If Isabella was a man, he would not have to wrestle with his conscience like this, he thought, looking over at her still bowed figure. If she was a man, he’d not be taking any account of those beguiling eyes of hers, or that sensuous mouth, or that delectable body. Or that determined, clever mind of hers, either. He cursed, then raised his eyes to the altar and apologised.
He was going round in circles. A promise was a promise, and he’d given one to Jack weeks before he’d met Isabella. Jack was depending on him. Blast it, when it came down to it, he was under orders, albeit orders that he intended to bend to a more palatable shape. ‘So stop dithering, laddie, and let’s get on with it,’ he muttered.
Isabella chose this point to get to her feet, and Finlay got up from the pew to join her at the font in the atrium. ‘You are a Catholic?’ she asked in surprise when he dipped his hand in the font to bless himself and genuflect.
‘I was raised one,’ he replied, stepping outside into the early-morning mist.
‘Did you come to church this morning in search of divine inspiration?’
‘Is that what you were praying for?’
‘No, I was praying for the wisdom to find a successful resolution to this quandary. Consuela came to my room last night.’
Isabella’s voice faltered several times as she recounted her sister-in-law’s visit. There were shadows under her eyes, which were heavy-lidded. She’d likely had less sleep even than he, poor lass. Finlay’s heart went out to her for the weight of the burden she was carrying, but he suspected that sympathy was the last thing she would want from him, and so he forced himself to listen in silence.
‘I feel quite—quite appalled, to think of the danger in which I have placed my family. You are right. It is time to put an end to El Fantasma,’ Isabella concluded. ‘I do not yet know what that means for me, but...’
‘It means you will have to quit Spain. You’ve no option.’
She flinched. ‘Of a certainty, it means leaving Hermoso Romero. As to the future—that I will think about later. For the moment, I have other more important matters to attend to.’
He did not like the way she tilted her chin when she spoke this last sentence. He did not like the way the sadness in her big golden eyes turned to something like defiance. ‘Such as?’ Finlay asked.
‘Such as Estebe,’ she said, and this time there was no mistaking the stubborn note in her voice. ‘It is my duty to warn him, to give him the chance to warn his men, too.’
‘Are you mad, woman?’
‘It is my duty to warn him,’ she repeated. ‘I would never forgive myself if I did not.’
Finlay rolled his eyes. It was exactly what he’d have said himself. ‘I understand that you feel it’s your duty, but it’s too much of a risk,’ he said. ‘No matter what Señora Romero might have promised you in the middle of the night, do you really think she’s going to keep something like this from your brother?’
‘Xavier will not be home until tomorrow.’
‘We can’t rely on that. We need to be away from here now.’
She turned on him fiercely. ‘I have been successfully running this operation for nearly two years without your advice. I do not require it now. If our situations were reversed, if Estebe was your second-in-command, you would not dream of leaving without alerting him to the danger he is in.’
She really was a feisty wee thing, and what was more she was in the right of it. But unlike Isabella, Estebe was a hardened soldier who knew the real risks. ‘No,’ Finlay said firmly. ‘No, I’m sorry, but from now on you’re following my orders. You need to go and pack. Take only what you can carry on horseback. And it might be an idea to bring anything valuable you have. Jack and I, we’ve made provision for you, but...’
‘I do not need your blood money.’
Pick your battles, Finlay told himself firmly. ‘Fine, then, have it your own way. I won’t force it on you. Now will you go back to the house and pack?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Attend to that blasted printing press.’
‘What is the point? Only Estebe and I know about it. Besides, it is far too big. You will never be able to destroy it on your own.’
‘At the very least, I can put it beyond use, and get rid of that damned incriminating pamphlet.’
Isabella opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. Obviously she, too, was picking her battles. ‘That is likely to take you some time,’ she said.
‘Aye, well, that’s for me to worry about. I will meet you back here at noon, and then we’ll take it from there.’
‘Very well.’ She turned on her heel and walked purposefully back towards the main house.
Finlay watched her go, allowing his gaze to linger only fleetingly on her retreating derrière, before turning away towards the winery. She had, he thought as he lit the lantern and made his way down the stone steps, accepted his orders with reasonably good grace, all considered. Poor lass. In fact she was bearing up remarkably well. She was not at all resigned to her fate, but she was at least finally reconciled to leaving.
He made his way towards the secret cellar with only one wrong turning. Señora Romero, now...she might pose a problem. It was a pity Isabella had let fall so much of the truth—though not the full truth, thank heavens for small mercies. The señora had no inkling that her sister-in-law was anything more than a conduit for El Fantasma. He’d have to find a way of keeping it that way. Would the cover story he’d dreamed up be sufficient?
He smiled grimly to himself. An elopement. Romero would be mortified at the idea of his sister and a wine merchant—a man who claimed to be a wine merchant. A word in Señora Romero’s ear and Finlay was sure that she could be persuaded to drum up a witness or two, a maid perhaps, who might have seen one of their early-morning trysts in the cypress walk. It was a good story, and a far more likely explanation of Isabella’s sudden disappearance than any link with El Fantasma. Xavier Romero and his family would be safe from questioning. Estebe...
Finlay paused in the act of moving the wine rack. If Estebe had been his deputy, he would have warned him, regardless of the risk. It was a matter of honour, as well as his duty as a commanding officer, just as Isabella had pointed out. And if it was his printing press hidden behind the wall here, he’d want to attend to it himself, too. The press, the pamphlets... Isabella poured her heart into them, yet she had not suggested...
‘Ach, bugger it!’ Finlay picked up the lantern and began to make his way as fast as he could back the way he had come. By God, he admired her. She was as stubborn as a mule, but her heart was in the right place. Even so, that lass had an awful lot to learn about insubordination. A smile crept over his face. The Basque Upstart. Aye, they were a well-matched pair, indeed!
* * *
Isabella brought her horse over to the mounting block in the courtyard and buttoned up the skirts of her riding habit before climbing agilely into the saddle. Today would be the last time, perhaps for years, perhaps forever, that she rode out to the village. Today she was leaving Hermoso Romero, leaving her family, leaving Estebe and El Fantasma behind. She couldn’t take it in. She felt sick thinking about it. The unknown future loomed like a giant black mountain in front of her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t.
Her horse fidgeted. She gave herself a little shake and urged him into a canter. Best not to think too far ahead. Best to think only of this next step, and after that— No, she would not even think of that. She would instead concentrate on taking in all she could of her homeland, to impress it on her memory for a future when it might be of comfort. But she would not think of that future yet. ‘Courage, Isabella. Courage.’
Her horse’s ears twitched. They had reached the outskirts of the village now. It was very quiet. Smoke from some of the chimneys floated lazily aloft, for the air was quite still. Isabella dismounted, tetherin
g her horse by one of the many streams that ran through the valley here. She paused to say good day to old Señora Abrantes, who was sitting on a stool in her garden, working on one of the beautiful pieces of lace she crocheted. Her latest grandchild was asleep in a wooden cradle by her side. Matai, Isabella recalled. He had been baptised in the estate chapel just a few weeks previously.
‘He looks just like his papa,’ she said encouragingly, though in truth all babies, boys and girls, looked to her like little old grumpy men.
‘You’ve come to call on Estebe?’ Señora Abrantes asked.
‘Sí. My brother returns from Pamplona soon. He will be anxious to know how his manager fares.’
‘He has been walking a little, with a stick. That doctor your brother sent, he has been here many times. I think that Señor Romero is worried for the health of his wine.’
‘And the health of the man in charge of it,’ Isabella said. Which was true, she thought as she made her way towards Estebe’s house at the far end of the village. Estebe and Xavier were childhood friends. Xavier believed there was no one more loyal than Estebe. When she had tried to discuss this with him though, concerned at the possibility of Estebe being torn between loyalty to his employer and loyalty to El Fantasma, Estebe had merely shrugged. ‘What Xavier does not know cannot harm him,’ he had said. ‘Xavier has everything, while we fight for those who have nothing. For me, there can be no question of which comes first.’ In one sense it was flattering, but as his sister, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Xavier, who not only trusted Estebe completely, but whose affection for the man stemmed back to those childhood days, and—unusually for Xavier—existed regardless of the huge disparity in their stations in life.
The winery manager, standing in the doorway of his cottage, was, as Señora Abrantes had predicted, on his feet, supporting his splinted leg with a stick. In his early thirties, he had the swarthy skin and black hair typical of the Basque, and the laconic temperament also typical of the region. Estebe rarely smiled, but when he did, Isabella was reminded that underneath that slightly surly exterior there was a very handsome man. She had asked him once, in an unguarded moment, why he had never married. He had informed her curtly that he was a soldier, she remembered. Like Finlay, he believed that soldiers should not take wives.
‘Is something wrong?’ Estebe said guardedly. ‘I thought we agreed it would be unwise for us to be seen together in public. It might arouse suspicions as to the nature of our relationship.’
‘I am here on official estate business, at my brother’s behest. He wants to know how your recovery is progressing, how soon you can return to work,’ Isabella replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. ‘I made a point of saying so to Señora Abrantes,’ she added sotto voce.
‘The doctor your brother sends says I must wear the splint a few more weeks, but I have told him the wine will not wait a few more weeks. You can tell Xavier I will return to my duties next week. Tell him to do nothing with the vintage until then. Tell him that I said patience is a virtue.’
‘Estebe,’ Isabella said in an urgent undertone, ‘I’m not really here for Xavier. I need to talk to you.’
‘You should not have come. People will talk, and we cannot afford any talk. Have you heard that young Zabala has disappeared?’
The man Consuela had mentioned last night. ‘He was one of ours?’ Isabella asked, dismayed.
Estebe shrugged. ‘It could be nothing, but—we will see. Since you are here, I want to talk to you about that man. The Englishman. I don’t know why he is here, but is it a coincidence that one of our men disappears shortly after he shows up?’
‘Estebe, Mr Urquhart is on our side. He’s the reason I’m here, not to ask after your health. If I could just explain...’
Estebe’s head jerked up. He pushed her out of the way, shading his eyes to scan the horizon. ‘Señorita Romero, you need to get out of here at once.’
‘What is it?’ She screwed up her eyes in an effort to see through the dust being raised. It was some sort of carriage. ‘I wonder...’
‘Isabella!’ Estebe grabbed her by the shoulder, dropping his stick. ‘You have to leave immediately. Do not let them see you. Do not, whatever happens, show yourself to them. Do you understand?’
It was his use of her name rather than the tone that made her blood run cold. ‘Are they— Do you think that they are...?’
‘I don’t know who they are, but I am certain it does not bode well,’ Estebe replied, his voice clipped as he limped over to the wooden dresser, pushing it away from the wall and retrieving a pistol, which he proceeded to load with astonishing speed before aiming it at her. ‘Get out. Believe me, if they capture you, you will wish I had put this bullet in your head.’
He meant it. Blood rushed from her head, making her stagger. She took a deep breath, clutching the door frame. The cart was at the other end of the street now. There were two men. Well dressed. She looked around frantically, wondering in terror if she had left it too late.
‘The woodshed,’ Estebe said, pushing her down the steps. ‘And remember, no matter what happens, you must keep silent. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’
Isabella dumbly nodded her reluctant assent and stumbled down into the dusty darkness of the woodshed as Estebe secured the door behind her.
* * *
Riding towards the village, Finlay spotted the dust cloud raised by the open, rather ornate carriage. It looked so incongruous in the midst of such modest surroundings of farms and cottages that Finlay’s senses immediately went on high alert. Reining his horse back, he followed the carriage at a distance, taking care to keep out of sight, knowing that it could only be headed for the village, all the time hoping against hope that it was not. There were two male occupants. They could be here for any number of reasons, but he knew, with the sixth sense he relied upon when going into battle, that they were not. There was only one likely explanation, and it was an extremely alarming one.
When they turned into the village, Finlay tethered his horse by a ruined outbuilding and followed cautiously on foot. Isabella’s horse was pawing the ground by the tethering post, confirmation that he had guessed her intentions correctly—as if he’d needed it confirmed. The carriage was drawing up at the top of the little street. As he made his way stealthily towards it, he could sense the eyes of the villagers peering from their cottages. An old woman holding a piece of lacework beckoned him, but he ignored her.
The two men who descended from the carriage were well dressed. They pounded on the door of the furthest cottage calling Estebe’s name. ‘Señor Mendi! Señor Mendi!’
The accent was not local. Finlay no longer had any doubts. Madrileños! As the door opened, he braced himself, drawing his sgian-dubh from his boot. In the rush to follow Isabella he had not had time to retrieve his pistol, but the vicious little knife, a coming-of-age gift from his father, had served him well enough in the past.
‘Señor Mendi?’
Estebe, his leg in a splint, stood leaning on the door. ‘Who wants to know?’
Finlay could see no sign of Isabella. Creeping around the other side of the carriage, behind the backs of the strangers, he took a chance, allowing Estebe a brief glimpse of his presence. Either Isabella had briefed him, or Estebe, realising how dire the situation was, saw Finlay as the lesser of two evils. Whichever. The man gave him a tiny shake of his head, the smallest gesture to the side of the house where a lean-to stood.
Waiting for the coast to clear, he missed what the men said next, but it caused Estebe to open the door wider, ushering them into the cottage.
Isabella, her ear pressed to the adjoining wall of the cottage, had her back to the door, foolish lass. Finlay grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth before she could cry out. ‘It’s me,’ he whispered, and her rigid body ceased struggling immediately.
‘Govern
ment agents,’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Estebe said—he said that they may have taken one of his men a few days ago. Do you think that is why—how...?’
‘Hush. Aye.’
She was shaking piteously. He took no pleasure in being proved correct. The Spanish government were working their way up El Fantasma’s chain of command. The question was, would Estebe talk? Finlay pressed his ear up to the wall, but could hear only muffled words. Later, he would tear a strip or two off himself for not taking matters into his own hands much earlier. He could not find it in himself to be angry at Isabella, but he wished with all his heart that she’d been a wee bit less loyal to the man next door, and a bit more careful of her own safety. As he would have been? Aye, right enough.
He shook his head in frustration as the room next door went quiet. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered, just as a loud crash made Isabella jump, only his instinctive covering of her mouth once more preventing her from screaming.
It all happened so quickly after that. ‘Careful, he has a gun. Put the weapon down, señor,’ one of the Madrileños cried out, his voice ringing clearly through the connecting wall now. Then followed the sounds of a scuffle, another piece of furniture being upturned.
Isabella strained in Finlay’s firm grasp, her eyes above his muffling hand pleading with him to go to the rescue, but he held firm, shaking his head. He could take them on, he might well overpower them, but his remit was to protect El Fantasma at all costs, which meant he could not take the chance in acting rashly, no matter what the collateral damage turned out to be.
The front door of the cottage flew open, and a shot whizzed out into the open air. For a moment, Finlay thought that it would be one of the Madrileños who would pay the price, but then he heard Estebe’s voice. ‘I am El Fantasma,’ he shouted. ‘I would rather die than fall into your hands.’
The Soldier's Rebel Lover Page 14
