Had she been rash? He had given her his word not to betray her. He had given her his word once before, and kept it. Major Finlay Urquhart had been an honourable man. Was there such a thing as an honourable wine merchant? The incongruity of his choice of profession struck her anew. He was a man of action. A man who had taken on the task of surveillance himself when he could surely have sent one of his men. Just as she had. A man who liked to make his own decisions. Just as she did. Not a man who would relish haggling over the price of a hogshead of wine, caught in the middle between supplier and buyer, she would have thought. The man she had met that fateful night and the man he appeared to be now seemed almost incompatible. There was something about Mr Finlay Urquhart, wine merchant to the gentry, that did not quite ring true.

Sliding down from the boulder, Isabella picked her way over the slippery stones back to the shore, pulling her stockings and boots on over her numbed feet. She ought not to be wasting time thinking about a man who would be walking out of her life for good in a few days. She ought to be considering her own future.

Could she really contemplate becoming Señora Gabriel Torres? She tried to imagine spending her days engaged in domestic pursuits. It was not the housekeeping or the children that she rebelled against; it was not even surrendering herself to the care of a man, for in the eyes of the law, she was Xavier’s property until he gave her up. What appalled her the most was the surrender of her mind. She would not be expected to think beyond what to put on the table for dinner. Her opinions would not be consulted. She would not be permitted to discuss politics or business. What was it the Scotsman had said this morning? Embroidery and knitting. Isabella had always taken perverse pride in being very bad at both. She was not about to learn now.

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.’