‘I’ll never forget you, Isabella. I will never, ever be able to forget you.’

‘I can see how it might be difficult to forget a woman who put your life in mortal danger,’ she said lightly, in an effort to lighten the mood.

‘It’s not that I will remember. I have much more pleasant memories of our time together than that to keep me warm at night.’

Isabella felt herself blush slightly. His visage was no longer grim. His sea-blue eyes were no longer pained. She would have to be very careful not to make him fret for her. She did not want to be a source of worry. She had caused him enough worry. She would do her very best to be the bold, bright, brave partisan he thought her. She would not only comply with the future he had arranged for her, she would embrace it. ‘So I’m to sail for America,’ Isabella said. ‘Should we not then be heading north, for the coast?’

‘In good time. They will be searching for us there. It’s the obvious place to look.’

‘Which is why we’re heading west. For how much longer?’

‘It’s been nigh on a week and there’s been no sign of any pursuers. Another day and I think we will be safe enough.’ Finlay looked up at the sky, which had turned from blue to grey, with clouds like lumps of charcoal. ‘In fact, I see no reason why we should not sleep in a decent bed tonight, partake of a decent dinner.’

‘You think that’s wise?’

‘I reckon you deserve it.’ Finlay touched her cheek. ‘Not a word of complaint have I heard from you about living and sleeping rough for the past week. You’ve been a trooper.’

Isabella beamed. ‘That is the best compliment you could pay me, but I do not need a feather bed and a proper dinner if you think it is too risky.’

‘You shall have both. And a bath, too, in water that’s a wee bit warmer than melted ice. It’s the least I can do.’ He leaned into her. She thought he was going to kiss her, but his lips brushed her forehead, and then he let her go, turning toward the horses. ‘To Tafalla it is, then.’

* * *

The town was set on a wide cultivated plain, reached by traversing another ancient trail over the Valdorba Mountains. The warren of narrow medieval streets clustered with houses built from mellow honey-coloured stone rose steeply up towards a citadel. The more modern part of the town was built on the flatter land around the Cidacos River, and it was here that they had found lodgings at a small inn, hiring a private salon and two bedchambers. Finlay had made all the arrangements, under the name of Mr and Mrs Upstart, in his halting Spanish. ‘Just my little joke,’ he had told her with a grin.

Now clean, shaved and dressed in fresh linen, he waited for her in the small salon, gazing morosely into a glass of sherry that he had barely touched. With every passing day she was becoming more precious to him. And yet, with every passing day, the inevitability of losing her forever loomed larger. Their worlds had collided all too briefly, but soon, very soon, they would part forever. Isabella was destined for a brand-new world, and he to return to his old, familiar one, where his career and his family awaited. It made him heartsore to think of it, and pointlessly so. He would not think of it.

Instead, he would make the most of what little time he had in her company. He would make the most of tonight for this bonny, clever, brave lass, who deserved so much more than the hand that fate had dealt her, and who was facing the dangers and the fears of the great unknown with such fortitude it made him want to weep like a bairn.

Fresh from her bath, Isabella wore a pretty olive-green gown trimmed with bronze that made her skin seem golden. A woollen scarf in the same shades was draped around her shoulders. She had braided her hair around her head in a way that reminded Finlay of images of Greek goddesses, though there was nothing at all ethereal in her smile, nor in his reaction to it. ‘You look ravishing,’ he said.

She blushed endearingly. Such a bonny thing, and yet she had not a trace of vanity in her. Finlay took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You look very...’

‘Do not dare try to tell me I’m beautiful,’ he teased.

She laughed. ‘It’s an insult, I remember. May I be permitted to say that you look very dashing instead?’

He grinned, holding out his arm. ‘I’ll settle for that. Shall we go for a stroll before dinner?’

‘I would like that very much,’ Isabella said.

Braziers and lanterns were already being lit in the Plaza Mayor. It was time for the traditional evening paseo or promenade. They did not join in, Finlay being all too aware that his distinctive auburn hair might draw unwanted attention, so they watched from the shadows. Couples and families strolled, exchanging greetings, passing comment on the unseasonably mild weather, speculating on the possibility of rain. Women compared toilettes, children ran laughing round and round the square in excited clusters, while the smaller ones gurgled from their carriages or their mother’s arms. Young and old, well-heeled and down-at-heel alike, everyone congregated in the square in the early evening.

‘It’s a right social mix, isn’t it?’ Finlay marvelled. ‘In London, Hyde Park is where they promenade, but it’s more of a fashion parade for the toffs than anything, and you certainly wouldnae get the— I don’t know what it is here. There’s no sense of people sticking to their own kind.’

Isabella chuckled. ‘You have met my brother. There is plenty of that behaviour to be found in Spain, but not for the paseo. Do they have such a custom in Scotland?’

‘No, we have not the weather for it,’ Finlay replied. ‘I think I told you we have more than our fair share of rain. Mind you, when there’s a wedding, then you’ll get everyone out parading in their finery. That’s a sight to behold.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Well, now, I’m talking about a kirk wedding mind. The last one I attended was for my youngest sister Sheena—I missed all the others, but I was home on leave for that one. My mother was baking for days before it. My mother makes the best scones in Scotland. They are a sort of cake, though not sweet, like a soft biscuit, and you eat them hot from the griddle with butter or crowdie, which is cheese.’

‘What other foods do they eat at wedding feasts? What does the bride wear? And the groom, does he wear the plaid? Me, I like the plaid very much,’ Isabella said, her eyes dancing, ‘though not, I think, on a man with thin legs. Or fat legs.’

‘A lady should not comment on a gentleman’s legs,’ Finlay said with mock outrage.

‘Ah but since you have told me that I am dead, then I am no longer a lady and therefore free to state that I think that you have a fine pair of legs and look most becoming in your kilt,’ Isabella retorted with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

He smiled down at her. ‘Then, since I’m not and never have been a gentleman, I’ll take the liberty of reminding you that you have a very delightful derrière.’

Colour tinged her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. Her mouth was curved into the most tantalising, teasing smile. He spoke without thinking. ‘If we were not in the midst of half the population of Tafalla, I would kiss you.’

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but half the population of Tafalla have just spent the past hour kissing each other.’

‘I didn’t mean that sort of kiss.’

Isabella held his gaze. ‘I know you didn’t,’ she whispered.

His breath caught in his chest. He had the oddest sensation, as if he were falling head first from a cliff. She was teasing him. Flirting. But as he gazed down at her, his chest tightened, and he knew, clear as day, what it was he felt for her, and it bore no relation at all to what he’d felt for his other flirts.

He would not name it. If he did not give it a name, there was a chance, a tiny wee chance, that it would pass, because what point was there in him feeling...that, when he was about to pack the object of his—that thing, off to America?

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous. We should eat. What do you think of that place over there?’ Finlay said, steering a slightly bewildered Isabella towards a brightly lit tavern on the corner of the square.

* * *

By the time they had gone through the ceremony of being formally seated at a table in the commodore, the back room reserved for diners in the tavern, and consumed a complimentary glass of the local aperitif, the awkward moment had passed. The dining room was basic, the food simple but excellent. They ate hungrily, enjoying a range of dishes. Morcilla, a variety of spicy blood sausage that reminded Finlay very much of the black pudding to be found back home in Scotland, menestra de verduras, a mixture of local vegetables and salty ham, a braised quail with tiny pale-green beans cooked in tomato, simply grilled lamb chops served with potatoes and cabbage, and the famous pimientos de piquillo—red peppers preserved in oil and stuffed with salted cod. The wine, Isabella informed him, was not as good as her brother’s. Finlay, who had always been a moderate drinker, partook sparingly, but Isabella, like many Spanish women he had met, seemed to be able to consume quite a few glasses without it having any noticeable effect.

They chatted about the food, relishing the first proper meal in over a week. They speculated about their fellow diners. Then, when they had been served an extremely good roncal cheese, Isabella raised the subject of his sister’s wedding again. Accustomed as he was to having his origins mocked, Finlay automatically embarked on one of his usual, heavily embroidered tales.

‘I think you are making this up,’ Isabella interrupted halfway through the yarn.

‘Not at all. Well, maybe a bit, but not all of it.’