* * *
‘I should have guessed.’ The small wine cellar looked just as it had when Isabella had brought him here a few days ago, though the bottle and the glasses had gone from the table. ‘It’s behind here, then?’ Finlay studied the wall that she had claimed to be blocked. ‘How does one gain access?’
Isabella pulled a wine bottle out and slipped her hand in behind the rack covering the lower part of the wall, and he heard a small click. ‘Will you help me? You need to push that way.’
He did as she indicated, and the rack slid with ease along the wall to reveal a small wooden door. Isabella stood back to allow him through as soon as she had turned her key in the lock. He had to stoop. Holding the lamp high, he was surprised to find that this secret cellar was nearly twice the size of the one they had come through.
The bulky wooden printing press stood on three sets of trestles. It took up most of the floor space and would, when the frame holding the paper was extended, make the place very cramped indeed. A long table covered most of one wall, stacked with paper, trays of type, bottles of ink and all the other accoutrements necessary to the production of El Fantasma’s pamphlets. The press was about seven feet long and the same height in the middle, Finlay reckoned. ‘I take it you brought it in here in pieces and then assembled it,’ he said, eyeing the small doorway.
‘Estebe assisted me. It took us three nights to bring all the parts down through the cellars.’
‘It’s as well that brother of yours has his phobia,’ Finlay said. ‘Does anyone else know of this place?’
‘Not now that Papa...’ Isabella turned away, busying herself with lighting another lamp. ‘Only Estebe and I know, now that Papa is no longer with us. During the war, we stored arms here.’
‘We? You mean your father knew?’
‘Not about the printing press, that was after he— After.’ Isabella turned around, smiling sadly. ‘But the arms—yes, it was his idea to use this place. It was he who had the new door fitted.’
‘Aye, but what I meant was, did he know what you were up to?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with a whimsical smile. ‘My father was a very influential man, Finlay, and a very enlightened one. He had access to a great deal of privileged information, you know. How do you think El Fantasma came to be so well informed?’
‘Your father knew you were El Fantasma, the partisan! Hell’s bells, how many more of these revelations are you going to hit me with!’
Isabella laughed at his astonishment. ‘Only one more. My father was actually the original El Fantasma. All I did was act as his liaison between certain trusted guerrillas at first, and then gradually, as he became sick and as I became more...adept?—then I took over. You see, you could describe it as the family business.’
‘I doubt your brother would see it that way,’ Finlay responded drily.
Isabella’s expression hardened. ‘I told you, my father was a very enlightened man. As his son, Xavier was destined to take on the legacy of Hermoso Romero, and Papa made sure that he was fit for that purpose. Expensive schooling. The army. The management of the estate. The production of the wine. Xavier will do the same for his son. To me, Papa bequeathed El Fantasma. I do not interfere with my brother’s management of his legacy. My own legacy is none of Xavier’s concern.’
It was not so much the words as the tone in which she spoke that made Finlay’s heart sink. She sounded as he did, when giving orders. Cool, calm and utterly implacable. He wasn’t simply dealing with a woman on a mission to bring about change. Isabella’s dreams were also her father’s. How the devil was he to convince her that she had to give them up forever?
‘You will not,’ she said. ‘Persuade me to give El Fantasma up,’ she clarified, ‘if that is what you were thinking?’
‘So you’re a mind reader now, are you?’
She shrugged. ‘I know that you are not a man who countenances failure. I made it very clear yesterday that I would reject any offer of rescue, but your orders are nonetheless to rescue me, and Major Finlay Urquhart is a soldier who, I suspect, never fails to obey an order.’
‘You’re quite wrong there, lass,’ he said harshly. ‘If I hadn’t been quite so capable of insubordination, I’d be Colonel Urquhart by now, at the very least.’
Isabella spread a sheaf of pages out on the table in front of her. ‘Instead, you are the Jock Upstart—have I that right?’
‘You do.’
‘Then, they will not be so very surprised, your superiors, when you disobey this particular order,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Once you have seen for yourself how important El Fantasma’s work is, I am hoping you will agree that they were quite misguided when they sent you here.’
So she was laying down the gauntlet. He was not surprised. Though it would have made his life a damned sight easier if she’d turned around and agreed with him, he’d have been disappointed. And maybe a wee bit sceptical, too. Isabella was not the type to simply roll over. ‘I’m afraid it is you who are misguided, lass,’ Finlay said, shaking his head.
‘No,’ Isabella said firmly. ‘No, you will not ever persuade me to that way of thinking, so instead I must persuade you to think differently. Come, see for yourself.’
Why not? he thought, joining her at the table. She deserved a fair hearing, even if the outcome was already, in his mind, decided.
Joining her at the table, he saw she had a large rectangular frame set in front of her. ‘This will be the front page of our next pamphlet.’ Isabella began to select tiny blocks of characters to place into it. ‘You see, all the letters have to be inserted in reverse. I used to practise with a mirror. Even after two years, I am still very slow.’
She didn’t look slow. Finlay watched her reaching for the individual characters with only a cursory glance, the columns of the page forming at an impressive speed. ‘This is called a forme,’ she said, indicating the frame. ‘When it is finished, it sits on the coffin, that flat bed on the press there, and you can apply the ink if you wish. We may as well take advantage of your presence and do some printing. It requires two people to operate the press, and with Estebe out of commission I have been unable to print anything. Unless assisting El Fantasma counts as insubordination?’
Treason, more like. Finlay sighed to himself. This pamphlet was never going to see the light of day if he had anything to do with it. Not that his so-called superiors gave a damn about El Fantasma’s pamphlets or, frankly, his cause.
‘This is El Fantasma’s symbol.’ Isabella held up the small woodcut on which was embossed the inverted shape of the phantom.
‘Aye, I saw that on one of your pamphlets back in England.’
‘Really?’ Isabella exclaimed. ‘I had not realised our message had spread so far and wide.’
She looked so pleased, he could not bring himself to burst her bubble. ‘What symbol would you use for me, then?’ Finlay asked instead.
Continuing to set characters into the frame at speed, she pursed her lips. ‘A man in a kilt? Though I think that would be too difficult to cut.’
‘And it might be mistaken for a woman in a skirt.’
She turned to him, her eyes dancing. ‘No one would mistake you in a plaid for a woman in a skirt.’
‘Any more than anyone would mistake you in a pair of breeches for a man.’
‘Yet I fooled you, did I not?’
‘For a few moments, in the dark. The minute I held you in my arms, I knew unmistakably what you were.’
* * *
Isabella’s heart did that funny skipping lurch it seemed to have developed since Finlay’s arrival in Spain. ‘You make it sound as if we were dancing,’ she said, trying to ignore it. ‘In fact, we were rolling around in a ditch.’
‘I’ve rolled around in a few ditches in my time,’ he replied, with one of his devilish smiles, ‘but I re
ckon that was the most memorable. And the most enjoyable.’
‘You are easily amused,’ she told him, trying and failing to suppress her own smile.
‘On the contrary. You undersell yourself, lass.’
Lass. It meant girl. Young woman. The way he said it, in that lilting accent of his, it felt more like a caress than a word. That smile of his was fascinating. How could a man smile in one way and seem merely amused, another and seem so—so tempting? Isabella dragged her eyes away. Now was not the time to be tempted to do anything other than finish the pamphlet.
‘And you, I think, overrate yourself, Finlay Urquhart,’ she said firmly. ‘I am not going to be charmed into kissing you.’
‘Not now, or not ever?’
‘Oh,’ Isabella said, smiling in what she hoped was a saucy way as she turned back to her work, ‘I never say never. Now, are you going to help me or not?’
Without waiting for a reply, she picked up the completed forme and slotted it carefully into position on the stone coffin bed of the press. Next, she measured ink onto the wool-stuffed pads and handed one to Finlay. ‘It must be applied very evenly. Watch, I will show you.’ She did so, then handed him the second pad. ‘Good. Careful now. Excellent.’
He had a deft touch, she noted. Trying to keep her mind firmly on the work in hand, Isabella turned her attention to dampening the paper. She had brought Finlay here this morning to persuade him that his mission was pointless. El Fantasma did not need to be rescued. El Fantasma was needed here. Yet here they were, printing El Fantasma’s latest pamphlet together, and all Isabella could think of was kissing!
And Finlay wasn’t helping, with that smile of his, and that tempting mouth of his, and those sea-blue eyes. Why did he have to be so—so distracting? Why could not the Duke of Wellington have sent a much older man with liver spots on his bald pate, or a man who did not like to wash or clean his teeth, or a man with those spindly legs and knobbly knees she hated, or—or any man, other than Finlay Urquhart!
Finlay Urquhart, who looked at her as if he would like her for dinner. Yes, she would like to be Finlay’s dinner, whatever that meant, though she should not be thinking of dinner or kisses or any of these things at the moment, Isabella scolded herself. The paper. The ink. The setting of type. Those were the things she ought to be thinking about.
She put the first piece of paper into position, frowning hard. ‘The first press will soak up any excess of ink,’ she said, refusing to look at Finlay. ‘Now it is a case of turning this handle, and we will see.’
He turned the handle and the press rolled into motion. Isabella checked the results. ‘Almost perfect,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the page. ‘Now, if you will turn, I will set. We require at least two hundred copies.’
‘As well I’m a big brawny Highlander, then,’ Finlay said.
Without thinking, she lifted her eyes. He had flexed his arms. His smile was mocking, teasing. Why did he have to smile at all? She wished he would not. ‘Browny?’
‘Brawny. It means...’
‘Strong.’ Before she could stop herself, she touched his flexed muscle. ‘I thought so yesterday when—’ Isabella broke off, blushing foolishly and busied herself with the paper.
Finlay turned the press. Another sheet was spread out to dry. Another sheet inserted. He turned the press. They worked well together, their actions dovetailing seamlessly. He said nothing, though she was aware of him slanting her covert glances. He understood the power of silence. He had given her more than enough to think about. Too much. She couldn’t think. She didn’t want to think. She inserted another piece of paper. He checked the ink without her having to ask. The press turned and turned and turned.
It was hot work. Finlay took off his coat and waistcoat. They each drank a glass of the cool water that came from the well under the cellars. The press turned with metronomic regularity. Finlay removed his cravat. Isabella undid the top button at her throat. His shirt clung to his chest. She could see a smattering of hair, just as she had imagined. She could see the dark circles of his nipples. Her own tightened in response. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. Only twenty more sheets. Only ten.
‘Done.’
Finlay drew a fresh bucket from the well. They drank thirstily. He dipped his handkerchief into the icy water and ran it over his brow, his neck, his throat. Watching him, Isabella’s own throat constricted. He caught her looking, and heat of a different kind flared between them.
He dipped the handkerchief into the bucket again. He touched the cool linen to her brow. To her temples. To her cheeks. ‘Hot,’ she said.
‘Hot,’ he repeated.
Another dip. A trickle of water on the back of her neck. Then round over her collarbone to the damp skin at the base of her throat. Her heart was pounding. He must be able to feel it. Was his the same? She raised her hand to touch him, felt the damp of his shirt, heard the sharp intake of his breath, then he caught her wrist.
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘Wait?’ Isabella blinked at him stupidly. What was she doing?
‘This,’ Finlay said, ‘between us, I don’t want it misconstrued. I will not have you thinking I seduced you in order to persuade you to come away with me.’
‘I told you I had no intention of kissing you. You will never persuade me to come away with you.’
‘Never say never, is what you said.’
‘Do you think I would kiss you in order to persuade you to leave me alone?’
‘I’d like to think not. I’d be sore offended if I thought you were playing me like a fish on a line.’
Was he teasing her? She didn’t think so. ‘I wonder how a man who turns every head in a room can think such a thing possible,’ Isabella said. ‘Every lass would want to kiss you, I think. Even my very proper sister-in-law says that she would like to be your dinner. I asked her what she meant, but she wouldn’t tell me.’
Finlay still held her hand, but when she flattened it over his chest, he made no protest. ‘I wouldn’t describe you as a mere dinner,’ he said. ‘You are a feast. A banquet. Dinner doesn’t do you justice.’
His words conjured up such images, of his mouth on her breasts, of his tongue on her skin, tasting her, savouring her, relishing her. She imagined herself spread naked for him on a damask cloth, and a wrenching twist of desire made her shudder. ‘Consuela cannot have meant—that,’ Isabella said, shocked at her lurid imagination.
Finlay’s laugh was low, his voice husky. ‘Well, I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that, but I reckon she did.’
This assertion, Isabella found more shocking than anything. ‘She would not!’
He eyed her with some amusement. ‘You’re surely not thinking that your sister-in-law is one of these women who sees lovemaking as a marital duty without pleasure?’
‘Her husband is my brother. I have not thought of it at all.’
‘Have you not seen the way the pair of them look at each other?’
Isabella didn’t like the way Finlay was looking at her. It made her feel foolish. ‘You’ve heard the way Xavier talks. My brother is interested in Consuela as the mother of his children and nothing more.’
His response was to shake his head, smiling in a way that made her both embarrassed and uncertain. ‘Aye, that’s what he’d like the world to believe, for it is not the done thing, is it, for a man to admit he’s in thrall to his wife? You are not the only one in this household to lead a double life.’
Was he right? Certainly, Consuela had said that she loved Xavier, but Isabella had assumed she meant in a—a wifely way. A dutiful way. She had assumed that Consuela was as bloodless as—well, as bloodless as Isabella assumed a dutiful Spanish wife would be. She had assumed that there was nothing more to Consuela than the blank, cold, demure facade she presented, until Finlay suggested she look again.
‘You mus
t think me very arrogant,’ she said, turning away from him, feeling very small. ‘It is no wonder that Consuela wishes to replace me with one of her own sisters. I have made no attempt to get to know her. Worse, I have assumed there was nothing worth knowing.’
‘Now you’re being daft.’ Finlay caught her shoulder, turning her back around to face him. ‘Look at all this,’ he said, waving at the stack of drying pamphlets. ‘You’ve been carrying the burden of El Fantasma for two years all alone, fighting for more years than that for your country. You’d be more than entitled to boast about what you’ve achieved, instead of which, what you’re concerned about is not having done enough.’
‘That is no excuse. Consuela is family.’
‘That’s true. She’s your brother’s wife, which makes her, in the way of things, above you in the hierarchy. Has she made any attempt to understand you? Has she confided in you?’
‘No, but...’
‘You were here first. That’s not Consuela’s fault, but your brother must have known you had the running of the place while he was off at the war. Has he tried to understand your feelings?’
‘He has tried to marry me off to his best friend. In Xavier’s eyes, that is taking care of me, I suppose, though I doubt very much if Gabriel would be so eager to offer for me if he knew his new bride was El Fantasma.’
She meant it as a poor attempt at a joke, but Finlay did not smile. ‘Is that what you’re thinking? To give it up and marry Torres?’
‘No.’ Her denial took her aback, for her tone was quite decisive. Was it only a few days ago, she had been contemplating quite the opposite?
‘Why not?’ Finlay spoke sharply.
Isabella shook her head in confusion. ‘I can’t,’ she said, again with absolute certainly. ‘If I told him the truth he would not wish to marry me, and if I married him I could not tell him the truth.’
The Soldier's Rebel Lover Page 11
