* * *

A couple of hours later, they were sitting side by side on a blanket, leaning against an overturned tree in a pretty glade at the edge of a forest located some distance from the estate. The sun had obligingly come out, and there were only the slightest, puffiest of clouds in the pale blue winter sky. Isabella opened the top button of her jacket and lifted her face to the warmth. Finlay had taken off his coat, and sat in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. His leather-clad leg was not touching her skirts, his arm was not brushing hers, but she was so aware of him, it was almost as if they were. She didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.

No, not yet. She hadn’t realised until he’d turned up out of the blue how lonely she had been. She had her cause but precious little else. She hadn’t realised how rarely she was her true self. Not even with Estebe could she talk as she did with Finlay, and she had never, ever thought of kissing Estebe. Now she seemed to do nothing else but think of kissing Finlay.

He shifted against the tree and she opened her eyes to find him studying her intently. ‘What is it? Have I dust on my nose?’ She brushed her face roughly, not for fear of dust but to conceal the effect his gaze had on her. She felt flustered and flattered in equal measure. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Has it gone?’

Finlay grimaced. ‘Stop being so endearing. For pity’s sake, it’s difficult enough having to say what I have to say, without...’

‘Then, don’t say it, Finlay.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Not yet.’ She knew, absolutely, that what he had to say would signal the end, and she so desperately didn’t want it to end. ‘Not yet,’ she said again, smoothing her hand over his hair, his cheek.

He turned his face, his lips brushing a kiss on her palm, then, taking her by the wrist, he kissed each of her fingers. ‘Why did it have to be you?’ he murmured. ‘Why do you have to be so irresistible?’

‘Then, do not resist.’ She caught his hand and did as he had done, brushing her lips over his palm, her tongue over each of his fingertips. His eyes flickered shut as he inhaled sharply. She pushed the cuff of his sleeve back, kissing the pulse on his wrist. And then his mouth found hers and she forgot everything save for the taste of him and his touch and his drugging, sweet, heady kisses.

He whispered her name as he kissed her. He said her name like no other did, his soft, lilting accent making a caress of it as his hands stroked her cheeks, her neck, unfastening the buttons of her riding coat to slide inside and cup her breasts. She kissed him back hungrily, her own hands roaming over his back, his shoulders. She held him tightly to her, pressed herself against him, for fear he would stop. She could not bear it if he stopped, not this time.

He kissed the tops of her breasts above the gown of her habit. She laced her fingers into his hair. Her corsets felt too tight. She was hot. Her nipples were hard under his caress, aching for more. ‘Más,’ she whispered urgently.

Finlay muttered some gentle endearment in his native tongue. His eyes were dark, his cheeks flushed. His neckcloth was undone, his waistcoat open. She could sense him wrestling with his conscience. She did not want his conscience to win. ‘Please do not stop,’ she said, made shameless with desire.

He groaned. ‘Don’t look at me like that. How am I to resist you when you look at me like that?’

‘Then, don’t.’ She pulled him back towards her. ‘Don’t resist,’ she said, and kissed him fiercely.

This time he obeyed her command. His kisses were harder, his breath became more ragged, his hands touched her more surely, cupping her breasts, making her arch up with pleasure. He slid his hand under the skirts of her habit, stroking his way up her leg, over her stocking, her garter, to the soft flesh of her thigh. Her body pulsed and throbbed. Her skin tingled. Inside her, the tension, the heat, pooled between her legs. Finlay’s skin was hot, too, under the linen of his shirt, his nipple hard against her flattened palm. His eyes, intent on hers, reflected the fire building inside her.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Si. Yes. Sure,’ she answered. Though she was not at all sure what he meant, she was sure she wanted it, and when his hand cupped her sex, when he slid his finger inside her, she was certain, whimpering with delight. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said as he touched her. ‘Yes.’

She surrendered to it, to him, to the exquisite pleasure of the tension his touch was building, lying back on the blanket, his body half-covering hers. She closed her eyes as he kissed her again, lost in the pleasure of his mouth, his tongue, his touch. Stroking. Thrusting. Stroking inside her, moving instinctively with him, clinging on to the knot until she could bear it no longer, and it exploded, forcing a strange, guttural cry from her as she shuddered and pulsed, clinging to his shoulders to anchor her, convinced that if she let go of him she might fly straight up into the pale blue winter sky and burst into flames like a firework.

* * *

Isabella lay sprawled on the blanket, half-covered by his body, the embodiment of temptation, the image of sated delight. Her eyes fluttered open, and Finlay could not resist kissing her one last time. His erection throbbed. It took him every ounce of willpower to move away from her. He could not believe he’d allowed himself to go this far.

He sat up abruptly. ‘Enough,’ he said, aloud this time. Her smile faded. There was hurt in her eyes, and confusion. Steeling himself, Finlay grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on, deliberately putting some distance between them.

Isabella, too, sat up, buttoning her jacket, the glow fading from her cheeks, her expression hardening. ‘For the avoidance of doubt, do not even think of apologising. What happened was entirely at my instigation. I did not realise that you were so reluctant. Or indeed that my own—enthusiasm—was so one-sided.’

Finlay cursed. ‘It’s not that. How can you think that?’ he said, reaching for her instinctively. ‘If you mattered less to me, this would all be a damned sight easier. I’ve never wanted a woman so much. Did I not tell you only a few moments ago, I’ve never met a woman like you?’

‘Then, why— I don’t understand. Why are you sorry for—for what happened, if I am not?’

She was blushing adorably. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her. He didn’t want to let her go. It was this thought that stopped him in his tracks and forced him to do exactly that. ‘Enough,’ Finlay said once more. ‘The time has come to stop faffing about. I want you to sit down, and I want you to listen to me.’

His tone brooked no argument. He spoke as he would to his men, and he told himself that from now on that was how he had to think of her. She was one of his lieutenants, not to be reasoned with or cajoled, but to be informed of his orders, and instructed to discharge them forthwith. Isabella cast him a resentful look, but she sat down on top of the overturned tree and looked at him expectantly. Good. Fine. Finlay put his hands behind his back and stood a few steps away. ‘Right, then. Here’s the bald truth of the matter.’

He told her in plain, unvarnished facts what Jack had told him when he had briefed him. ‘Two years ago,’ he concluded, ‘you were a partisan fighting in a legitimate war for your country. That war is over now. Yes, for El Fantasma and his supporters, the fight goes on, but it’s no longer legal. El Fantasma, his supporters... They’re not soldiers in the eyes of the law, they are traitors. You are the enemy within, Isabella, and if you carry on as you are doing, I doubt very much you’ll live to see your next birthday.’

She was pale, but still defiant. ‘They will never catch me. No one will ever suspect that El Fantasma is a woman.’

‘Estebe knows who you are. His deputies know who he is. Their deputies, in turn, know who they are. For the authorities, it is simply a case of working their way up the chain. That is what they are busily doing right now.’

‘Estebe would never betray me.’

‘Isabella, the things they would do to him would make Estebe betray his own mother.’

‘She is dead. Besides, he would not...’

‘Aye, he would,’ Finlay said firmly, and proceeded to explain, in graphic detail, exactly how they would set about it.

‘You are making it up,’ Isabella said faintly, when he was done. ‘Or at the very least exaggerating. I may violently disagree with the government but we are Spanish, not barbarians. They would not treat one of their own citizens so inhumanely.’

‘You give your government, all governments, come to that, too much credit. They will do what is expedient. The would not hesitate to use torture if necessary. I’m speaking from experience. Not of what I’ve inflicted, but of what I’ve witnessed,’ he said implacably, refusing to allow himself to take pity on her. Taking pity on her could only harm her. ‘What’s more, your being a woman would not protect you. Quite the reverse. It would leave you open to other, even more degrading treatment, if you take my meaning.’

‘No.’ She jumped to her feet, her fists balled. ‘No. What would be the point? If they had El Fantasma, if they really did manage to capture me, which I don’t believe, why would they— What would be the point of torturing me?’

‘For the love of God, woman! You said it yourself—people are listening to what El Fantasma has to say, and what he has to say is treason. It’s not a case of simply shutting you up. They will want to make sure that there’s no one left to fill your shoes. They will want names from you. Associates, contacts, sympathisers. Information. Such as the location of the printing press. Where the funding comes from. They know about your previous collaboration with the British. They’ll want to know everything that went on back then. And when they’ve got all that—and believe me, you’ll tell them everything they want to know, including my highly irregular and diplomatically explosive presence here—then they’ll have done with you.’