Her brother was no fool, and Finlay knew as much about wine as she did about Paris fashions. The moment Xavier stopped boasting and pontificating about his precious Rioja and started asking searching questions, Finlay’s cover would be blown. How did he plan to extricate himself? He would not go to the lengths of placing an order, she was fairly certain. ‘No, of that I am absolutely certain,’ Isabella said aloud. ‘Lies, they do not sit well with Finlay Urquhart.’

Leaning on the balustrade, she looked out along the side of the house. She could see the adjacent balcony that served as Finlay’s bedchamber. The room was dark, the window to his balcony closed. Was he sleeping? She pictured him sprawled on his back, one arm above his head. His nightshirt would be open at the neck. Though perhaps he did not wear one? Would his chest be smooth? No, a smattering of hair. Dark auburn, it would be. She closed her eyes, recalling his contours under her hand. He was solid, not slim like Gabriel. Yes, that was it. Solid.

Today, on the hillside, he had given her a taste of what Consuela had hinted at. Remembering the way he had touched her, kissed her, the feel of his lips on hers, his tongue, his hands—she wanted more. The urgent tension he had left her with, that tightly furled feeling inside her had given her just a flavour of what could exist between a man and a woman. How much more was there to experience?

She shivered. What had Consuela meant when she said that she would like to be devoured? Isabella didn’t like to think of Finlay devouring any other woman, though he had doubtless savoured many. She tried to imagine kissing Gabriel as she had kissed Finlay, but it was no use. Gabriel would be shocked to the core. A good Spanish woman went to her wedding bed innocent of such things. Isabella turned away from the stars and headed back inside. How she very much did not want to be a good Spanish woman!

It was late. The warming pan was cold on her feet. She pulled it out from under the blankets and set it on the hearth before getting back into bed. The very few who had known her in the past as El Fantasma treated her as an honorary man. They had respected her. Some had feared her. All had obeyed her orders unquestioningly. Finlay had been excited by her revelation. He had not seen her as a threat, but a challenge. To him, she was no honorary man. Not an equal precisely, but— Was there such a thing as equal and different? He made her feel less masculine and wholly feminine. It was very strange. And really, not the point at all.

She plumped her pillow and turned onto her other side. There was a point, but she couldn’t remember— Ah, yes, now she did. Lies. Finlay did not like to tell lies. His deceit made him extremely uncomfortable, which meant there must be a very, very important reason for him to resort to it.

Isabella sat up in bed and began to unravel her long plait. What if the net truly was closing in on El Fantasma? Certainly, the more vociferous liberals were now being persecuted. El Fantasma stood for all that the government wished to repress. He was subversive, but was he really dangerous enough for the state to pursue him?

The idea was much more thrilling than frightening. If it was true, it meant they really were starting to make a difference. Isabella ran her fingers through her hair and began to divide it up and plait it again. There were times when it felt as if the country she had fought for had gone backwards since the end of the war. It was not just the withdrawal of the constitution or the persecution of its supporters, it was the return of the Inquisition, the loss of freedom of the press. All that bloodshed, all that sacrifice, to go back to how things were before. She had put her life on the line for her country, for change. No politician in Madrid was going to stop her speaking out! None! She would not allow it. Absolutely, she would not!

And as to danger? For a moment, recalling just how vociferous Finlay had been, Isabella felt a little bit sick. She hadn’t ever considered the risk to Xavier of the printing press being found in his cellars. ‘But who would find it!’ She tied her plait tightly. The sickness faded. ‘This to danger,’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘We cannot stop now. The fight must go on.’

The problem, she mused, was that Finlay did not understand. If she could make him see how important their cause was then he would leave, explain to the great Duke of Wellington that El Fantasma was in no need of rescue. Tomorrow, she would show him, quite literally. Smiling, Isabella snuggled back down under her sheets. Tomorrow, Finlay would start to see things her way.

* * *

‘I should have guessed.’ The small wine cellar looked just as it had when Isabella had brought him here a few days ago, though the bottle and the glasses had gone from the table. ‘It’s behind here, then?’ Finlay studied the wall that she had claimed to be blocked. ‘How does one gain access?’

Isabella pulled a wine bottle out and slipped her hand in behind the rack covering the lower part of the wall, and he heard a small click. ‘Will you help me? You need to push that way.’

He did as she indicated, and the rack slid with ease along the wall to reveal a small wooden door. Isabella stood back to allow him through as soon as she had turned her key in the lock. He had to stoop. Holding the lamp high, he was surprised to find that this secret cellar was nearly twice the size of the one they had come through.

The bulky wooden printing press stood on three sets of trestles. It took up most of the floor space and would, when the frame holding the paper was extended, make the place very cramped indeed. A long table covered most of one wall, stacked with paper, trays of type, bottles of ink and all the other accoutrements necessary to the production of El Fantasma’s pamphlets. The press was about seven feet long and the same height in the middle, Finlay reckoned. ‘I take it you brought it in here in pieces and then assembled it,’ he said, eyeing the small doorway.

‘Estebe assisted me. It took us three nights to bring all the parts down through the cellars.’

‘It’s as well that brother of yours has his phobia,’ Finlay said. ‘Does anyone else know of this place?’

‘Not now that Papa...’ Isabella turned away, busying herself with lighting another lamp. ‘Only Estebe and I know, now that Papa is no longer with us. During the war, we stored arms here.’

‘We? You mean your father knew?’

‘Not about the printing press, that was after he— After.’ Isabella turned around, smiling sadly. ‘But the arms—yes, it was his idea to use this place. It was he who had the new door fitted.’

‘Aye, but what I meant was, did he know what you were up to?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with a whimsical smile. ‘My father was a very influential man, Finlay, and a very enlightened one. He had access to a great deal of privileged information, you know. How do you think El Fantasma came to be so well informed?’

‘Your father knew you were El Fantasma, the partisan! Hell’s bells, how many more of these revelations are you going to hit me with!’

Isabella laughed at his astonishment. ‘Only one more. My father was actually the original El Fantasma. All I did was act as his liaison between certain trusted guerrillas at first, and then gradually, as he became sick and as I became more...adept?—then I took over. You see, you could describe it as the family business.’

‘I doubt your brother would see it that way,’ Finlay responded drily.

Isabella’s expression hardened. ‘I told you, my father was a very enlightened man. As his son, Xavier was destined to take on the legacy of Hermoso Romero, and Papa made sure that he was fit for that purpose. Expensive schooling. The army. The management of the estate. The production of the wine. Xavier will do the same for his son. To me, Papa bequeathed El Fantasma. I do not interfere with my brother’s management of his legacy. My own legacy is none of Xavier’s concern.’

It was not so much the words as the tone in which she spoke that made Finlay’s heart sink. She sounded as he did, when giving orders. Cool, calm and utterly implacable. He wasn’t simply dealing with a woman on a mission to bring about change. Isabella’s dreams were also her father’s. How the devil was he to convince her that she had to give them up forever?

‘You will not,’ she said. ‘Persuade me to give El Fantasma up,’ she clarified, ‘if that is what you were thinking?’

‘So you’re a mind reader now, are you?’

She shrugged. ‘I know that you are not a man who countenances failure. I made it very clear yesterday that I would reject any offer of rescue, but your orders are nonetheless to rescue me, and Major Finlay Urquhart is a soldier who, I suspect, never fails to obey an order.’

‘You’re quite wrong there, lass,’ he said harshly. ‘If I hadn’t been quite so capable of insubordination, I’d be Colonel Urquhart by now, at the very least.’

Isabella spread a sheaf of pages out on the table in front of her. ‘Instead, you are the Jock Upstart—have I that right?’

‘You do.’

‘Then, they will not be so very surprised, your superiors, when you disobey this particular order,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Once you have seen for yourself how important El Fantasma’s work is, I am hoping you will agree that they were quite misguided when they sent you here.’

So she was laying down the gauntlet. He was not surprised. Though it would have made his life a damned sight easier if she’d turned around and agreed with him, he’d have been disappointed. And maybe a wee bit sceptical, too. Isabella was not the type to simply roll over. ‘I’m afraid it is you who are misguided, lass,’ Finlay said, shaking his head.

‘No,’ Isabella said firmly. ‘No, you will not ever persuade me to that way of thinking, so instead I must persuade you to think differently. Come, see for yourself.’