The Soldier's Rebel Lover. Marguerite Kaye

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