‘No! You are trying to frighten me. I won’t listen.’

‘Isabella...’

‘No!’ She turned on him, shaking his hand away from her arm, her face aglow with anger. ‘You know, from the very start, I have been thinking, I have been asking myself, why are you really here?’

‘What do you mean? I’ve told you—’

‘Yes, that you are here to rescue El Fantasma from the Spanish government,’ Isabella interrupted with a sneer. ‘But why would you do that, Finlay? You are a soldier, an English—British soldier. You are here, by your own admission, under orders from the Duke of Wellington himself. But the Duke of Wellington does not care a fig about Spain. He stopped caring about Spain the moment he chased Napoleon across the border into France. No, Wellington does not give this,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘for what El Fantasma has to say now that we are no longer at war. He does, however, care very much about what El Fantasma could say about how that war was won here in Spain, yes? A campaign the duke himself had ultimate responsibility for.’

There was no point in pretending to misunderstand her. ‘Yes,’ Finlay said, ‘you’re quite correct. Whether as a result of his direct orders, or merely acts carried out in his name, there are many unsavoury aspects of the conduct of the war here that Wellington and his coterie would prefer left unsaid.’

‘Especially now that he has hopes of becoming prime minister,’ Isabella said, folding her arms across her chest and glaring at him. ‘And he would go to some lengths to protect those hopes, I think. To the extent of sending one of his men here to Spain, even. To ensure the—what was your phrase—diplomatically explosive information does not fall into Spanish hands.’

‘Aye, that he would.’

‘Oh.’

His blunt admission took her aback. She had been a deal less certain in her accusations than she’d sounded, Finlay thought, but what the hell, the lass deserved the whole truth. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Both our governments have the same aim, albeit for differing reasons. My orders were to get to you before they did and take you back with me. Whether you’d subsequently end up a prisoner in exile under house arrest, or whether you’d simply quietly disappear I don’t know, but the net result would be the same. Silence.’

She put her hand to her breast, staggering away from him in horror. ‘You knew that, and yet you—you tell me this, and you expect me to consent to—to allow you to—to abduct me? You have been lying to me all along. I don’t understand. Why are you telling me all this?’

‘To knock some sense into you!’ He grabbed her, and when she shrank from him, gave her a tiny shake. ‘Don’t be so daft, lass. You can’t possibly think I would harm a hair on your heid! I’m telling you what my orders were, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to follow them.’

‘You’re not?’

‘The Jock Upstart has a reputation for insubordination to uphold,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I’ve told you the truth from the start. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to save your life.’

‘But how— What...’

‘You have to get out of Spain, but there’s no way I’m taking you to England. You’re bound for America, lass, and safety,’ Finlay said gently. ‘You asked me why I was sorry for what happened there, between us. That is why. You have no choice but to make a new life for yourself a whole continent away, and I can play no part in that life, even if you wanted me to. The arrangements are already in place.’

He had said far more than he intended, implied far more than he would admit to feeling, made the matter personal when it should not be, but before he could regret it or retract it, Isabella pushed him away.

‘America! I am not going to America. I am not going anywhere. Why would you think— No, wait. Something does not make sense. You had already made arrangements, planned to send El Fantasma to America, before you knew he was me—that it was me? That implies that you had always planned to disobey Wellington’s orders.’

‘I’m not here for Wellington. I’ll admit, my orders originate from Wellington, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because Jack asked me to come.’

‘Jack.’ Isabella stared at him blankly.

‘My friend and comrade. Lieutenant Colonel Jack Trestain. Better known as Wellington’s codebreaker. But then you know that because El Fantasma was one of his most trusted partisan contacts, although they never actually met. Jack says you’ve been responsible for saving literally thousands of lives, and now he feels he owes you yours. I’ve known him for the better part of a decade. We’ve been through some tough times together, so when he asked for my help I could not refuse him, despite the risks. Jack came up with the plan to send El Fantasma incognito to America. Wellington will be told El Fantasma perished in the course of the attempted abduction. Problem solved and everybody happy. A simple but elegant plan typical of Jack. But the key point is this. If Jack believes you are in mortal danger, believes it enough to ask me to risk my reputation and possibly my neck, then you surely need no further proof that the threat to your life is real.’

‘I don’t know. I need time to think about everything you have said.’ She put her hand to her eyes, but he saw the sheen of tears lurking there.

He longed to comfort her, to allay her fear and distress, but he could not afford to risk diluting the message he’d hammered so brutally home.

‘Isabella, that is a luxury we cannot afford. Time is of the essence.’

‘No.’ She threw her shoulders back and glared at him. ‘This is my life we are talking about, Finlay, not yours. My life, and Estebe’s and many others’, too. I won’t be rushed into a decision. I need time to think. At the end of the week...’

‘No. Tomorrow,’ Finlay said, hardening his heart. ‘You have until tomorrow at the very latest.’

* * *

Isabella took another sip of cognac and stared into the fire. She had retired to her bedchamber immediately upon her return, both shaken and shocked by Finlay’s words. For some time she sat, completely numb, almost unable to assimilate what he had told her, but as the hours passed and she replayed the conversation over and over, the truth began sink in. It was the manner in which he had spoken, almost as much as the words themselves that had finally convinced her. Finlay had laid out the detailed facts so clearly and concisely. He’d made no attempt to disguise the horrors, but nor had he overdramatised them. He had not been trying to frighten her, but to open her eyes to the stark reality of the situation.

As an upshot she was, nonetheless, extremely frightened. She had never thought of herself as a traitor. Listening to Finlay, she could only guess at the plethora of shocking, horrific experiences that lent credence to his words. Listening to Finlay, Isabella had been forced to concede to herself that she was not, as she had always imagined herself, a soldier fighting a noble fight. At least not a true soldier as he was.

She shuddered. She had thought, in the past few days, that she had come to know him, but it was difficult to reconcile the charming Finlay with the man who had sent her world crashing around her this afternoon. The horrors he must have witnessed. The savagery. The brutality. The bloodshed and suffering. He seemed quite untouched by it, yet she knew he was neither a brute nor a savage. He had come here, all this way, not because of an order but because of a promise he had made to his best friend and comrade. Finlay was an honourable man. Finlay was in many respects a gentleman. Finlay was also the most attractive man she had ever met. Her face flamed as she recalled her wanton behaviour this afternoon, but her unrepentant body began to thrum at the memory. He had wanted her—of that she had no doubt. But he had resisted the temptation, because he knew her fate was to lead a new life, in safety but in exile, on another continent. A life that he could have no part of, even if either of them wanted it.

Reality intervened once more, like being doused with a bucket of cold mountain water. Isabella threw back the remains of her cognac, coughing as the fiery liquor burned its way down her throat. Whatever her future was, wherever her future lay, it did not involve Finlay. Not only was it pointless to speculate, she had far more important things to think about now than her feelings for him. Whatever they were.

Jumping to her feet, she began to pace the floor, from the long doors that opened onto her balcony, to the door that opened onto the corridor, and back again. She no longer questioned the danger she was exposed to, but the consequences— No, she was not ready to accept those.

She threw open the windows and stepped out onto the balcony. A thin film of cloud covered the night sky, but a luminescent moon shone through it, bathing the vineyards below with a ghostly grey light. This was her home. She had never known another. Her family were here. And her life’s work. She could not leave. There must be another solution.

A tap on the door made her jump. Isabella turned and saw her sister-in-law slip into the room. ‘Consuela. What are you doing here so late—is something wrong? Is Ramon...?’

‘My son is safe and well in his nursery. I intend to ensure that he remains so. Which is why I am here.’ Consuela turned the key in the look and crossed the room, taking one of the chairs by the fireside. ‘I would have come earlier, but I have had to spend the past hour with the wife of one of Xavier’s tenants. It seems the man has disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘What man?’

Consuela waved her hand dismissively. ‘I cannot remember the name. He works for Estebe. He will be off on a drunken spree, I don’t doubt. Or run off with another man’s wife. Of course, when I hinted at such, the woman became quite furious, claimed her husband never drank and never looked at another woman, but...’