

—RT Book Reviews on Never Forget Me

‘Daring. Dangerous. Delightful. Kaye’s new Regency romance is a riveting and thrilling adventure.’

—RT Book Reviews on Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah

The Soldier’s Rebel Lover

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland. Featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs, she has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Praise

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Historical Note

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Basque Country, Spain—July 1813

Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot scanned the rough terrain through the eyepiece of his field telescope, his senses on full alert. ‘Got ye!’ he whispered to himself with grim satisfaction.

The French arms dump was partially concealed, set in the lee of a nearby hillock. It was obviously a large cache and therefore a strategically important discovery, especially if it could be destroyed before Wellington began his siege of the nearby fortress at San Sebastian. There were no guards present that he could discern, but they could not be far away, and might return at any time. The French army was severely stretched in the aftermath of the Battle of Vitoria, where they had sustained heavy losses, but even against their presumably depleted defences, any planned assault on the arms cache would carry significant risk, since it was located some distance behind enemy lines.

As was he, Finlay reminded himself. The light was fading fast, and with it any chance of making it back to base tonight, for his journey would take him through some treacherous and hostile terrain. It would be much more prudent to hole up for the night under cover in the small, heavily wooded copse a couple of miles distant where he’d tethered his horse.

‘Aye, and Prudence is my middle name, right enough,’ Finlay muttered to himself. Despite the perilous nature of his situation, he couldn’t help grinning at his own joke. With any luck, he could be back in camp and feasting on a hot breakfast not long after sunrise.

He could not have said what it was that put him on his guard. A change in the quality of the silence, perhaps. Maybe the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. A sense, acute and undeniable, that he was not alone. Definitely. Finlay’s hand moved automatically to the holster that held his pistol, but the failing light, and fear of the sound it would make when he primed it, made him hesitate and reach instead for his dirk, the lethal Scottish dagger he carried in his belt.

His ears pricked, Finlay listened intently. A faint scrabbling was coming from the ditch on the other side of the rough track. A rat? No, it sounded like something much larger. He waited on high alert, crouched in his own ditch, and was rewarded by the faint outline of a man’s head peering cautiously out. No cap, but it could only be a French sentry, for who else would be concealed here, so close to the arms cache? He could wait it out and pray he was not discovered, but sixteen years in the army had taught Finlay the value of the pre-emptive strike. Taking the sgian-dubh, the other, shorter dagger he carried tucked into his hose, in his other hand, he launched himself at the enemy.

The Frenchman was in the act of aiming his pistol as Finlay threw himself at him, knocking his arm high and sending the gun spiralling harmlessly into the air. The man fought like a dervish despite his slight physique, but Finlay had experience and his own considerable brawn on his side. Within moments, he had the man subdued, wrists yanked painfully together behind his back, the glittering blade of the dirk only a hair’s breadth from the French soldier’s throat.

‘Make one sound and, by all that is holy, I promise you it will be your last,’ Finlay growled in guttural French.

His captive strained in Finlay’s iron grasp. He tightened his grip on the man’s wrists, noting with surprise how slender and delicate they were. Now that he was close up, Finlay could see he was not, in fact, wearing a French uniform. What was more, as he struggled frantically to free himself, it became clear that there was something much more profoundly incongruous about his captive.

‘What the devil,’ Finlay exclaimed, so surprised that he spoke the words in his native Gaelic. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, woman,’ he added, lowering his voice and switching to Castilian Spanish as he turned the female round to face him, ‘creeping about in the dead of night in man’s garb? Don’t you realise I could have killed you?’

The woman threw back her head and glared at him. ‘I might ask you the same question. What the hell do you think you are doing, creeping about in the night in woman’s clothing? I could just as easily have killed you.’

The sheer audacity of her remark rendered him speechless for a moment, and then Finlay laughed. ‘This, señorita, is a kilt, not a skirt, and you did not for a moment come close to killing me, though I don’t doubt that you’d have tried if I’d given you half a chance. Why did you point a gun at me? Could you not see that I am wearing a British and not a French uniform? We are supposed to be on the same side.’

‘If you could tell that my tunic was not a French uniform, why did you come leaping out of the darkness brandishing two blades like some savage?’ she countered.

‘Aye, well, fair enough,’ Finlay said grudgingly, ‘but that doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here dressed as a man. Are you alone?’

‘I am here for the same purpose as you, I expect. To locate the position of this arms store. And yes, I am alone. You can let me go now, I won’t shoot you, I...’

‘Wheesht!’

Finlay pulled them both back down into the ditch as the sound of horses’ hooves grew louder. Three riders, and this time undoubtedly French. He turned to warn the woman at his side not to move a muscle, but there was no need; she was stock-still, as silent and tense as he. She was a plucky wee thing, that much was certain.

The horses drew closer and then stopped almost directly in front of them. One man dismounted, and Finlay slowly slid his pistol from its holster. Before he could stop her, the woman had wriggled a few feet away to pick up her own discarded weapon, careful to make no sound. Not just plucky, but cool-headed, then. Under cover of the ditch, he could barely see her, only sense the slim, coiled figure readying herself to attack. He shook his head imperceptibly, and to his relief she nodded her understanding. There were times when patience was a virtue. No point alerting the French to the fact that the arms cache had been discovered. It would only make any future assault on it more fraught with danger, as they would doubtless reinforce their defences.

After a few tense seconds, Finlay heard an unmistakable tinkling sound that was accompanied by tuneless whistling. This was followed by a long groan of satisfaction as a small cloud of steam rose into the night air. ‘Zut alors!’ he heard a disembodied, and quite literally relieved voice say, and had to bite his lip not to laugh out loud. This whole bizarre episode was going to make a fine tale for the lads in the mess. Provided he made it safely back, that was. He himself was therefore equally relieved to see the soldier remount his horse before the trio set off in the direction of the arms cache, where presumably they would set up camp.

‘We must move now, for they will almost certainly send out a patrol once they are settled.’ The woman spoke in English. Her accent had a slight lisping quality that was undeniably charming.

One look at the sky, where a full moon was making its presence felt from behind the scudding clouds, made his mind up for him. Finlay nodded his agreement. ‘My horse is hidden in a copse just over that ridge.’

‘I know it. Let me lead the way, I know this terrain like the back of my hand.’

It went against the grain for him, but his instincts told him to trust her. They made their way along the ditch, inch by painfully silent inch, for half an hour as the moon rose higher and higher and the stars above them hung like lanterns suspended in the sky. Finlay was struck, as he was on every single clear night like this in Spain, by how much brighter and closer to earth they seemed compared to the tiny twinkling lights in the Argyll sky, back home in Scotland.

Ahead of him, the woman stopped and looked cautiously out of the ditch before standing up. ‘We can follow this track here. It will take us over the ridge. Now that you have located the arms dump I presume the English army will destroy it?’

‘It’s a British army, with Scots and Irish and Welsh soldiers as well as English.’

‘And you, I think, with that skirt, are Scottish?’

‘Kilt. Plaid if you like, but not a skirt. Skirts are for women.’

He saw the glint of her teeth as she smiled at him. ‘And you, soldier, are decidedly not a woman.’

Finlay surveyed her for the first time, in the fluorescent glow of the moon, and wondered how he could ever have thought her anything else. She was young, no more than twenty-three or four, he reckoned. Her rough woollen breeches were tucked into sturdy brown boots. Over her heavy tunic, the leather belts worn cross-wise held gunpowder, a pistol and a knife. The uniform of a partisan, a rebel fighter. But the long legs inside the breeches were shapely. The belt cinched a waist that even underneath the bulk of the tunic was slim. The hair pulled back from the face had been silky soft against his unshaven chin. And her face... The large, almond-shaped eyes under finely arched brows, the strong nose, the full lips—there could be no mistaking that for anything other than a woman, and a very attractive one, at that. ‘We have established the reason for my presence. But what, may I ask, are you doing out here?’ he asked.

Her smile faded. ‘I told you, the same thing you are doing. Locating the French armaments.’

‘But alone. And you are...’

‘Female.’ She stood straight, tossing her head and glaring at him. ‘You think a woman is any less observant than a man?’

‘Quite the contrary, but I do think sending a woman on her own on such a mission was a bloody stupid thing to do. These French soldiers would not necessarily have killed you straight away, lass,’ Finlay said gently, ‘if they had captured you.’

‘I would not let them capture me. Under any circumstances,’ she added darkly.

‘You should not have been sent—assuming that whatever guerrilla group you belong to did actually authorise your foolhardy mission?’

She glowered at him again, opened her mouth to speak, then obviously thought better of it. ‘We should not be standing here debating in the open. It is not safe.’

She had a point. She also clearly did not trust him, despite his uniform. And why should she, Finlay thought wryly as he allowed her to lead the way along the narrow track he’d followed earlier. The problem was, he needed her to trust him enough to tell him what her fellow partisans’ plans were. If they meant to liberate the French weaponry and use it against them, it would save his men a job—and he could ill spare his men for such a mission, no matter how vital. Vitoria had knocked seven colours of shite out of them, and now Wellington was champing at the bit to attack the fortress towns of Pamplona and San Sebastian, despite the fact that desertion, sickness and sheer bloody exhaustion, to say nothing of the unseasonal and relentless rain, were having a serious impact on morale. If he could spare his men even one sortie...

Finlay frowned. He could not see how it was to be done. He knew no more about this woman than she knew about him. If he could at least find out who she took her orders from, for he was pretty certain he knew all the local guerrilla groups, and those he did not know his friend Jack, Wellington’s master codebreaker, of a certainty would. If only he could get her to talk.

They were climbing steeply now, pebbles from the narrow rocky path skittering down behind them. The moon was high enough in the sky to cast ghostly shadows. The woman moved lithely, her long legs in their tight boots seemingly tireless as she set a pace that would have left some of Finlay’s men gasping for breath. Raised in the Highlands, a childhood spent roaming the narrow sheep tracks on lower but equally rugged terrain, Finlay followed, his kilt swinging out behind him, his eyes alternating between his booted feet and the beguiling curve of his companion’s shapely behind. There was a lot to be said for women in trousers.

There was a lot to be said for men wearing kilts, too. As an officer, he’d the right to trews, but Finlay had always preferred the freedom of his plaid. Other officers from other regiments, especially those up-their-own-arse cavalry, saw Finlay’s loyalty to the kilt as one more piece of evidence of his barbarity. The Jock Upstart, Wellington had christened him when he had first, against all the odds and much against the duke’s inclination, clambered out of the ranks. Finlay, smiling through very gritted teeth, had sworn to be true to this moniker forever. His plaid was just one of the many ways he maintained his rebellious streak. Sometimes subtly and subversively. Frequently, less so.

He wondered what this woman’s family thought of her wandering about the countryside armed to the teeth. Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps she was married to a rebel warrior herself. It struck him, as it had often recently, how very different it was for the Spanish who fought alongside them, or who fought as this woman did, in their own underground guerrilla groups. Finlay was a soldier, doing the job he’d been trained to do, had been doing, man and boy. His cause was whatever his country and his commanding officer decreed it to be, his enemy whomever they nominated his enemy to be, and for the past few years it had been the French. He loathed the barbarities they had been responsible for, but he equally loathed the atrocities his own side, drunk on bloodlust and wine, had committed in the aftermath of Ciudad Rodrigo. But he did not hate the French indiscriminately. He admired their soldiers—they were worthy adversaries—and he would be a fool to do anything other than respect Napoleon’s military genius.

Napoleon, however, had not invaded Finlay’s homeland. The French army were not living off Finlay’s family’s croft, eating their oats and butchering their cattle. This woman, still striding out tirelessly as they crested the hill, was fighting for her country, her family, her village. And he, Finlay, might not be the enemy, but his men were still laying waste to the countryside in battle, laying siege to their ancient fortress towns and eating their hard-earned grain, even if they were paying a fair price for it. No wonder she had taken up arms. He’d bet his own sisters would do the same.

‘What do you find amusing?’

They had come to a halt on the ridge. The copse where Finlay’s horse was tethered was in the valley, about a hundred feet below. He hadn’t realised he was smiling. ‘I was trying to imagine my mother’s reaction if she caught my sisters playing the soldier, as you are.’

The woman bristled. ‘This is no game. Our sovereignty, our very existence is at stake.’

‘I did not mean to trivialise the actions of you and your comrades, lass—señorita. In fact, I was thinking just then how much I admire what you are doing. And thinking my sisters would likely do the same, if our lands were invaded as yours have been.’

‘You have many sisters?’

Finlay laughed. ‘It feels like it at times, though there’s only three of them.’

‘And brothers?’

‘Just the one. What about you?’

‘Just the one,’ she said, with a twisted smile. ‘He is with our army, fighting alongside you English—British. I don’t know where he is exactly.’

‘You must worry about his safety.’

She shrugged. ‘Of course, though if he was close at hand I would not have the opportunity to be so—’ she indicated her tunic, her gun ‘—involved. And so it is perhaps for the best, since we can both fight for our country in our own way.’

‘Your family don’t object to your active participation?’

‘My mother is dead. My father is—he is sympathetic. He turns the closed eye, I think that is what you say?’

‘Blind eye. Your English is a lot better than my Spanish.’

Another shrug greeted this remark. ‘I have been fortunate in my education. Papa—my father—is not one of those men who thinks that girls should learn only to cook and sew. Unlike my brother. Without Papa’s support and encouragement I would not be here, and we would not have known about that cache of arms.’

‘So your partisan group do intend to do something about it?’

The question was out before he could stop it. The result, he could have predicted if he’d given himself a chance to think. She folded her arms and turned away. ‘As a soldier yourself, you cannot expect me to disclose sensitive military information like that to a complete stranger. I will accompany you to the copse down there, and then we must go our separate ways.’

Cursing under his breath in Gaelic, Finlay followed her, determined more than ever, now that he’d made it even harder for himself, to find a way of making her trust him. If he was to do so, he’d need to stop her leaving. Which meant abandoning his plans to be back at camp by dawn, bidding farewell to the prospect of anything more appetising than the hard biscuits he had in his knapsack. On the other hand, it was not as if a few hours in the company of such a bonny and intriguing lass would be any great hardship. Even if their situation was fraught with danger. Maybe precisely because their situation was fraught with danger.

* * *

Isabella watched the Scottish soldier stride over to his horse, which was tethered to a tree on a rope long enough to let the animal reach the stream burbling along the valley floor. She watched him as he quickly checked that the beast was content before hauling a large bundle that must be the saddle from where it had been concealed under a bush.

He was a big man, solid muscle and brawn, with a fine pair of powerful legs revealed by that shocking garment he wore, and a broad pair of shoulders evident under his red coat. She knew enough to tell that it was an officer’s coat, though she had no idea what rank. He did not have the haughty manners of a typical Spanish officer. There was none of their pompousness and vainglorious pride in his demeanour. Perhaps it was different in the English army? British—she must remember to call them British.

His hair was the colour of autumn leaves. It glinted in the moonlight, and the stubble on his face seemed tinged with flecks of gold. His eyes... She could not tell the colour of his eyes, but she could see well enough that his face was a very attractive one. Not exactly handsome, but nonetheless, the kind of face that would always draw a second look. And a third. The smile he gave her now, as he walked back towards her, was the kind of smile that would ensure its recipient smiled back. She bit down firmly on her own lip, and equally firmly ignored the stir of response in her belly.

‘Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Foot,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a bit late in the day for introductions, but there you are. I am delighted to meet you, señorita...?’

‘I—Isabella. You may call me Isabella.’

To her surprise he took her hand, bowing over it with a graceful flourish, brushing her fingertips with his lips. ‘Isabella. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said, as his smile darkened and took a decidedly wicked form.

‘Major Urk...Urk...’

‘Urquhart. It’s pronounced Urk-hart. It might be easier if you called me Finlay.’

‘Finlay,’ Isabella repeated slowly, smiling. ‘Yes, that is better. Well, Finlay, it has been very nice to meet you, but I must...’

‘Don’t go just yet.’

Truthfully, she did not want to, though truthfully, she did not want to admit that to herself. It was not the journey home that bothered her; she could do that blindfold. It was him. She ought—indeed, she had a duty—to discover what the British plans were with regard to the French arms dump. Reassured, she gave a little nod. ‘I will stay for a moment,’ Isabella conceded, ‘and rest a little.’

‘You don’t sound in the least as if you need a rest.’

‘I don’t,’ she said, instantly defensive, almost as instantly realising that she had contradicted herself. ‘But I would welcome some water. I am parched.’

‘Sit down. I’ll bring you some.’

‘I am perfectly able...’

‘I’m sure you are, but I have a cup in my knapsack—it’s a mite easier to use than your hands. Sit down there, I won’t be a minute.’

Though she was loath to do as he bid her, loath to be waited on as if she was a mere woman, Isabella sat. The water was cool and most welcome. She drank deeply, and consented to have more brought for the sake of placating the soldier, and for no other reason. ‘Gracias.’

‘De nada.’

He sat down beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. His eyes, she could see now, were a startlingly deep blue under heavy brows, which were drawn together in a faint frown. Despite the fiery glints in his hair, his skin was neither fair nor burned by the sun, but tanned deep brown.

‘Well, now, Isabella, it seems to me that it would be daft for us both—my men and yours—to consider launching a sortie against this French arms dump, would it not? No point treading on each other’s toes unnecessarily.’

His accent was strange, lilting, soft, and some of the words he spoke she could not translate, but she understand him only too well. He was going about it more subtly this time, but he was still interested in one thing only from her: what were the partisans’ intentions with regard to the French arms cache? Fine and well, for that was also the only reason she was interested in him. The thought made Isabella smile, and her smile made the soldier look at her quizzically, an eyebrow raised, his own sensual mouth quirking up on one side.

‘I’d give a lot to know what is going on in that bonny head of yours, señorita. I mean,’ he said, when she looked confused, ‘I’d like to know what you are thinking.’

‘I wager you would, soldier, but I’m not going to tell you.’

‘Finlay. It’s Finlay.’

‘Finlay,’ she repeated.

‘Aye, that’s it, you have it. There’s not many use my name these days, apart from at home, that is. But it’s been nigh on seven years since I’ve been there.’

‘And where is home?’ Isabella asked.

‘A village in Argyll, not far from Oban. That’s in the Highlands of Scotland. My family live in a wee cottage not unlike the ones you see in the villages hereabouts, and they farm, too, just like the villagers here, though they grow oats not wheat, and it’s far too cold and wet for grapes, so there’s no wine. Mind you, my father makes a fine whisky. He has a boat, too, for the fishing.’

Isabella stared at him in surprise. ‘So your family are peasant stock? But you are an officer. I thought that all English officers were from grand English families. The Duke of Wellington, he is famous—’

‘For saying that an officer must also be a gentleman,’ Finlay interrupted her, making no attempt to hide his contempt. ‘I’m the exception that proves the rule—an officer who is definitely not a gentleman,’ he clarified. ‘And I’ll remind you, for the last time, that I’m not English. I’m Scottish.’

‘I’m sorry. I think it is like calling a Basque person Spanish, no? I did not mean to insult you.’

‘I’ve been called much worse, believe me. Are you from the area, then? I hope I’ve not insulted you by speaking Spanish. I’m afraid the only words I have in Basque I would not utter in front of a lady.’

The word was like a touchpaper to her. ‘I am not a lady. I am a soldier. I may not wear a military uniform like my brother, but I, too, am fighting for the freedom of my country, Major Urka—Urko—Major Finlay.’

‘By heavens, you’ve some temper on you. I’ve clearly touched a raw nerve there.’

‘You have not, I am merely pointing out...’

He picked up one of her hands, which was curled into a very tight fist, and forced it open. She tried to resist but it was a pointless exercise; his big calloused hand had the strength of ten of hers. It was only when he let her go that she realised he could easily have hurt her, and had taken good care not to. Was he being chivalrous? Patronising? Was he showing her, tacitly, that a man was better, stronger than a woman? Why was it always so complicated? And why, despite his show of strength—or muted show of strength—did she feel no fear? She was alone in the dark of night with a complete stranger. A man who could overpower her and force himself on her if he wanted to. Her hand slid to her holster, though it was rather because she knew she ought to do so than because she thought she needed to.

‘I won’t harm you.’ He was looking pointedly at her hand. ‘You have my word. I have never in my life forced myself on a woman.’

He would have no need. And even though she knew, as everyone knew after being so long at war, what many soldiers did to women in the aftermath of battle, she could not imagine that this man would. There had been a grimness in his voice when he’d warned her about the French soldiers; it spoke of experiences he would rather forget. But then everyone involved in this struggle, including her, shared those.

Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘I believe you,’ she said, realising that Finlay was still waiting on an answer.

‘Good.’

His tone was curt, though he should be grateful for her trust. And she did trust him, which was extremely surprising and, little did he know it, very flattering. She glanced at him, as he sat, eyes closed, head thrown back, resting on his elbows. He did not look like the poor son of a farmer. He did not look like a peacock officer, either, and while he certainly didn’t have the hands of a gentleman, he had the manners of one. No, that was not fair. He had not treated her as a fragile flower with no mind. He had treated her with respect, and she liked that. He would be a popular officer, she was willing to bet, and those were few and far between, if her brother was to be believed. She tried to imagine her brother wearing that skirt—kilt. He would look like a girl, while this man—no, there was nothing at all feminine about this man.

‘Once again, lass, I’d give a lot to know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

Caught staring, Isabella looked hurriedly away. ‘I was thinking that you must be a very good soldier, to have become a major.’

Finlay laughed. ‘That is a matter of opinion. Being a good soldier and a good officer don’t necessarily go hand in hand. It’s taken me a great deal more time and effort than most to get to where I am. As you said yourself, Wellington is not at all keen on the idea of commoners rising through the ranks.’

‘In that, I think the Spanish and the English— British armies are the same,’ Isabella said. ‘Before the war, most of the officers were more concerned with the shine of their boots than the fact that some of their men had no boots at all. Things will be different when we have won our country back from the French.’

‘You speak with conviction. It is not over yet.’

‘No, but when it is...’

‘Oh, when it is we can but hope that the world will turn in a different direction,’ Finlay replied. ‘Maybe they’ll even allow women soldiers,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Though if you asked me to tell the truth, I’d say that right now, the army is no fit life for anyone, man or woman. We’ve been fighting too hard for too long, and all we want is for it to be over.’

‘That is all my people desire, too.’

‘Aye, you’re in the right of it. You must be desperate to see the back of all of us.’

‘If you mean that we want you to go home...’

‘To have your country back.’

‘Yes.’

‘And your life.’

‘Yes,’ Isabella said again, though with less certainty.

‘Provided that it doesn’t go back to exactly how it was before, eh?’ Finlay said, as if he had read her mind. ‘Now that you’ve had a wee—a small taste of freedom?’

‘Yes.’ Isabella smiled. ‘A wee taste of freedom,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And you, too, you will be able to go back to your father’s farm in Scotland, and see all your loved ones. You will like that?’

‘I will look forward to it,’ he said, after a moment, sounding, to her surprise, as hesitant as she had.

‘You do not wish to see your family?’

‘Oh, aye, only I don’t—ach, no point in talking about that. The war’s not over yet. Once we’ve kicked the French out of Spain, we’ll like as not have to chase them across France for a while. Which leads me back to that cache of arms.’ He sat up, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘Look, you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but these are unusual circumstances we find ourselves in. We can’t allow the French to turn those guns on either of us, and I can make sure that they don’t. Have I your assurance that the local rebel forces won’t interfere and queer the pitch?’

‘I don’t know what that means, but regardless, I think it would be much better to leave it in our hands,’ Isabella said firmly. ‘We will put the arms to good use, and—and it would be excellent for morale and quite a coup if we were successful.’

Finlay pressed his fingertips together, frowning down at his hands. ‘I’ll be frank with you. I would quite happily agree to what you suggest if I could only be sure that the mission would be successfully accomplished. You understand, much as I’d like to, I can’t just simply take your word for it.’

She bit back her instinctive retort, frowning now herself. ‘If I told you that the information I have gathered tonight would go direct to El Fantasma, would that be enough to convince you?’

‘You know El Fantasma?’

Isabella nodded.

Finlay looked unconvinced. ‘He is like his name, a ghost. Everyone has heard of him, nobody knows him.’

‘I do,’ she said firmly. ‘At least, I know how to get in touch with him.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘I cannot. I can only give you my word.’ She spoke proudly, held his gaze without blinking and was rewarded, finally, with a small nod of affirmation.

‘You have three days to act. If I don’t receive word that you have been successful by then, I’ll send my own men in to finish the job.’

‘Thank you. You can be sure that word will be sent to you before the three days are up.’

He took the hand she held out, enveloping it in his own. ‘You don’t ask where to send word.’

With a smile of satisfaction, she told him exactly where his men were encamped. ‘One of our men will find you.’

‘I’m beginning to think they will.’ He still had her hand in hers, but instead of shaking it as she had seen Englishmen do, he once again bent his head and brushed her fingertips with his lips. ‘We have an agreement, then,’ he said.

Once again, the touch of his lips on her skin gave her shivers. Isabella snatched her hand away. ‘We have indeed,’ she said quickly.

She had what she wanted; she was free to leave. Reluctantly, she made to get to her feet, but the Scotsman’s hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Stay until it’s light, won’t you? It’s not safe for me to leave before then. Unlike you, I don’t know the terrain. Also, it’s been a while since I’ve had the company of a woman. It would be good to talk of something other than guns and field positions.’

‘You think I cannot?’

‘Why in the name of Hades are you so prickly? I’m not one of those men who think women have no mind of their own. If you met my mother, you’d know why.’ He turned to look at her, his gaze disconcertingly direct. ‘As to you women being the weaker sex—if ever I thought that, just seeing what the wives following the drum have to endure would change my mind. They have to be every bit as tough as their menfolk. Tougher, in some cases, when they have bairns with them. Though I’d be lying, mind, if I said I thought it was an appropriate life for them.’

He broke off, giving himself a little shake. ‘Ach, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rant at you. If you want to talk guns and tactics, then that’s what we’ll talk. Only indulge me with a few hours of your company, and grant me the pleasure of looking on your bonny face, for it will be a while, I reckon, until I get the chance to do either again.’

His smile was beguiling. The look he gave her neither contrite nor beseeching, but—charming? He was not a man accustomed to being refused. On principle, she should refuse, but she was rather sick of principles, and what, after all, was the harm in allowing herself to be charmed for such a very short while?

Isabella permitted herself to smile back. ‘I do not think a man like you has any trouble at all in finding female company.’

He laughed again, showing her a set of very white teeth, shifting on the ground, giving her a brief, shockingly tantalising glance of a muscled thigh as he did so. ‘The trouble is, I’m a bit fussy about the female company I choose,’ he said. ‘I prefer to get to know a woman before I—before— What I mean is, I’ve a taste for conversation that I’ve not recently been able to indulge. Now, that makes me sound like I’m right up my own ar— I mean, like a right fop, and I’m not that.’

Isabella chuckled. ‘I am not exactly sure what this fop is, but I am very sure it is not a label that fits you.’

‘What I mean is, I like the company of women for their own sake.’

‘And I think that women like the company of Major Urk—of Finlay.’

‘Right now there’s only one woman’s company I’m interested in. Will you stay a few hours, Isabella?’

Why not? Her father would cover for her absence if necessary, but likely she’d be back in her bed before anyone noticed it had not been slept in. What harm could it do to indulge this man with a few hours’ conversation? The fact that he had a beguiling smile and a handsome face and a very fine pair of legs had nothing to do with it. ‘Why not?’

He smiled. ‘Tell me a bit about yourself, then. Are you from these parts?’

‘Hermoso Romero. It’s not far from here. We have— My family has some land.’

‘So they’re farmers, peasant stock as you call it, just like mine?’

‘They live off the land, yes.’

‘And it’s just you and your parents you say, for your brother’s in the army?’

‘Just me and my father. My mother is dead.’

‘Oh, yes, you mentioned that. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, but I never knew her. She died when I was very young.’

‘Then, I’m very sorry for you indeed. A lassie needs her mother, especially if she’s not got a sister.’

‘I cannot miss what I have not had,’ Isabella said stiffly.

Finlay opened his mouth to say something, thought the better of it, and shrugged, reaching over to pull his saddlebag towards him. ‘Would you like something to eat? I’m hungry enough to eat a scabby-headed wean.’

‘A— What did you say?’

‘I said I’m very hungry. This is all I have, I’m afraid,’ he said, passing her a handful of dry biscuits. ‘It tastes better washed down with this, though,’ he added, holding out a small silver flask. ‘Whisky, from my father’s own still. Try it.’

She sipped, then coughed as the fiery spirit caught the back of her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she said, returning the flask and wrinkling her nose, ‘I think I will stick to water.’

‘It is an acquired taste, right enough,’ Finlay said, putting the cap back on after taking, she noticed, only a very small sip himself. ‘Tell me a bit more about yourself. For example, how does it happen that such a bonny lass is not married?’

‘How does it happen that such a—bonny?—man is not married?’

Finlay laughed. ‘No, no, you don’t describe a man as bonny, unless you wish to impugn him. I’m not married because I’m a soldier, and being a soldier’s wife is no life worth having. Since I am a career soldier, my single status is assured. Now I have explained myself. What about you?’

Isabella shrugged. ‘While my country is at war and under occupation, I cannot think of anything else.’

‘Aye, I can understand that. It’s hard to imagine what peace will look like after all this time.’ Finlay pulled a blanket from his saddle and offered it to her. ‘Here, it’s getting mighty cold.’

‘I do not need...’

‘For the love of— Come here, will you, and we’ll share it, then.’ Taking her by surprise, he pulled her towards him, throwing the blanket around them. He grabbed her arm as she tried to struggle free, and slid his own across her shoulders. ‘I’d do the same for one of my own men if I had to,’ he said.

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s a sacrifice I’d be prepared to make—I hope. Luckily I’ve never had to put myself to the test.’

She felt the rumble of his laugher, and the warm puff of his breath on her hair. She had not noticed how cold it had become until he put the blanket around her. It would be churlish to push him away now, and a little silly, for then she would have to walk in the morning with stiff, cold limbs. She did not relax, but she no longer struggled, and allowed herself to lean back against the tree trunk. ‘Tell me more about Scotland,’ she said. ‘Is it very different from Spain?’

‘Very. For a start, there’s the rain. The sky and the sea are more often grey than blue. Mind, all that rain makes for a green landscape. I think that’s what I miss the most, the lush greenery that carpets the valleys and hills.’

‘We have a lot of rain here in the north, in the winter.’

‘Aye, but in Scotland, on the west coast, it rains most days in the summer, too. Are you sleepy? Should I stop babbling?’

Isabella smothered a yawn. ‘No, if you mean should you stop talking. Tell me what other countries you have visited as a soldier.’

‘Many campaigns. Egypt. Portugal. France. Ireland. America.’

‘You are so lucky, I have never been out of Spain.’

‘I’m not sure that you see the best of a country when you go there to fight.’

‘No, but—tell me please. Describe what America is like. Is it the wild, untamed wilderness that I have heard tell of?’

‘Once you leave the east coast, yes. And vast. A man could lose himself there.’

‘Or find himself?’

* * *

Finlay was still musing on that thought when Isabella wriggled around under the blanket to look up at him. He tensed, willing his body not to respond to the supple curves of her. Her hair tickled his chin. He was inordinately grateful for the thick layers of clothing between them, and tried discreetly to shift his thigh away from hers. Concentrating his mind on answering her questions, he found she drew him out, that his desire, while it remained a constant background tingle, was subdued by his interest in her, by hers in him.

Eventually, as the moon sank and true darkness fell, they grew silent. He thought she slept, though he could not be sure. He thought he remained awake, though he could not be certain of that, either. They moved neither closer nor farther apart, and that, Finlay told himself, was as it should be.

* * *

In the morning he was glad of it. She stirred before sunrise, and he lay with his eyes closed, affording her some privacy. Only when she stood over him did he pretend to wake, getting to his feet, trying not to notice the way the water she had splashed on her face had dampened her hair, making a long tress of it cling to her cheek.

‘You will find your way back to your own lines?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘It’ll be easier in daylight, provided I keep a weather eye out for French patrols.’

‘I will send word when we have—when it is done, I promise.’

‘I believe you.’

He took the hand she offered him. In the dawn light, her eyes seemed more golden than brown. He wanted to kiss that nervously smiling mouth of hers. He wanted, quite fervently, to have her body pressed against his, her arms around his neck. He took a step towards her. For a moment he felt it, the tug of desire between them, that unmistakable feeling, like the twisting of a very sharp knife in his guts. It was because he wanted to kiss her so much that he stopped himself, bent over her hand, clicking his heels together, then let her go. ‘Adiós, Isabella. Good luck. Please be careful. Stay safe.’

‘Goodbye, Finlay. May God protect you and keep you from harm.’

She turned and slowly walked away, following the path of the stream as it meandered along the floor of the valley. Finlay watched her until she disappeared from sight behind a large outcrop of rock. Then he picked up his saddle, and within a few moments, just as the sun streaked the sky with pink-and-orange fingers, he, too, was on his way, heading in the opposite direction.

Chapter Two

England—autumn 1815

‘So, Jack, are you going to spill the beans on why you had me hotfoot it down here? I’m intrigued. But then knowing you, you old fox, that was precisely your intention when you composed the enigmatic message I received.’

They were strolling in the grounds of Jack’s brother’s home, Trestain Manor, where he was currently residing, Finlay having arrived post-haste in answer to an urgent summons. Now he eyed his friend grimly. ‘You’re looking a bit rough around the edges, if you don’t mind my saying so. Is this anything to do with the information I dug up for you regarding your wee painter lassie?’

‘Her name is Celeste, and she is not, as I told you in London, my wee painter lassie,’ Jack snapped. ‘Sorry. I’m just— What you told me helped me a lot, and I’m hoping to solve the rest of the puzzle now that I have permission from Wellington to delve into those secret files.’

‘But things concerning the lassie herself don’t look so hopeful?’ Finlay asked carefully.

Jack shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’m advancing on some fronts but have sustained some collateral damage on others.’ The words were light-hearted but the tone of his friend’s voice told Finlay the subject was not open for further discussion. ‘The reason I asked you here is nothing to do with that, although indirectly it brought it about.’

Finlay rolled his eyes. ‘Would you get to the point and stop talking in code, man!’

Jack smiled faintly. ‘A habit that’s difficult to break. It’s a delicate matter, though, Finlay, and obviously everything I tell you is in the strictest confidence. I don’t mean to insult your utter trustworthiness, but Wellington made me promise...’

‘Wellington!’

‘When I accosted him at that dinner I attended on your behalf with my little problem of those secret files, he told me about a little problem of his own.’ Jack’s expression darkened. ‘Save that it’s not only the duke’s problem, Finlay. I see it as very much mine. When we were in Spain, do you recall talk of a partisan commander called El Fantasma?’

‘The Ghost! I’d have had to be deaf and dumb not to. He was a legend in the north during the Peninsular Campaign.’

‘Yes, he was. The partisans in that area were incredibly effective in targeting the French supply lines thanks to him, and in intercepting mail. He was one of my most reliable and effective spies. The information he provided saved a great many lives.’ Jack plucked a long piece of grass, and began to twine it around his finger. ‘The thing is, Finlay, this El Fantasma knows some pretty compromising stuff, politically, that is. Some of the things that were done in the name of war—they wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny in the press.’

‘Jack, none of the reality of war would sit well with the peacetime press.’

‘You’re right about that. To be honest, I think it would be a good thing if some of it did come into the public domain. Since Waterloo, no one wants to know about the suffering of those who fought, the pittance they have to live on, the fact that the army has cast them aside, having no further need for them.’ Jack broke off, fists clenched. ‘Sorry, I know I’m preaching to the converted in you, and I’ve strayed from the point again. The problem, as far as the duke is concerned, is that, were El Fantasma to fall into the wrong hands, it could be extremely embarrassing, not to say damaging to his political career.’

‘The wrong hands being...?’

‘The Spanish government. Since Ferdinand was restored to the throne, the ruling elite has been cracking down on the former partisans and guerrillas who continue to speak out against them. Many of the more vocal liberals, the ones with influence, have been exiled, a significant number of them executed. El Fantasma, however, is still a thorn in their side. Rather more than a thorn, actually. You know that the freedom of the press in Spain is one of the many liberties that’s been curtailed? Here, take a look at this.’

Jack handed Finlay what looked like a political pamphlet. It was written in a mixture of Spanish and Basque, from what he could determine, and the printed signature at the end was quite clearly that of El Fantasma, the small image of a spectre on the front page providing confirmation.

‘This edition calls for the Constitution of 1812 to be restored, among many other things. Advocating that alone could get him hanged. I imagine the other editions espouse equally revolutionary views.’ Jack was now frowning deeply. ‘Wellington has been tipped off through one of his various diplomatic connections that the Spanish government are determined to flush El Fantasma out. He is a dangerous focal point and voice of anti-government rhetoric, and they intend to silence him once and for all. You can guess what that means.’

‘It means I wouldn’t like to be in his boots if they snare him.’

‘And they will, Finlay. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Which is what has put the wind up Wellington, I presume?’

Jack nodded. ‘He says it is a matter of state security. It goes without saying that his concerns are partly driven by self-interest, but you know as well as I do how wide that man’s sphere of influence is.’

‘If the duke says it’s a matter of state security, then undoubtedly it is. So he wants to get to El Fantasma before the Spanish do, I take it, and he’s thinking that you are the man for the job, since a great deal of your information came from that very source?’

‘El Fantasma did an enormous amount for us, and risked his life every day to do so. We owe it to him—I owe it to him personally, to make sure no harm comes to him. Which is where you come in.’

Finlay stared at his friend, his head reeling. ‘Wellington wants me to go to Spain?’

‘I want you to go to Spain. Wellington agreed to leave the matter in my hands. Since I’m the only person he could think of with the first clue of where to start, he had little option. I have his permission to act as I see fit and to use whatever resources I require. It’s official business in that sense, though if anything goes wrong, of course, he’ll deny all knowledge. In war and politics, there are always shades of grey, aren’t there? Well, this is one instance. The Spanish want to silence our partisan. Our government, being afraid of what he might reveal in order to save his neck, also wants to silence him, Finlay. Do you see?’

‘I do. And what, I’m wondering, is it you really want me to do for you?’

‘Get El Fantasma out of Spain and the government’s clutches by any means possible. Forcibly, if need be. It’s for his own good. That will be difficult enough, but then there is the small matter of keeping him out of Wellington’s clutches thereafter,’ Jack said with a chilling smile. ‘Here’s how I think it can be achieved.’

Finlay listened in silence as Jack explained his plan and then let out a low whistle. ‘You certainly haven’t lost your touch, laddie. You do realise if the powers that be find out, it could be interpreted as a treasonable act,’ he said, eyeing his friend with something akin to awe. ‘It’s a bold and possibly reckless strategy.’

‘Precisely why I thought of you,’ Jack quipped, though his face was serious. ‘I know it’s asking an enormous amount, but I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust with the task. I would go myself, only I can’t. I am not—not in the best of health, and there are things I am embroiled in here... If it could wait a few weeks, but I am not sure that it can, and so...’

‘Jack, there’s no need to explain yourself. Whatever is going on between you and your wee painter lassie is your business. I just hope the outcome is a good one,’ Finlay said. ‘Besides,’ he continued hurriedly, for his friend was looking painfully embarrassed, ‘can you not see that I’m bored out of my mind? Is this not the kind of scrape that you know fine and well I love beyond anything?’

He was rewarded with an awkward smile. ‘I did think that you might be tempted, but...’

‘Let me tell you something. When I got your note, I confess I was relieved. I’m not used to having all this free time. It doesn’t suit me one whit. You know I’ve never been comfortable with mess life, and it’s even worse now there’s no battles to be fought, and the talk is all of dancing and parties and who is the fairest toast in the town and what particular shade of brown this Season’s coats should be. I’m a man who needs to be doing something.’

Jack smiled, but his expression remained troubled. ‘I thought the plan was for you to spend some time back in the Highlands.’

‘I did go back, briefly,’ Finlay replied, ‘but—ach, I don’t know. My brother has the croft well in hand, and I don’t want to be standing on his toes, and...’ He shook his head. ‘It all seemed so tame and so very quiet.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Jack said wryly. ‘Trestain Manor is hardly a cauldron of excitement, though it would be churlish of me to complain. My brother, Charlie, and his wife, Eleanor, have been good enough to take me in since I resigned my commission.’ The two men sat down on the bank of a stream. ‘What about you? Will you stay in the army, do you think, now that it looks like lasting peace has finally been achieved?’

Finlay shrugged. ‘Soldiering is all I know. Anyway, no point thinking about the future when there’s work to be done,’ he said brusquely. ‘It’s agreed. I’ll go to Spain and smuggle this El Fantasma out of the country, by hook or by crook. Just tell me what he looks like and where I might find him.’

Jack grimaced. ‘That, I am afraid, is the first of many hurdles to be overcome. I have no idea what he looks like, never having met the man. The partisans operated in small, isolated groups to preserve anonymity. I dealt only with third parties—contacts of contacts, so to speak. Even assuming they have survived, which is by no means certain, many of them went into exile at the end of the war. It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ Jack ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What you need is a starting point, and we don’t have one.’

‘Actually, I think we might have,’ Finlay said slowly. ‘Do you remember my tale of the occasion I attacked what I thought was a French guard, and it was...’

‘A female Spanish partisan.’

Finlay smiled. ‘Isabella, her name was. I’ve often wondered what became of her.’

Jack laughed. ‘I’m sure her charms, as you described them to me, were grossly exaggerated. Moonlight and a dearth of females to compare her to will most certainly have coloured your view.’

‘Not at all, she was a right bonny wee thing, and a brave one, too, but that’s not what’s important.’

‘Now you’re the one talking in riddles.’

‘She claimed to know how to get in touch with El Fantasma. Now, I know virtually nothing about her. I don’t even know for certain if she was telling the truth. It’d be clutching at straws. A very long shot, indeed. But in the absence of any other lead...’

‘It is at least a potential starting point, although as a partisan, there’s a good chance she may not have survived the war.’

Finlay grimaced. ‘She didn’t even tell me her full name. All I know is that she came from a place not far from where I found the arms cache. Roma? Roman? Romero? Aye, something Romero, I think that was it, but to be honest I can’t be sure. If I could take a look at a map I reckon I could pinpoint it.’

‘Don’t go leaping into action just yet,’ Jack cautioned. ‘You’ll need a cover story, papers, funds. I have contacts in London who will arrange everything you need, including passage on whatever naval ship is heading for Spanish waters. You may have to leave at very short notice.’

‘If it means not having to take part in another mess discussion about the best way to tie a cravat, I’ll go today.’

‘I am very much in your debt. You will send me word, won’t you, as soon as you are back safe in England?’

Finlay clasped his hand firmly. ‘I will return, never fear. Where would Wellington be without his Jock Upstart?’

North of Spain—one month later

Finlay had endured a long journey, and since arriving in Spain, one increasingly redolent with memories of the campaign there, some of them very unpleasant indeed. Though more than two years had passed, the legacy of the war was evident in the ruined fortress port of San Sebastian where he had made landfall, and in the surrounding countryside as he travelled south through Pamplona, thankfully avoiding the site of that last bloody battle at Vitoria.

Here, in the wine-growing countryside of the La Rioja region, was his final destination. Hermoso Romero. He was still not absolutely certain he was heading for the right place, but it was the only one on the map that had anything approaching the name he thought the Spanish partisan had mentioned. It was not, as he had imagined, a small hamlet where her family had a farm, but as the Foreign Office research had revealed, a very large winery where presumably the partisan’s family were employed to work on the estate, which was the largest in the region.

Finlay dismounted from his horse and shaded his eyes to gaze down into the valley. Hermoso Romero was a beautiful place, the pale yellow stone walls and the terracotta roofs mellowed by the late-autumn sunshine. The grapes had been harvested from the regimented lines of vines that fanned out on three sides from the house, while cypress trees formed a long windbreak on the fourth. The main house was a large building three storeys high, the middle section of which was graced with arched windows. What must be the working part of the estate was located to one side, built around a central courtyard, while at the back of the main block he could see what looked like a chapel, and some elegant private gardens contained by a low wall constructed of the same yellow stone.

Jack’s mysterious contacts at the Foreign Office in London had done an impressively thorough job in providing Finlay with a cover story. The owner of the winery, Señor Xavier Romero, was by all accounts an extremely ambitious man, with a very high opinion of his Rioja wine. So when Señor Romero had been informed through a ‘reliable’ diplomatic source that an influential English wine merchant wished to pay him a visit to discuss a potential export deal, an invitation was immediately extended.

‘He’s likely to push the boat out a bit,’ the man at the Foreign Office had warned Finlay. ‘Be prepared to be courted. It would be advisable to crib up a little on the wine-production process if you can find the time.’

But time had been in very short supply. ‘It is to be hoped that Señor Romero is more interested in allowing me to taste the wine than grilling me on my knowledge of grape varieties and vintages,’ Finlay muttered, patting his pockets to reassure himself that his forged papers and letters of introduction were still in place. Though maintaining his alias was really the least of his problems. The scale of his task, the lack of information, the lack of any certainty at all, meant the odds of success were heavily stacked against him.

‘So we are going down there,’ he said, addressing his completely indifferent horse, ‘filled with hope rather than expectation. Let’s face it, laddie, there’s a hundred reasons why this could be a wild goose chase. Would you like to hear some of them?’

The horse pawed at the ground, and Finlay chose to take this for assent. ‘Let’s see. First, there’s the fact that though I think my partisan lass came from Hermoso Romero, I could be misremembering the name completely. Two years and a lot of water under the bridge since, it’s likely is it not?’

He received no answer, and so continued, ‘Then there’s the lass herself. A woman who, if she did not actually fight with the guerrillas, most certainly was one of them. What are the chances of her having survived? And if she has, what are the chances of her remaining here, if indeed here is where she lived? And if she is alive, and she is here, how am I to know I can trust her? It’s a dangerous thing, to espouse the liberal cause in Spain these days. My lass may well side with the royalists now—or at the very least, she’ll simply keep her mouth shut and her nose clean and herself well clear of associating with the likes of El Fantasma, won’t she?’

Receiving no answer once more, Finlay nodded to himself. ‘And if by a miracle she is still alive and still a liberal, why in the name of Hades would she trust me enough to lead me to the great man? For all she knows, I could be out to snare him myself. And in a way, she’d be in the right of it, too. The Ghost. I have to find him, for I most certainly don’t intend to let him haunt me for the rest of my life. So there you have it, what do you think of my chances now, lad?’

To this question, his horse did reply with a toss of his head. Finlay laughed. ‘As low as that, eh? You’re in the right of it, most likely, but devil take it if I don’t try to prove you wrong all the same. I’ve never been a death-or-glory man, but I’ve always been a man who gives his all.’

Mounting his trusty steed and turning towards the wide, new-built road that wound down towards the winery, Finlay felt as he did surveying the field before a battle: excited, nervous, with every sense on high alert, dreading the start and at the same time wishing it could come more quickly. It was one of the worst feelings in the world, and one of the best. He felt, for the first time since Waterloo, truly alive with a sense of purpose. He had missed it greatly, he realised.

* * *

‘Mr Urkerty. It is an immense pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Hermoso Romero.’

‘Urquhart. Urk-hart.’

‘Ah, yes, forgive me.’ Xavier Romero, a good-looking man of about Finlay’s own age, decided against a second attempt at the unfamiliar pronunciation, and instead shook his hand firmly. ‘If you are not too tired after your long journey, I would very much like to take you on a short tour of my winery. I am anxious that you see the quality of what we produce here.’

‘And I am just as anxious to sample it, señor.’ Finlay had no sooner nodded his consent than he was escorted by his host back out of the front door, along the sweeping gravel walk and through another door that led into the courtyard he had spied from the top of the hill.

‘Of course, the harvest is over for the year. It is a pity you could not have been here just a few weeks earlier. The soil here, as you will see when we go out into the vineyards tomorrow, is very heavy, mostly clay with some chalk. This gives the wine...’

Xavier Romero’s English was extremely good. He seemed to require nothing from Finlay but nods and smiles, which was just as well, for he was clearly a man with a passion for the wine he made and all the technicalities of the process. From the briefing he had received, Finlay knew that Romero had served as a lieutenant in the Spanish army, fighting alongside several British regiments in the last two years of what the Spanish called the War of Independence, while their British allies referred to it as the Peninsular Campaign. Señor Romero’s fellow British officers, two of whom Finlay had tracked down, had little to say of him other than that he seemed like a sound fellow, which Finlay took to mean that he was innocuous enough, and unlike the Jock Upstart, had the prerequisite amount of blue blood in his veins to fit in to the officers’ cadre.

‘We use oak barrels as they do in Bordeaux, but our grape varieties are very different. The main one is Tempranillo, as you will know, but...’

Señor Romero said nothing about his estate workers, a subject that interested Finlay much more than grape varieties, given the real nature of his business here. There was a small hamlet about a mile away, a cluster of cottages and farmland, planted with what looked like olive groves. Was it possible that the woman he had so fleetingly encountered lived in one of those cottages? He seemed to remember she said her family had some land.

Señor Romero was still pontificating. ‘Of course, the estate is quiet at the moment while we wait for the first fermentation, but you should have seen it in September and October,’ he said proudly, ‘a veritable hive of activity. Grape picking is seasonal work. Once the harvest is in we have a big fiesta, which goes on for days. If only you had timed your visit better—but there, it cannot be helped.’ His host pulled out a gold timepiece from his pocket and consulted it, a frown clouding his haughty visage. ‘I apologise, Mr Urker, I got quite carried away. We must leave the rest of our tour until tomorrow, when I will do my best to answer the many questions I am sure you must have. I hope you do not mind, but tonight I have taken the liberty of arranging a small gathering in your honour. A few friends, only the best families in the area, you understand. Some of them produce Rioja, too. They will try to tell you it is superior to mine.’ Señor Romero laughed gently. ‘They are misguided.’

‘I am sure that I will prefer your Rioja to anyone else’s,’ Finlay said.

He would make certain he did, even though he suspected he’d taste not a blind bit of difference between them.

* * *

As he wallowed in the luxury of a deep bath situated behind a screen in a luxurious bedchamber with a view out over the vineyards, Finlay was in fact starting to feel a wee bit guilty for raising his host’s expectations, knowing that nothing would come of them. He hoped that two or three days at most would be sufficient for him to establish contact with the female partisan or to establish that she was not contactable, one way or another. The thought that she might be truly beyond any earthy communication was not one he wished to contemplate.

A glance at the elaborate clock on the mantel informed him that he had no time for contemplating anything other than getting himself dressed. He had refused the offer of a valet, but the evening clothes that he had, thankfully, packed at the last moment, had been pressed and laid out on the bed for him. Finlay dressed quickly. A brief assessment in the mirror assured him that he was neat as a pin and that his unruly hair was behaving itself for once. He would pass muster.

He gave his reflection a mocking bow and braced himself. Señor Romero had gone to a lot of trouble, but the idea of an evening spent making polite talk to the man’s family and blue-blooded friends filled Finlay with guilty dread.

* * *

‘Ah, Mr Urkery, here you are. Welcome, welcome.’ Xavier Romero broke away from the small cluster of guests as Finlay entered the large vaulted room.

The collection of friends and family was significantly larger than Finlay had anticipated. This gathering reminded him of the glittering balls he had attended in Wellington’s wake in Madrid. The scale of the room took his breath away. It was the full height of all three storeys of the building, with a vaulted ceiling, making it resemble the interior of a cathedral. The tall, arched windows were above head height and facing west, so that the fading evening sun cast golden rays over the assembled company of, Finlay reckoned, about a hundred if not more. The ladies’ gowns in vivid colours of silk were high waisted and low-cut with puff sleeves as was the fashion in England, though their heads were dressed with the traditional mantilla of lace held in place with jewelled combs. The gentlemen, in contrast, seemed to be as Finlay was, dressed in black with pristine white shirts and starched cravats.

It was stifling in the room. Fans were fluttered, handkerchiefs used to mop brows. Jewels glinted; conversation buzzed. It was everything he hated. He had a very strong urge to turn tail and leave, but Xavier Romero was handing him a glass of sherry and telling him that he must before all else introduce his guest to his family.

As they made their way around the room, Finlay was the centre of attention. Women peeped at him over the tops of their fans. The men stared at him openly. He was probably the only outsider present. A small orchestra was tuning up. The acoustics of the place were impressive. That pretty woman over there in the red dress was making it very clear she would not be averse to an invitation to dance. She had a mischievous look that appealed to him. He would ask his host to introduce them later.

‘Ah, at last. Allow me the honour of introducing you to my wife. Consuela, my dear, this is Mr Urkery, the wine merchant from England who is our guest of honour. I am afraid my wife speaks very little English.’

‘No matter, I speak some, admittedly very bad, Spanish,’ Finlay said, switching to that language as he made his bow. ‘Finlay Urquhart—that is Urk-hart—at your service, Señora Romero. It is an honour.’ The woman who gave him her hand was young and very beautiful, with night-black hair, soft, pretty features and a plump, voluptuous figure. ‘And a pleasure,’ Finlay said, smiling. ‘Your husband is a very lucky man, if I may be so bold as to say so.’

Beside him, Xavier Romero managed to look both flattered and discomfited. ‘Mr Urkerty is going to introduce our Rioja to the English, my love,’ he said, edging closer to his wife. ‘I am pleased to say that he believes, as I do, that they should drink wine from the vineyards of their allies, not Bordeaux from the vineyards of their former enemies. It is long past time that they did so, do you not agree, Mr Urkyhart? They have been happy to import as much port as your Portuguese friends in Oporto can supply. Now you and I, we will make sure that Rioja, too, takes its rightful place in the cellars of England, no?’

‘The cellars of Scotland being too full of whisky, I suppose you’re thinking,’ Finlay said with an ironic little smile.

Fortunately, Romero simply looked confused by this barb. ‘I must introduce you to—’ He broke off, frowning, and scanning the room. ‘You will excuse me for just a second while I fetch my sister. She has obviously forgotten that I specifically told her...’

He spoke sharply, clearly irked by his sister’s non-compliance. Finlay had already taken a dislike to his host. Despite his attempt at obsequiousness, he had an air of entitlement that grated. Señor Xavier Romero considered himself as superior as his wine, his wife and sister mere chattels in his service. Finlay felt a twinge of sympathy for the tall woman about ten feet away whose shoulder Romero was gently prodding.

She wore a white lace mantilla. From the back, it obscured her hair and shoulders completely. Her gown was white silk embroidered with green leaves and trimmed with gold thread. Her figure was slim rather than curvaceous. She turned around, the lace of her mantilla floating out from the jewelled comb that kept it in place, and Finlay, not a man often at a loss for words, felt his jaw drop as their eyes met.

Dark chestnut hair. Almond-shaped, golden eyes. A full sensuous mouth. A beautiful face. A shockingly familiar face. Merciful heavens, but the person he had come on a wild goose chase to attempt to track down had, astonishingly, landed in his lap. The gods were indeed smiling on him.

Finlay’s fleeting elation quickly faded as two thoughts struck him forcibly. First, she might very publicly blow his cover wide open. And second, she was clearly not who she had said she was. Extreme caution was required. Resisting the urge to storm across the room and cover her mouth with his hand before she could betray him, he forced himself to wait and watch.

That she recognised him was beyond a doubt in those first seconds. The shock he felt was mirrored in her own expression. Her mouth opened; her eyes widened. For an appalling moment he thought she was going to cry out in horror, then she flicked open her fan and hid behind it. Relief flooded him. She no more wanted him to acknowledge her than he wanted her to acknowledge him. He was safe. For the time being.

* * *

‘May I present my sister? Isabella, this is Mr Urkyhart.’

‘Urk-hart,’ Finlay corrected wearily. ‘Señorita Romero. It is a pleasure.’

‘Mr Urquhart.’ Isabella made her shaky curtsy. Her heart was pounding, her mouth quite dry. It was undoubtedly him. The English wine merchant bowing over her hand was the Scottish major she had encountered in a ditch more than two years ago. The man she had spent the night with. Dios mio, what was he doing here?

She gazed beseechingly at him. She had forgotten how very blue his eyes were. He was clean-shaven, his auburn hair brushed neatly back from his forehead. He was not wearing his kilt. If only she had mastered the Spanish art of communicating with her fan, she could beg him not to betray her secret partisan past. He had said nothing yet. She had to find a way of ensuring he kept silent about their previous encounter.

She slanted a glance at her brother. Xavier had made such a song and dance about this visit, seeing it as his chance to finally have his Rioja recognised as the great wine he believed it to be. Grudgingly—very grudgingly—Isabella admitted that her brother knew what he was talking about, but still, she had very much resented his command that they do all they could to make the man’s visit memorable. If Xavier only asked rather than ordered it might be different. When she was feeling generous, Isabella put his tendency to command rather than request down to his years in the army. But she, too, had given orders during the war, and she had not returned to play the dictator.

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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