‘Is something wrong?’ Estebe said guardedly. ‘I thought we agreed it would be unwise for us to be seen together in public. It might arouse suspicions as to the nature of our relationship.’

‘I am here on official estate business, at my brother’s behest. He wants to know how your recovery is progressing, how soon you can return to work,’ Isabella replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. ‘I made a point of saying so to Señora Abrantes,’ she added sotto voce.

‘The doctor your brother sends says I must wear the splint a few more weeks, but I have told him the wine will not wait a few more weeks. You can tell Xavier I will return to my duties next week. Tell him to do nothing with the vintage until then. Tell him that I said patience is a virtue.’

‘Estebe,’ Isabella said in an urgent undertone, ‘I’m not really here for Xavier. I need to talk to you.’

‘You should not have come. People will talk, and we cannot afford any talk. Have you heard that young Zabala has disappeared?’

The man Consuela had mentioned last night. ‘He was one of ours?’ Isabella asked, dismayed.

Estebe shrugged. ‘It could be nothing, but—we will see. Since you are here, I want to talk to you about that man. The Englishman. I don’t know why he is here, but is it a coincidence that one of our men disappears shortly after he shows up?’

‘Estebe, Mr Urquhart is on our side. He’s the reason I’m here, not to ask after your health. If I could just explain...’

Estebe’s head jerked up. He pushed her out of the way, shading his eyes to scan the horizon. ‘Señorita Romero, you need to get out of here at once.’

‘What is it?’ She screwed up her eyes in an effort to see through the dust being raised. It was some sort of carriage. ‘I wonder...’

‘Isabella!’ Estebe grabbed her by the shoulder, dropping his stick. ‘You have to leave immediately. Do not let them see you. Do not, whatever happens, show yourself to them. Do you understand?’

It was his use of her name rather than the tone that made her blood run cold. ‘Are they— Do you think that they are...?’

‘I don’t know who they are, but I am certain it does not bode well,’ Estebe replied, his voice clipped as he limped over to the wooden dresser, pushing it away from the wall and retrieving a pistol, which he proceeded to load with astonishing speed before aiming it at her. ‘Get out. Believe me, if they capture you, you will wish I had put this bullet in your head.’

He meant it. Blood rushed from her head, making her stagger. She took a deep breath, clutching the door frame. The cart was at the other end of the street now. There were two men. Well dressed. She looked around frantically, wondering in terror if she had left it too late.

‘The woodshed,’ Estebe said, pushing her down the steps. ‘And remember, no matter what happens, you must keep silent. Promise me you won’t do anything rash.’

Isabella dumbly nodded her reluctant assent and stumbled down into the dusty darkness of the woodshed as Estebe secured the door behind her.

* * *

Riding towards the village, Finlay spotted the dust cloud raised by the open, rather ornate carriage. It looked so incongruous in the midst of such modest surroundings of farms and cottages that Finlay’s senses immediately went on high alert. Reining his horse back, he followed the carriage at a distance, taking care to keep out of sight, knowing that it could only be headed for the village, all the time hoping against hope that it was not. There were two male occupants. They could be here for any number of reasons, but he knew, with the sixth sense he relied upon when going into battle, that they were not. There was only one likely explanation, and it was an extremely alarming one.

When they turned into the village, Finlay tethered his horse by a ruined outbuilding and followed cautiously on foot. Isabella’s horse was pawing the ground by the tethering post, confirmation that he had guessed her intentions correctly—as if he’d needed it confirmed. The carriage was drawing up at the top of the little street. As he made his way stealthily towards it, he could sense the eyes of the villagers peering from their cottages. An old woman holding a piece of lacework beckoned him, but he ignored her.

The two men who descended from the carriage were well dressed. They pounded on the door of the furthest cottage calling Estebe’s name. ‘Señor Mendi! Señor Mendi!’

The accent was not local. Finlay no longer had any doubts. Madrileños! As the door opened, he braced himself, drawing his sgian-dubh from his boot. In the rush to follow Isabella he had not had time to retrieve his pistol, but the vicious little knife, a coming-of-age gift from his father, had served him well enough in the past.

‘Señor Mendi?’

Estebe, his leg in a splint, stood leaning on the door. ‘Who wants to know?’

Finlay could see no sign of Isabella. Creeping around the other side of the carriage, behind the backs of the strangers, he took a chance, allowing Estebe a brief glimpse of his presence. Either Isabella had briefed him, or Estebe, realising how dire the situation was, saw Finlay as the lesser of two evils. Whichever. The man gave him a tiny shake of his head, the smallest gesture to the side of the house where a lean-to stood.

Waiting for the coast to clear, he missed what the men said next, but it caused Estebe to open the door wider, ushering them into the cottage.

Isabella, her ear pressed to the adjoining wall of the cottage, had her back to the door, foolish lass. Finlay grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth before she could cry out. ‘It’s me,’ he whispered, and her rigid body ceased struggling immediately.

‘Government agents,’ she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Estebe said—he said that they may have taken one of his men a few days ago. Do you think that is why—how...?’

‘Hush. Aye.’

She was shaking piteously. He took no pleasure in being proved correct. The Spanish government were working their way up El Fantasma’s chain of command. The question was, would Estebe talk? Finlay pressed his ear up to the wall, but could hear only muffled words. Later, he would tear a strip or two off himself for not taking matters into his own hands much earlier. He could not find it in himself to be angry at Isabella, but he wished with all his heart that she’d been a wee bit less loyal to the man next door, and a bit more careful of her own safety. As he would have been? Aye, right enough.

He shook his head in frustration as the room next door went quiet. ‘I can’t hear a thing,’ he whispered, just as a loud crash made Isabella jump, only his instinctive covering of her mouth once more preventing her from screaming.

It all happened so quickly after that. ‘Careful, he has a gun. Put the weapon down, señor,’ one of the Madrileños cried out, his voice ringing clearly through the connecting wall now. Then followed the sounds of a scuffle, another piece of furniture being upturned.

Isabella strained in Finlay’s firm grasp, her eyes above his muffling hand pleading with him to go to the rescue, but he held firm, shaking his head. He could take them on, he might well overpower them, but his remit was to protect El Fantasma at all costs, which meant he could not take the chance in acting rashly, no matter what the collateral damage turned out to be.

The front door of the cottage flew open, and a shot whizzed out into the open air. For a moment, Finlay thought that it would be one of the Madrileños who would pay the price, but then he heard Estebe’s voice. ‘I am El Fantasma,’ he shouted. ‘I would rather die than fall into your hands.’

‘We have good reason to believe that you are not. However, you can lead us to him. Put the gun down. Do not shoot. If you cooperate you will not be harmed. You have our word. Put the weapon down. There is no need for this.’

‘I tell you, I am El Fantasma.’

This time, the sharp crack of the bullet came clearly from inside the cottage, followed by the dull thud of a body falling to the floor This time, it was not Estebe but the Madrileños who cried out, though frustratingly, Finlay could still make out nothing of what they said. Locked tight against him, Isabella was weeping silently. They waited for what seemed like hours, though it was only a few minutes. Finlay, holding his dagger in his right hand, motioned to Isabella to get behind the woodpile, positioning himself behind the door, ready to pounce, but more minutes passed, followed by the sound of the carriage being manoeuvred around in the narrow street.

He crept out, watching as the strangers drove back down through the village. Only when the carriage turned out onto the track heading west did the villagers start to emerge from their cottages. ‘Wait here,’ Finlay said.

The table in Estebe’s cottage was overturned. Estebe lay on the floor, his splinted leg splayed at a very odd angle. A noise in the doorway alerted Finlay. ‘Isabella, don’t come any closer,’ he said, grabbing the tablecloth, but it was too late. Isabella looked at the place where the wine manager’s skull should be and screamed. It was a long, piercing, anguished scream that seemed to echo round the narrow village streets for an eternity.

* * *

Isabella sat slumped in her bedchamber, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the fire. She could not stop shaking. Again and again, she replayed the horrific scene in her mind, trying desperately to come up with a scenario in which she could have altered the outcome, trying equally desperately to assure herself there was nothing she could have done.

When the Madrileños had gone, her screams had given way to numb horror, leaving Finlay to deal with the situation. He had taken charge with an authority that was obeyed without question by the villagers. The version of events he presented them with had Estebe shot by the Madrileños as he’d attempted to escape captivity. Thanks to Finlay, Estebe’s body now lay in the village church.