‘This is the original entrance. There is another, much wider one, cut when oak casks were introduced to the process, but I thought you would like to see this,’ Isabella said.

She was wearing a long cloak over her cotton gown. The thick walls of the winery’s working buildings kept the rooms cool. The air coming up from the cellar entrance was chilly. Finlay was glad of his coat. Isabella lit two lamps and handed him one. ‘Be careful—the steps are very worn in places.’

His instinct was to insist on going first, but he managed to restrain himself and follow in her wake, just as he had done on the hillside track two years previously. The staircase was narrow enough for him to touch the rock on either side. In places as they descended, the arched roof was no more than a few inches from the top of his head. Isabella moved sure-footedly, swiftly enough for her cloak to flutter out behind her. Señora Romero was in the right of it; Isabella was obviously no stranger to this place.

As they stopped at the bottom of the steps and Finlay lifted his lamp high, he whistled. ‘What a place for a wean to play.’

‘Wane?’

‘Wean, bairn, child,’ he clarified.

‘Ah, yes. When I was a little girl I loved to come here.’

‘I’ll bet you did. It’s absolutely cavernous.’

‘Oh, this is just the beginning. Wait till you see.’

The passageway led off in both directions. They turned to the right through an arched entranceway into a wider corridor, one side of which was stacked high with oak barrels. The individual cellars themselves led off the passage, each with vaulted ceilings cut directly out of the limestone. Dusty bottles, some shrouded with cobwebs, lay in wooden racks, stacked along every wall and set in islands on the stone floors.

‘Each cellar is devoted to a different vintage,’ Isabella told him, pointing to the marked boards. ‘Farther along there are some very old vintages, indeed. This year’s wine is still maturing in the casks, which are stored on the other side of the cellars.’

The lamps made shadows on the pale limestone. As they made their way farther into the cellars the rooms became smaller, the ceilings lower. ‘So you and your brother played here as children, then,’ Finlay said, looking round one of the smallest rooms, where the bottles were encrusted by a thick film of dust.

‘I told you, Xavier has a fear of very small spaces, he rarely comes down here if he can help it.’

‘And you—you are not afraid of the rats, señorita? I’d imagine there are plenty down here.’

‘They are more afraid of me than I of them.’

There seemed to be another archway at the end of the room, smaller than the rest, and the gap covered by one of the tall wine racks. ‘What’s through here?’ Finlay asked.

‘Nothing. It is blocked off.’ Isabella put her lamp down on a small table in the centre of the room, and after a few moments’ pondering in front of one of the racks, selected a bottle. Blowing the dust off the neck, she produced a corkscrew from a cupboard built into the table and expertly opened the bottle, sniffing the cork delicately. ‘It is far too cold, of course, and it should be allowed to breathe, but this is one of our better wines, I think you’ll find.’

Two glasses were produced from the same cupboard. They sat down on the stools by the table, and Isabella poured the wine. ‘Salud!’

‘Salud!’ The wine was soft and fruity, to Finlay’s untutored palate. ‘It’s very nice,’ he said, taking a second appreciative sip.

Isabella laughed. ‘I hope you manage to be a little more enthusiastic with Xavier.’

‘It’s extremely nice?’ he suggested, grinning.

Isabella picked up her glass. ‘You must first talk to him about the nose,’ she said, swirling the wine around before sniffing. ‘So this one, it is sweet, like cherry, do you smell it?’

Finlay nodded, mimicking her actions, though his eyes were on Isabella. She was explaining the layers of taste now, swirling the wine around in her mouth. There was a cobweb clinging to her hair. Her eyes really were golden, like a tiger’s. And her mouth— He had an absurd wish to be the wine swirling around in her mouth. Her lips would taste of it. What had she said, cherries? Yes, her lips would taste of cherries, and...

‘You are not tasting, Mr—Finlay.’

He took a sip of wine. ‘Cherries,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘Strawberries,’ he answered, looking at her mouth.

‘Really? I do not...’

Finlay leaned over to touch his lips to hers. ‘Strawberries,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’ He tucked back a silky strand of hair from her face and pressed his mouth to the pulse behind her ear. ‘Lavender?’

‘My soap.’

Her voice was low, breathy. Her fingers touched his hair. He pressed fluttering kisses down the column of her neck, then placed his lips on the pulse at her throat. ‘Lavender.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

He lifted his head. She was looking at him, her lips slightly parted, tense, waiting for what he would do next. Nothing, was what he ought to do. He bent his head and kissed her again. Her lips clung to his. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of his coat. He was trying to muster the courage to stop when her tongue touched his.

Finlay slid his arms around her, under her cloak. Isabella swayed towards him on her stool, her mouth pressed to his. She tasted so sweet. Wine and strawberries and a sizzling heat that sent the blood surging to his groin. Their kisses became wilder, deeper. Her fingers tangled in his hair, fluttered over his cheek, curled into his shoulders. He flattened his hands over the narrow span of her back. He could feel her shoulder blades through the cotton of her gown, the complicated strings and boning of her corsets. He licked along her plump lower lip, kissing each corner of her mouth.

‘You taste delightful,’ he said. ‘Delicious. Like vintage wine.’

She kissed him deeply, her tongue tangling with his. Fast learner. Very fast. He could not keep up with her. ‘Vintage kisses,’ Finlay said. ‘If only they could be bottled, you would have an elixir beyond price.’

He kissed her eyelids. He kissed her nose. He kissed her mouth again. And again. And again. Their knees bumped as they tried to get closer. He was hard. It would not do at all to get any closer. It was all he wanted. He kissed her again. She gave a tiny whimper that sent his pulses racing.

Slowly, he lifted his head and let her go. Her mouth was dark pink. Her eyes were wide, dark. He could feel the flush of passion on his cheeks, and lower down—Finlay shifted uncomfortably on the stool. ‘I don’t expect you’ll believe me if I tell you I’d resolved not to do that,’ he said.

‘We could blame it on the wine.’

‘We’ve not even finished one glass yet.’

Isabella picked hers up and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. ‘That was sacrilege,’ she said, wiping her lips.

‘Then, we must not waste a drop.’ Finlay licked the wine from the back of her hand. She shuddered. He didn’t mean to, but somehow his lips found hers again, and somehow they were kissing again, and this time they were very different kisses. Dark and hot, tongues stroking, touching, thrusting. The kind of kisses that demanded more. The stools clattered to the stone floor as they stood, pressing their bodies hard against each other, still kissing, and kissing and kissing, until Finlay knocked against the table, and the wine bottle fell over and the precious wine began to spill out over the wood and drip onto the stone floor.

He grabbed it and set it upright. There was less than a third left.

‘Now, that really is sacrilege,’ Isabella said.

‘Or a warning. I should not have— I did not mean— Have you any idea how ravishing you look?’ Finlay groaned. ‘What am I thinking!’

‘I sincerely hope that it is not leading to an apology.’

He laughed drily. ‘I’m not sorry, though I should be.’

‘Good, because neither am I.’ Isabella was tidying her hair, concentrating on adjusting the fastenings of her cloak, pouring the last of the wine. Finally, she met his eyes. ‘I wanted you to kiss me. I wanted—after the last time, I wanted to get it right.’

‘You got it a trifle too right.’

‘Did I?’

‘I’d have thought, from the way I couldn’t keep my hands off you, that it was obvious.’ Finlay brushed the cobweb from her hair. ‘But I should not have taken advantage.’

She flinched away from him, the light dying from her eyes. ‘You think I kissed you because you wanted me to, and not because I wanted to?’

‘No, I don’t. You really are a prickly—but you probably have cause. Look at me. Please.’ He touched her cheek gently. ‘The fact is that I’ve a deal of experience in these things and you have none. To put it bluntly, I am not a seducer of virgins.’

She coloured, but held his gaze. ‘It was just a few kisses, Finlay.’

He laughed softly. ‘There, you see, your innocence is showing if that’s what you think. Those were the kind of kisses to keep a man awake at night, wanting more. Now, shall we drink this excellent wine and get on with the rest of the tour?’

* * *

She took him back through the wine vaults to the barrel vaults, and began to explain the process of ageing. The cellars were so familiar to her that Isabella could lead the way without a lamp if necessary. The questions Finlay was asking were intelligent enough. Some wine merchants knew more, true, but not all. Their field of expertise was in the tasting. Had Finlay been teasing her when he had pretended to know nothing of the nose? Or flirting? Back up the stairs to the main winery, she took him through to the coopering shed. Here he surprised her, clearly knowing a great deal more than she of the process.

‘From my father,’ he told her when she asked. ‘He learned from his father, who most likely learned from his. There has always been a still in our family for the whisky.’