They are working their way up the chain. That was what Finlay had said. No, she was being foolish. It was simply a coincidence. ‘How long has he been missing?’ Isabella asked.

‘Almost a week. I don’t know what the woman expects me to do. I told her to come back when Xavier has returned. But I did not come here to discuss missing farm workers. Sit down, Isabella, and pour me a glass of that cognac, if you please. It is time you and I had a little talk.’

‘Can it not wait until morning? I am very tired.’ The fact that the missing tenant worked for Estebe was a coincidence, nothing more. She was edgy, and no wonder. The last thing she wanted was to listen to another lecture on marriage. ‘Really, Consuela, if you have come to further Gabriel’s suit, I should tell you that you are wasting your time.’

‘That is not why I am here, but that is indeed one of the things I suspected. Sit down, Isabella. I do not care how tired you are, this will not wait.’

There was something in her tone that made her heart sink. Consuela sounded quite implacable. She sounded horribly certain, just as Finlay had done earlier today. Isabella dropped abruptly onto the chair. ‘What is it you wish to say?

Consuela took a measured sip of cognac. ‘Why is Finlay Urquhart here?’

The question took Isabella utterly by surprise. ‘To buy wine. But you already know that.’

‘Do not play games with me. There is no time,’ her sister-in-law said with an angry sigh. ‘He knows even less about wine than I do. Xavier was suspicious from the first day—so much so, that he decided to check Mr Urquhart’s credentials. What business did you imagine was keeping him so long in Pamplona?’

‘I had no idea what my brother was doing since he rarely takes me into his confidence. Has Xavier proof that Finlay—Mr Urquhart—has he irrefutable proof that he is not a wine merchant?’

Consuela shrugged impatiently. ‘What is he, Isabella? Who is he? And how is he connected with whatever it is you have secreted in my husband’s wine cellars?’

A trickle of sweat running down her spine made Isabella shiver. Fear made knots in her stomach. ‘What do you know of that?’ she asked, the shock of this revelation on top of the tumultuous events earlier so severe that denial did not even occur to her.

Consuela curled her lip. ‘You think you are the only one with eyes?’

‘Clearly not.’

‘I have watched you sneaking out of the house at night. At first I thought it was to meet a lover, but you had not the look of a woman who had experience of such matters until lately. You have allowed Mr Urquhart to take liberties, I think. That was foolish of you, but not, I think the most foolish thing you have done.’

Her throat was dry. She must not panic. She must—she must— Dear heavens, what was she to do? ‘Consuela...’

‘What is in the cellar, Isabella?’

Her life was crashing around her ears. She was beyond prevaricating. ‘A printing press,’ she whispered.

Consuela’s hand went to her breast. Her eyes widened in horror. ‘Madre de Dios, are you insane?’ She jumped to her feet, clutching at the mantel for support. ‘It is illegal to merely own such a thing, far less print anything. If it is discovered, Xavier could be imprisoned. Worse. A printing press! And what is it that you are printing?’ She swayed, the blood draining from her face. ‘That madman. The spectre. No, that is not right. The Ghost.’

‘El Fantasma.’

Consuela swayed. ‘You are actually printing that man’s material here, at Hermoso Romero? Has that man been here? Isabella, if you have—if they discover—it does not bear thinking about. They would hang Xavier. They would hang us all. What have you been thinking?’

Not thinking. She had not been thinking. Finlay had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. Hadn’t wanted to listen. Isabella felt sick. She felt faint. Dimly, she was aware that Consuela had not guessed the whole truth. Yet. ‘I— It will— I will put an end to it,’ she said. ‘I am so sorry, I...’

‘Sorry!’ Consuela turned on her viciously. ‘What good is sorry! Sorry will not save us.’ She took a sip of cognac. The glass clattered against her teeth. A sob shook her, and the glass fell onto the hearthrug, splattering brandy over her feet. ‘What have you done, Isabella? What are we to do?’

‘Nothing.’ Seeing Consuela so close to hysterics forced Isabella back from the brink of her own. She poured her sister-in-law another glass of cognac and held it out to her. ‘You must do nothing. Say nothing. This is my problem. It is for me to resolve.’

‘How?’

‘The less you know the better, Consuela, but I promise you, you will all be safe.’

‘What about that man? Mr Urquhart, what has he to do with all this?’

‘It doesn’t matter. He, too, will be—attended to, I promise. Now, if you please, go to your bedchamber, and forget we had this conversation, and when Xavier returns, it would be much better if you did not mention any of it.’

‘You think I am stupid!’ Consuela drained the glass and got shakily to her feet. ‘He will be back in two days, no more. Is that enough time for you to rectify things?’

‘It will have to be,’ Isabella said with grim determination. ‘For all our sakes.’



Chapter Eight

As Finlay eased the chapel door closed behind him, the smoky scent of candle wax and the evocative, cloying aroma of incense caught him unawares, hurtling him back in time to the services he’d attended in his childhood with his mother and sisters. He closed his eyes, remembering the sense of defiance that had preceded each clandestine trip to the ramshackle longhouse that had served as their place of worship, for the Catholic religion was officially proscribed in Scotland. It shamed him now, thinking of all the years in the army when he had neglected his church, but it was crime enough to be the Jock Upstart. To proclaim himself a Catholic to boot—no, that would have been beyond the pale. His faith had never truly left him, but he’d kept it well hidden. It wasn’t something he was proud of, looking back on it.

This morning, awaking from a fitful sleep, anxious as to how this pivotal day in his mission might play out, he had been drawn to the silence and sanctuary of the little chapel in the grounds of the estate. Leaning against the door, he drank in the stillness of the space, the hushed serenity he recalled from his youth, and which he had always found notably absent in the ceremonial services in huge churches and cathedrals he’d attended on regimental duty over the years.

This little church, though plain and modest on the outside, was rather ornate and beautiful inside. The nave was tiled with marble and flanked with a number of pillars, painted in bold, bright colours with scenes from the Bible. The vaulted ceiling was dark blue, speckled with stars and bordered with gold. The walls were a paler blue, hung with ornately framed paintings that looked, to his unpractised eye, to be of the Italian Renaissance period. The pews were padded with rich, crimson velvet. The candlesticks on the altar were wrought from solid gold. Above it, the stained glass would speckle the floor with vivid colours later in the day when the sun streamed in. So much wealth and opulence, left quite unattended. Xavier Romero clearly considered his possessions inviolate. One must be very sure of one’s position in society to be so complacent. Looking around him, Finlay was forced to reconsider the man’s standing. If it was discovered that his sister was El Fantasma— No, the possibility did not bear countenancing.

He did not notice Isabella at first. She was kneeling in the tiny chapel dedicated to St Vincent of Saragossa, the patron saint of winemakers, Finlay guessed, judging from the symbolism of the paintings. Her head was bowed low. Her hair was covered in a mantilla. There was something so vulnerable about the fall of lace over her head, the slight curve of her shoulders as she prayed. Whether she was aware of him or not, Finlay decided not to disturb her, retreating into the nave to light a candle and to make his own request for divine guidance.

It was not that he lacked the resolution to act. The situation demanded it. His orders demanded it. His word of honour to Jack demanded it. He could all but hear his friend’s voice in his ear. Finlay, you must get El Fantasma out of Spain at any cost.

It was worth it. By doing so, he would save Isabella’s life. In the light of this one salient fact, it was gie pathetic of him to wonder just how different his own life would be if circumstances had been different. Of all the women in the world to fall for, he’d chosen this one. Not that he had fallen heavily yet. No, a man did not fall in love in a matter of days. He had caught himself in time, but he’d be an eejit if he let himself fall any further in thrall to her.

He rubbed his eyes, gazing up at the beautiful stained-glass window in search of inspiration. He had wondered, in the middle of the night, if he dare enlist Romero’s help. The estate owner could have the printing press broken up. He could certainly insist on an end to Estebe’s participation, and force the winery manager to end all contact with his men. But Romero would most likely have his sister incarcerated in a nunnery as a consequence. Hidden away from the world she’d be safe, she’d be alive, but what kind of existence would that be for her? Finlay couldn’t bear to contemplate it.

If Isabella was a man, he would not have to wrestle with his conscience like this, he thought, looking over at her still bowed figure. If she was a man, he’d not be taking any account of those beguiling eyes of hers, or that sensuous mouth, or that delectable body. Or that determined, clever mind of hers, either. He cursed, then raised his eyes to the altar and apologised.