Isabella perched on the top of a finished barrel to watch as he ran his hands over the staves waiting to be formed into another barrel. ‘Will you take it over from your father, then—the farm, making the whisky?’

Finlay turned his attention to one of the finished barrels. ‘I used to joke about it in the mess, my wee Highland hame.’ He picked up a coopering hammer. ‘Some of them—the other officers, I mean—to hear them talk, you’d think I was born in a sheep pen. They think everyone north of Glasgow lives off porridge and neeps—that’s turnip, which I know you have here.’ He grinned. ‘I used to come up with some fine tall tales for them.’

‘Tell me what it is really like,’ Isabella said. ‘Your family farm, and the place where they live—it is by the sea, yes? You said before that your father has a fishing boat.’

‘He does. Nothing fancy, just a single sail. They are built wide and shallow where I come from, not like the Spanish fishing boats, and they catch very different fish.’

‘And the farm?’

‘We call it a croft. Our farmers are crofters, which means they do a bit of everything. The croft sits up on the hill above the village. The house is long and low, with a thatched roof. Half of it forms the barn for the beasts. We have harsh winters, and it rains a lot. Warm rain in the summer, freezing in the winter. I don’t miss that at all.’

‘And your sisters, do they live in the farm—croft? I think you said you had four?’

‘Three. It can feel like five or six mind, when they are all in the same room. Mhairi, Sheena and Jean. They are all married now, with their own crofts, and have a gaggle of bairns between them.’

He talked of them all with obvious affection. As she listened, Isabella couldn’t help comparing his childhood with her own. It had been harsh, there was no doubt about it, though he did not dwell on it, but they were obviously a loving family.

‘You have been back then, since the war?’ she asked. ‘I think you told me it had been many years since you had been home.’

Finlay’s smile faded. ‘Aye, I’ve been back.’

‘After such a long time away, you must have found it very changed.’

He looked troubled. ‘No, it was almost exactly the same.’

‘And your family, they were all well?’

‘Aye.’ He put the hammer down with a sigh. ‘They were all very well, and very pleased to see me, and I—ach, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It obviously does.’

‘What I meant was, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I can see that from the way you are scowling at me.’

‘I don’t scowl.’

She wrinkled her face into a fair imitation of his expression. ‘What is that, then?’

Finlay was forced to laugh. ‘What it means is, when I say I don’t want to talk about something, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘After the war,’ Isabella said, picking her words carefully, ‘I found it very difficult to go back to being Señorita Romero again. I felt as if I was acting a part.’

‘You look to me as if you’re still acting. Not now, but with other people, your brother—’

‘Who thinks it’s high time I was married,’ Isabella interrupted hurriedly. He was suspicious. It was imprudent of her to have embarked upon this comparison between them, but she had never been able to discuss how she felt before, and most likely would never be able to discuss it again. ‘Xavier is right,’ she continued. ‘I am much older than most Spanish brides, but I—I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘I am afraid Gabriel will be disappointed in his side of the bargain. He is a nice man. He is a perfect husband for me. Everyone thinks so. Perfect. Only I am not sure that I could be such a perfect wife. Or—or want to be. Do you understand what I mean?’

Finlay shrugged, picking up the hammer again, turning it over in his hand.

Deflated, Isabella slid down from the barrel. ‘Never mind.’

He caught her arm as she passed him. ‘I do understand.’ His smile was crooked. ‘I do. It’s what I thought I wanted, what I used to think about on the nights before a battle, when it seemed morning would never come. Going back to the croft. Taking over from my father. Settling down. It’s what I always thought I’d do, when peace came. Thing is, I never really thought peace would come, and now it’s here...’

‘You are not so sure anymore?’

He flinched. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said sadly. ‘It’s one thing I’m very sure of. I’m not cut out to be a crofter.’

‘So that is why you became a wine merchant?’ She waited, but he merely shrugged. ‘Do you miss the war, Finlay?’

‘Not exactly. Certainly not the bloodshed and the suffering.’

‘But the excitement of it. Knowing you made a difference, that your contribution was vital. Knowing that so many men relied on you. The responsibility.’ Isabella smiled. ‘And the danger.’

‘Aye. All of that. People don’t understand it, but the army has been my life.’

‘It was my life, too, for a time, during the occupation. I miss it, too, just as you do.’

‘Do you? Aye, I can see that you might, though it’s not the same.’

The empathy she was feeling trickled away. ‘Why not? Why is it not the same? Because I am a...’

‘For the love of— It has nothing to do with your being a woman, if that’s what you were about to say. What a chip on your shoulder you have,’ Finlay exclaimed. ‘It is not the same because I have spent my entire adult life in the army. I know nothing else, whereas you had a life before, and a life to come back to. The war here has been over two years. You must be accustomed to peacetime life by now.’

She clenched her fists and was about to retort angrily, when the incongruity of his remark struck her. ‘Your entire adult life has been in the military? You told me you left the army when Napoleon was sent to Elba, which was nearly two years ago, and since then you have been assiduously building up your wine business.’

Finlay waved his hand dismissively. ‘What I meant is that the army has dominated my life so much that it feels as if I have always been a soldier. And speaking of my new career,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘it is high time we were getting back to change for dinner. It wouldn’t enhance my negotiating position with your brother if I were to insult him by having the bad manners to keep his wife waiting.’

* * *

In his room, taking a quick bath before dinner, Finlay cursed himself for a fool. What an eejit he’d been, to get caught out so easily. Luckily it had not been too costly a faux pas but he would have to be much more careful in future.

‘Aye, for example, please refrain from mentioning over dinner that you fought at Waterloo a matter of months ago, Finlay, there’s a good chap!’

The fair Isabella was as sharp as a tack, and he had once again allowed himself to be sidetracked by those big eyes of hers, and those luscious lips. He poured another jug of hot water over his head. He wasn’t doing her justice. Her kisses were delightful, sure enough, but it was her, Isabella herself, who intrigued him. She was an enigmatic mixture, and a fascinating creature. ‘And a gie clever one, you’d do well to remember, Finlay Urquhart.’

He’d recovered the situation, but only temporarily. Her suspicions had been aroused, which meant he had to be a step ahead of her by the morning.

He’d think of something. He always did. In the meantime, there were other, more delightful things to think of. Such as the fact that Isabella’s chamber was only a few doors down the corridor. Most likely she was taking a bath, too. Her hair would be all damp curls, clinging to her back. Her face would be flushed from the heat of the water. She’d be lying back as he was, her eyes closed, as his were. The water would be lapping at her breasts. There would be tantalising glimpses of her nipples through the suds. Her soapy body would be slippery to the touch, and when the bubbles burst as the water cooled, so much more would be revealed...



Chapter Five

Consuela placed the letter she had received on the breakfast table and poured herself a cup of chocolate. ‘It is a brief note from Xavier. Unfortunately he will be detained in Pamplona for a further few days. Isabella, he asks that you ensure Mr Urquhart is given a comprehensive tour of all aspects of the work of the estate. To that end, you are to take him to visit Estebe, the head winemaker, and—but here, you may as well read it for yourself.’ Consuela pushed the letter across the table.

Isabella took the letter, raising her brows at the list of tasks her brother had compiled for her. Necessity and greed had forced Xavier into trusting her with an important task. Though not enough to actually write to her himself.

‘Mr Urquhart is tardy this morning,’ Consuela said, eyeing the clock.

Isabella, who had been anxiously thinking the same thing, began to rearrange the bread on her plate. ‘You like our foreign guest, don’t you?’

Consuela bristled slightly. ‘I hope you are not implying that my behaviour has been improper in any way?’

‘Not at all. Only that he is very handsome and extremely charming. All women like him, I think. Even I do.’ Though I am fairly certain he is a fraud and not who he purports to be. The butterflies in her tummy started beating their wings again. She wished that there was another conclusion, but once again decided there was not.

‘Isabella, you know that it would not be appropriate, or wise, to grow to like this man too much? He is charming, but he is a wine merchant. You think I am empty-headed. I know you do, because you never discuss anything of any import with me save my son, and...’

‘Consuela, I...’

‘No, let me speak for once. You think that because I say nothing I don’t see what’s happening under my nose, but I do. The way you look at Mr Urquhart... You have never looked at Gabriel like that.’