Pamplona and then north was the obvious and quickest route to the coast and the ship that would take her across the ocean, but Finlay insisted that was too risky, since any pursuers would know that and follow suit. No, better to take a more circuitous route. It might be slower but it would significantly improve their chances of avoiding capture. Isabella did not question him. In truth she did not care where they went. When he opted to follow one of the old pilgrim routes that lead to Santiago de Compostela, she did as he bid her. She had never been to the city. She wished fervently that it truly was their destination. She did not want to think about the country where she was to make a new life. Fear froze her imagination whenever she tried.

She barely spoke as they travelled. She had not cried, not since Estebe—no, she would not think of that. She did not deserve the release of tears. She did not deserve Finlay’s sympathy, the comfort of his strong, reassuring embrace. Not that he offered it. The man who rode beside her was unquestionably a soldier. No trace in that steely expression of the sensual Highlander who had charmed her. This man had a duty to perform, and he was clearly set on executing it. Well, she, too, had a duty, to the memory of Estebe. He had died to protect her. She would not allow his sacrifice to have been in vain, so she could do nothing save put as much distance between herself and her family as possible, in order to protect them. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done save do as Finlay bade her without question: eat what was put in front of her, lie down and close her eyes in whatever shack or shepherd’s hut he found each night, feign sleep until he roused her at dawn, continue on in the saddle each morning without complaint. An obedient and uncomplaining trooper, that was what he required, and so that was what she would be.

They were following the River Aragon today, and reached the outskirts of the little town of Sanguesa in the late afternoon. One of the many overnight refuges for weary pilgrims that dotted the Camino Way, the jumble of whitewashed houses was perched on the hillside looking, from a distance, like a set of steps leading up to the magnificent Romanesque church of Santa Maria la Real. Finlay reined his horse in, casting an anxious look at the sky, which looked as if it augured rain.

‘I’m sorry, lass, but we can’t risk staying in town,’ he said regretfully, ‘much as a proper meal and a comfy bed for the night would be a welcome treat.’

‘No matter,’ Isabella replied, casting an uninterested gaze at the town. ‘If we follow the river, we can take shelter in the next valley.’

* * *

She had become so accustomed to spending long periods lying wide awake, alternated with fevered nightmares of trying to escape endless dark tunnels, that it was a surprise when Isabella struggled to open her eyes. She was lying on the wooden shelf that served for a bed in a ramshackle shepherd’s hut. She could remember arriving here, remember Finlay lighting a fire, forcing herself to eat, forcing herself to lie down and close her eyes, waiting for the darkness and the guilt and remorse to envelop her. Instead, it had been as if all the bones had been removed from her body. She had slept dreamlessly. And now she felt—different.

She was warm, surprisingly comfortable. The blanket covering her smelled faintly of horse. She turned onto her side. The door of the shelter was ajar, giving her a glimpse of the grey, predawn sky and Finlay a few yards distant, sitting by the horses, on guard as he had been every night. Did he ever sleep? For the first time, she wondered what it was he was watching out for, who it was he expected.

The dull stupor that had enveloped her since leaving Hermoso Romero had gone, and so, too, had the heavy pall of grief and regret, leaving her mind clear. Isabella counted the days since their flight, and was surprised to discover that this must be the fifth. Almost a week since Estebe died, since she left her home and her family, who were more dear to her than she had realised. But they would be better off without her. Consuela could have her sister come to live with her. Xavier would most likely mourn the loss of his winery manager more than his sister.

Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘Be honest,’ she told herself. ‘Xavier will be so shocked at what he reads in that letter you left, he will be thankful you did not wait to say goodbye. “Finally,” he will say to himself, “now I understand why my sister was such an unnatural woman. Gabriel has had a lucky escape.”’ Which was very true, though she doubted very much that Xavier would go so far as to inform his friend of the exact nature of his good fortune.

Isabella sat up abruptly. She had been quite distraught when she had written the letter admitting to being El Fantasma, intent only on sparing her family by accepting sole responsibility. But what, exactly, had she imagined Xavier would do with such a confession? Show it to the government officials when they came calling, as they inevitably would? Why should they believe him? What credence would such a confession truly have, when Xavier was a much more likely candidate to be El Fantasma than his demure little sister?

The letter had made no mention of the printing press. The pamphlets she and Finlay had shredded, El Fantasma’s last words, had been forced down the well, the pulpy mess anointed with ink and scattered with metal lettering. As she had pulled the wine rack over the concealed door for the last time, Isabella had wondered if any curious soul would ever discover it. Her nephew, perhaps? A few weeks ago, she would have smiled at the idea of passing on El Fantasma’s legacy to an as-yet unborn niece. Now the notion filled her with horror.

The Madrileños would demand proof from Xavier, and when he had none to give them—what would they do to him? Remembering Estebe’s determination not to fall into the men’s clutches, Isabella shuddered. Consuela might tell them about the printing press, but would that not rather condemn rather than acquit him? Isabella clutched at her head. She had been so proud of the fact that no one would ever believe El Fantasma was a woman. Now—Madre di Dios, what a fool she was! No one would believe her confession. Pride truly did come before a fall.

* * *

‘Finlay!’

The panic in Isabella’s voice was unmistakable. He ran to the bothy just as she jumped out of the makeshift bed and grabbed him by the arm. ‘What is it?’

‘I have to go back. Xavier—they’ll never believe him. I have to go back.’

She was dressed only in her underwear. Her hair was tumbling down her back, free from the long plait she usually wore. Her face, which had been so pale and set for days, was now flushed, her eyes bright. Thank the stars she was back to something like herself. He caught her hands between his. ‘Wheesht, now, you know that’s not possible.’

‘I have to,’ she said urgently. ‘They will come for him, and even with the letter— Finlay, they won’t believe him. They’ll take him away. I can’t let them take him away. I can’t let them— We have to go back, Finlay.’

‘We can’t. There’s no going back. I’m sorry.’

‘But...’

‘No, Isabella. Listen to me now,’ he said, before she could speak again. ‘You’re in the right of it. That confession of yours won’t protect your brother. It’s an unlikely story, I’d be the first to admit, that the great El Fantasma is a mere woman. Indeed, I’d have had a great difficulty believing it myself, had I not become acquainted with you in that ditch beside an arms cache during the war.’

He had meant her to smile. Instead, she frowned deeply. ‘No one will believe it. If only I had been Xavier’s brother, and not his sister, things would have been so very different.’

‘Aye, well, I’m not denying that would have made things a mite easier,’ Finlay said, unable to suppress his smile, ‘but a lot less interesting. I wouldn’t have missed meeting you again for the world.’

‘I have been a great deal of trouble to you. You told me not to go to Estebe, and...’

‘Isabella, you did only what I’d have done myself, in your shoes.’

‘You’re not angry with me?’

‘If I’m angry at anyone it’s with myself for faffing about, for not getting you out of there sooner.’

‘I made it very difficult for you. I was so stubborn, and I didn’t listen, and I thought I knew best, and—Finlay, what will he do? Xavier, I mean. When they come for him, how will he save himself if they do not believe him?’

He had stupidly hoped she would not ask him this question. No doubt about it, the shock had worn off, and her mind was as sharp as ever. He could lie to her, but she’d work it out for herself soon enough, and besides, he would not lie to her. ‘Sit down,’ Finlay said, steering her onto the bench and taking a seat beside her.

She did as he bid her, but without the docile obedience of the past few days. ‘What is it? What do you know?’

‘I don’t know anything for sure.’

‘You think they will discount my confession, don’t you?’

‘I do, I’m afraid.’

‘So they will arrest Xavier? Finlay, I can’t allow that.’

‘Haud your wheesht a minute. The authorities have been meticulous and thorough in their pursuit of El Fantasma, Isabella, we know that. They might struggle to believe that a wee lassie could be El Fantasma, but they couldn’t dismiss it out of hand. They’d be obliged to check it out—to eliminate the possibility. They are not the type to leave any stone unturned.’

‘So they will be looking for me.’ Isabella paled. ‘And Xavier will— Do you think he will— What do you think he will do?’

‘You know your brother better than I do, Isabella. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Think about it,’ Finlay said with a heavy heart. ‘What is most important to him?’