The Soldier's Rebel Lover

by Marguerite Kaye

  Yet she must marry, for Xavier was set on it, and he could make her continued presence in his house unpleasant. Gabriel was rich, he was handsome, he was popular, she reminded herself. He was an excellent match.

  ‘And at my great age, I cannot expect to do better, according to my brother,’ she said to herself as she prepared to mount her horse. ‘Loath as I am to admit it, Xavier is right. If I do not accept Gabriel soon, he will find someone else, and then where will I be? Better the devil you know, perhaps?’

  She settled her skirts around her, thinking as she always did, how much she missed the freedom of riding astride in breeches. As the wife of Gabriel Torres, there would be no question of her ever doing that again. Exasperated, she dismissed the question of her future. Right now, she had a contradictory, disconcertingly attractive Scotsman to deal with. Really, for Xavier’s sake she needed to ensure that he was what he claimed to be, and if that meant spending more time in his company, so be it. Having happily reconciled her inclination with her duty, Isabella tapped her heels lightly against her horse’s flank and headed in the direction of home.

  * * *

  It had been, as Finlay had predicted it would be, a long and tedious day. He had not thought anyone could discourse at such length on the subject of viticulture, but Xavier Romero seemed to be tireless. His passion for all things Rioja led him to expound at length on soil types, grape varieties, vine diseases, pest control, pruning methods, harvesting methods and the weather, from frost, to hail, to sun and humidity. Fortunately, his enthusiasm was second only to his love of his own voice. Finlay had contributed very little to the conversation, if such it could be called. His head, however, was throbbing as if they had drunk six bottles of Rioja when in fact the only thing they hadn’t done was sample the blasted stuff.

  They were quitting the stables when Señorita Romero arrived. Alone, and on horseback, when she saw her brother, she could not disguise her dismay. ‘Xavier, I thought you would still be out with Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Where is your groom?’

  ‘He was busy elsewhere. I am quite capable of saddling a horse and going for a ride.’

  Her tone was mild, though Finlay thought he saw a flash of anger in her eyes. She dismounted with a rustle of her skirts, and a tantalising glimpse of leather riding boots. How long were they? he wondered, momentarily distracted. Did they stretch to her knee, or higher still?

  Xavier clicked his fingers to summon a stable hand. Isabella handed over her reins to the boy with a friendly smile. Her brother however, was not happy. ‘I have told you several times that it is most improper for a sister of mine to ride about the countryside without an escort.’

  ‘I have been riding about this countryside all my life. Everyone knows me, I know everyone. Papa never insisted I take a groom.’

  ‘Our father was far too lenient with you. Besides, it is I who is now custodian of Hermoso Romero,’ her brother replied stiffly. ‘Your reputation is a reflection on me. It will be said that I cannot take care of my own sister, if you are seen out alone. It will be said that I do not treat her with respect.’

  ‘Then, you can reply that you trust me to be on my own. That is treating me with respect. That is what Papa would say.’

  Romero seemed with difficulty to control his temper. For some reason, Finlay noticed with interest, the subject was a sore point with him. ‘Our father is dead,’ he said, speaking sharply to his sister. ‘It is clear to me that you have been completely overindulged. I do not envy Gabriel the schooling of you.’

  There was no mistaking the flash in the señorita’s golden eyes at this remark, though she clasped her hands tightly round her riding crop and did not rise to the bait. Finlay however, who had been standing quietly to one side, could not resist. ‘She is not a child, Romero.’

  ‘She is a woman. It is almost the same thing,’ the other man snapped. ‘Excuse me, but this is none of your concern, Mr Urkarty.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, señor.’ Finlay spoke through clenched teeth, although his smile was conciliatory—he hoped. ‘Señorita Romero strikes me as a most competent horsewoman.’

  ‘Naturally. It is in her blood.’

  The arrogance of the man! ‘And she has, I understand, been accustomed to riding out alone while your father was alive, without damaging her reputation?’

  ‘That is not the point, Mr Urkarty.’

  ‘No, Señor Romero, you are quite right, it is not. The point is to choose your battles more carefully. I have three sisters of my own, and so speak from experience. A little leeway in small matters will buy you a great deal of credit when it comes to the larger ones.’

  Romero’s temper hung in the balance for a few moments. The man was not accustomed to being contradicted, that was for certain. Finlay shot a warning glance at the object of their conversation, but her eyes were fixed firmly on her boots. Unlike her brother, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

  Finally, Romero spoke. ‘Three sisters,’ he said with a smile every bit as forced as Finlay’s. ‘I confess, I don’t envy you that. Perhaps it is because I have only the one that I am overprotective. Very well, I will take your advice, Mr Urkety. Provided she confines herself to our estate, I do not see why—you see Isabella, how magnanimous I can be.’

  ‘I— Thank you, Xavier.’

  Her brother, however, was distracted by the return of his stable hand carrying a note. Señorita Romero turned to Finlay. ‘I must thank you, too, Mr Urquhart,’ she said softly. ‘Every time I am permitted to slip my leash a little, I will think of you.’

  Her smile was demure, but her eyes were stormy. ‘If it was in my power I would cut your leash completely,’ Finlay replied. ‘You know, I...’

  An exclamation from Romero made them both turn around. ‘It is Estebe, who is in charge of the winery. The man has fallen from a tree, would you believe.’

  ‘Oh, no, Xavier, is he badly injured?’

  Romero frowned. ‘A broken leg. It is very inconvenient, for I had intended he take Mr Urkety on a tour of the cellars tomorrow. I have urgent business elsewhere, which I am loath to cancel, but...’

  ‘Cannot Señorita Romero escort me instead?’ Finlay asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, please allow me to take Estebe’s place,’ Isabella urged. ‘While you were at war, while Papa’s health was failing, I helped Estebe a great deal. Of course I know that compared to you and Estebe, I am a mere novice, but I do know the history of our home and of the wine, and I am sure that is something Mr Urquhart will wish to be able to impart to his customers.’

  Romero pursed his lips. ‘It would be most irregular.’

  ‘Aye, but your sister speaks the truth,’ Finlay corroborated, masking his surprise. ‘My customers like to know a bit about the background and provenance of the wines they are being asked to pay a pretty penny for. And I would hate to deflect you from important business.’

  ‘Very well. Yes, when you put it that way.’ Romero smiled thinly at his sister. ‘Another favour granted, Isabella. I hope you are keeping count. You may supervise some tastings, brief Mr Urkety on the history, perhaps even compile some notes for him. She writes a fair enough hand, Mr Urkety, I will grant her that. And now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the house. I will see you both at dinner.’

  Señorita Romero watched him go before turning to Finlay. ‘If I was not cursed with the brain of a mere woman, I would suspect you of very manipulative behaviour, Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Ach, now, I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘How would you put it?’

  ‘Now, there, you see, you’ve put me on the spot, for if I was to confess that your brother’s company is not nearly as appealing to me as yours, you would likely accuse me of being condescending rather than manipulative. But don’t, I beg you, try to pull the wool over my eyes.’

&nbs
p; ‘What do you mean, Mr Urquhart?’

  ‘It’s Finlay.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he caught her hand and pulled her into the shelter of the stable door, out of sight of prying eyes. ‘I can understand why you don’t want your brother to know anything about your past. I have promised to keep that between us, and I keep my promises. But what I don’t understand, my fair former partisan, is why you’re so determined to hide your true self behind a demure facade. What are you trying to conceal?’

  If he had not been watching her so closely he would have missed the flicker of fear in her eyes. It was quickly masked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Urquhart.’

  ‘Finlay.’

  She closed the distance between them to whisper in his ear, ‘I am not concealing anything, Finlay. I assure you.’

  ‘No?’ Her hair tickled his cheek. Her smile was beguiling. Her eyes gleamed. Not a trace of the demure lady now; this woman made his blood heat. She made him lose his train of thought, distracting him with the proximity of that mouth, the memory of that kiss this morning.

  But this was business, life-and-death business, not pleasure. He stepped away from temptation. ‘As my friend Jack is wont to say, “I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”’

  Chapter Four

  Isabella peeled an orange and carefully separated it into segments. Xavier had breakfasted hours ago, setting off on his business trip to Pamplona before the sun had risen. Across the large, ornately laid table in the breakfast room, Finlay had finished his substantial selection of ham, cheese and bread, and was taking a second cup of coffee. He was chatting to Consuela about the latest French fashions. Isabella knew nothing about such things, and so could not tell if he was extremely knowledgeable or merely extremely plausible. Her sister-in-law was more animated than Isabella had ever seen her. Several times she had broken into a ripple of girlish laughter. Now, she was reading him a mock lecture, wagging her pretty beringed finger at him and fluttering her long lashes. Consuela never teased Xavier like this, but then Xavier, though handsome, had not a fraction of Finlay’s charm and even less interest than Isabella in women’s fripperies.

  She ate a piece of her orange. The fruit was at its best at this time of year, succulently sweet, rather like Consuela. And that, Isabella reprimanded herself, was a shrewish remark quite unworthy of her.

  She slanted a look at Finlay. He caught her eye and flashed her a smile. She looked down at her plate. It had seemed complicit, that smile. As if they had a secret. As if they knew something Consuela did not. A flutter of nerves sent her back to her coffee cup. She took a reviving sip, reminding herself that Finlay had no grounds for whatever suspicions he was nurturing. If he challenged her again about playing the demure lady, she would invoke the need to behave as her brother expected her to while under his roof. And in the meantime, she would pursue her own suspicions regarding him.

  ‘Xavier tells me that you are taking Mr Urquhart on a tour of the wine cellars,’ Consuela said, getting to her feet. ‘That was generous of you. They are horrible, Mr Urquhart, cold and I am sure swarming with rats. It is no wonder my husband is reluctant to go down there. I only wonder that Isabella is so fond of them. Now you will excuse me, if you please. I must go and tend to my son.’

  ‘So your brother is uncomfortable in his own wine cellars,’ Finlay said, closing the door behind Consuela. ‘That explains why he was so easily persuaded to allow his sister to spend time in the company of a mere wine merchant.’

  ‘It is not the dark or the rats Xavier fears, it is the fact that the cellars are so far underground. He has never liked them.’

  ‘And yet you, according to the lovely Señora Romero, are very fond of them.’

  ‘I don’t share my brother’s temperament. I have been wondering, Mr Urquhart—Finlay—what it was that made you turn to the trading of wine, when you left the army?’

  ‘It is a lucrative business. As a canny Scot, that was reason enough.’

  ‘With the right contacts I am sure that it is indeed lucrative. I wonder, you see, since you told me that you had not been home to England—I beg your pardon, Scotland—for so many years, I wonder how you have managed to establish sufficient customers so quickly.’

  Isabella took a sip of coffee, but kept her eyes on Finlay. Did his eyes flicker? Did his fingers tighten on his cup? She could not be sure.

  ‘I’m wondering,’ he replied, ‘if it is any of your business. Are you worried that I’ll sell your brother’s wine to someone who has not the palate to tell the difference between your fine Rioja and the stuff they drink from the barrel in the village bodegas? Are you thinking I should test the colour of a man’s blood before I sell to him? Blue—yes, you can have as much as you like. Red—no, sorry, laddie, not good enough.’

  He was still sitting, seemingly relaxed, at the table, but there was an edge to his voice that should have warned her to drop the subject. Isabella popped another segment of orange into her mouth. ‘It is not a question of blood, Mr—Finlay. It is a question of money.’

  ‘They all too often go hand in hand, I find, señorita. One begets the other. Lack of one tends to mean lack of the other.’

  ‘But you are the son of a farmer, and yet you became a major in Wellington’s army, and now you are a wealthy merchant. You are, as I seem to remember you telling me before, the— I forget the English phrase.’

  ‘The exception that proves the rule.’

  Isabella nodded. ‘That was it.’

  ‘The Jock Upstart, is what Wellington calls—called me. A man who does not know his allotted place in the scheme of things.’

  ‘The Jock Upstart,’ Isabella repeated slowly. ‘Ah, I see, because it rhymes with Urquhart. That is clever. Though also condescending.’

  ‘Add in licentious, ruthless and charming, and you have encapsulated the essence of the Duke of Wellington, taking the fact that he is on the whole a brilliant strategist as given.’

  Isabella raised her brows. ‘You don’t like him very much.’

  ‘No, but then he does not like me very much, either. It doesn’t stop him thinking me useful.’

  ‘You use the present tense, I think?’ Isabella asked sharply. ‘But you have left the army...’

  This time she was sure she saw a flicker of unease in his eyes, though he smiled blandly. ‘Useful in terms of supplying him with the best wine in Spain. If your brother will sell it to me.’

  Isabella could not argue with the sense of this, though still, she was sure he was not telling the whole truth. ‘You know, for a man who is so successful, you are very—I don’t know, contradictory? You look down your nose at the Duke of Wellington and at my brother, and at me, too, I think, and you say to yourself, you are our equal, if not our superior. But you don’t really believe it.’

  ‘What precisely do you mean by that?’

  She had no idea what she had meant, save to rile him into betraying himself. He was sitting perfectly still, but his expression was forbidding. She ought to back down, but she was exceeding tired of biting her tongue and eating her words and quelling her so unladylike thoughts. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are,’ Isabella said. ‘You are a man.’

  ‘I’m lucky because I’m a man? You’ll have to explain yourself a bit more, if you please.’

  On the contrary, what she ought to do was keep her mouth closed. Isabella pushed her plate away with some force. ‘It is obvious. When you walk into a room, people do not think, there is that—what was it?—Jock Upstart? They don’t think about your family tree or your bloodlines or any of those things. They think, there is a man who knows who he is. A confident man. A man who commands respect as well as admiration. Do you think my brother would be taking such pains to cultivate you if he thought anything else?’

  ‘I’m still not getting your point, lass.’

  Exasperated, she
jumped to her feet and threw back the curtains that kept the sunlight Consuela dreaded from the room. ‘You are a man! Do you not understand, that is the most salient point! You can do what you want with your life, make of it what you want. I am a mere woman. All I have is my bloodline and my family tree. When I walk into a room, people think, there is Señorita Romero, sister of Xavier Romero, whose dowry would make an excellent addition to our family coffers.’

  ‘That’s not what I think when you walk into a room, I can tell you, and I’d be very surprised indeed if it was the first thing any man thought.’

  ‘If you are going to mention my derrière again...’

  His low chuckle made her turn away from the window. The wicked look was back in his eyes. ‘There, that’s the problem, you see. When you walk into a room, you do not make a man want to treat you like a lady. Well, not this man, at any event. And that was a compliment, incidentally, just in case you weren’t sure.’

  Isabella folded her arms. ‘You make it very difficult to argue with you.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that we’ve been arguing.’

  ‘I think that behind the bravado, you have a very low opinion of yourself, Major Finlay Urquhart.’

  ‘No, Señorita Romero, I leave that to other people.’

  ‘You don’t. That is what we were arguing about.’ Smiling triumphantly, Isabella got to her feet. ‘You see, contrary to popular opinion, I am not just a pretty face,’ she said, patting Finlay lightly on the cheek. ‘I will meet you at the winery in half an hour, Mr Urquhart, and you shall have your tour of the cellars. Although I am sure an acknowledged expert such as yourself should be giving me the tour.’