Dear God. There was a sheen of tears in her eyes. She was so brave. He loved her so much. He should thank Jack and Wellington and the fates for throwing them together instead of cursing them for it. If he had not come here to Spain, he would never have known what love was. And if he had not come here to Spain, Isabella would have...

Finlay shuddered. She was safe. They would not get their hands on her, even if he had to die saving her. She was safe and she was getting the chance of a new life. Without him, but a life. He must remember that. He leaned over in the saddle to kiss her softly. ‘I will miss you, too, Isabella. You are a woman like no other. I am glad, and I am honoured, that I have had the chance to know you.’

So much less than he felt, but it was enough, it seemed. She blushed. ‘And I, too, Finlay. Glad and deeply honoured.’



Chapter Twelve

They descended from the heights of La Puebla down a steep zigzag path and into the valley below through which the Zadorra River flowed, the site of the bloody Battle of Vitoria. It was a peaceful place, nature having reclaimed the battlefield, leaving little trace of the countless lives lost and the oceans of blood spilled more than two years before. Peaceful now that was, but Isabella sensed a certain melancholy linger in the air. Perhaps she was being fanciful, but she gave an involuntary shudder as she took in the scene.

‘It is hard to believe that this particular engagement could have been so decisive,’ she said, making a sweeping gesture.

‘There were more than ten thousand casualties in total,’ Finlay said grimly. ‘Our army lost three and a half thousand men. Five hundred Spanish died. Can anything be worth so many lives, so much sacrifice?’

The British and their allies had been positioned on the western banks of the river, he had told her. Isabella stared at the rural scene, trying to imagine the serried ranks of soldiers numbering in the thousands, the field-gun placements firing salvo after merciless salvo, the sound of muskets, the acrid smell of gunpowder as it drifted across the battlefield in a thick pall of smoke. She could not, but Finlay, his eyes blank, staring off into the distance, clearly could. ‘They say it was a pivotal moment, the turning point in the war,’ Isabella offered.

‘Aye. That’s what they always say when the body count climbs that high.’

‘But in this case, surely it is true. Not long after the Battle of Vitoria was won, Napoleon’s army was in retreat. The occupation of Spain was over.’

‘And you were free to build a new world, eh? Remind me how is that working out again.’

The bitterness in Finlay’s voice took Isabella aback. The viciousness of his barb stung. ‘You think it would have been better if the French had won?’

‘I think it would have been better if we had not had to fight at all,’ he said. ‘The French left wagons full of the spoils of war behind as they fled, did you know that? Not just gold, but all sorts. Our men plundered it. They went mad. Discipline broke down entirely. There was no stopping them. Bloodlust, that’s what it was. I hope you never witnessed it, Isabella. War can make a man less than human. I saw it with my own eyes but it is only now, with the benefit of some perspective that I begin to see how distasteful the whole bloody enterprise is. An enterprise that I was proud to be part of.’

‘But you did not behave...’

‘No,’ he said tersely, ‘I did not. Wellington called them the scum of the earth in a dispatch. The common soldier, who had won his precious victory, who had followed orders that took him hundreds of miles from home, tramped hundreds of miles across this country of yours, starving at times, suffering illness at others, frozen to the marrow often enough. Their wives trailing in their wake, too, some with bairns, having to suffer the same privations. And Wellington rewards them by calling them the scum of the earth.’

‘Because they committed atrocities, Finlay.’

He looked at her bleakly. ‘What is war itself, Isabella, if not an atrocity, an affront to humanity?’

‘No. Don’t say that. Don’t talk like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you are a soldier, and fighting wars is what you do. You have spent your life saving the lives of others, forging peace, making the world a safer place, a better place. The wars you have fought have been just wars, Finlay. You are an honourable man, a brave man. You are Major Urquhart, the Jock Upstart. All your life, you have served your country, done your duty. You should be proud of that legacy.’

She finished in a rush, eyeing him anxiously. Every word she had spoken was true, but this rousing little speech had not the effect she intended. If anything, Finlay looked even more bleak. ‘In England, all anyone wants to talk about is the great victory of Waterloo. Children re-enact the battle with their little toy soldiers. If you tell a woman you were there, you’re guaranteed a grateful embrace. Wellington is toasted at every dinner party in London. Yet the men who won that battle for him, many of them are starving now. So many died or were wounded in all these wars we fought against the French, the country can’t afford to pay the pensions they’re entitled to. They’ll do anything to wriggle out of paying a widow, you know. They’ll tell a man it’s his own fault that he lost his legs, not the army’s. Jack was railing against the injustice of it when we discussed my mission here. I begin to see that he was absolutely right. You are not the only one, Isabella, whose hopes of a better future have been dashed.’

‘If Napoleon had not been defeated, the world would most likely be a worse place.’

He smiled at her wryly. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you? Spain was on the winning side, was it not? And by your own admission, your country has gone backwards and not forward.’

She took his hand in hers, though she doubted the small gesture afforded him a tithe of the comfort she longed to give him. ‘You cannot mean that you wish Wellington had been defeated.’

‘No, of course not. But I wonder, I am truly beginning to wonder, if I have it in me to fight any more wars on his behalf. Or anyone else’s. I am getting tired of taking orders. I’m thinking it might be time I took my life into my own hands.’

‘Come with me to America, then,’ she said, before she could catch the words.

He touched her cheek. ‘They’d execute me for desertion if they caught me, not to mention the shame it would bring to my family and the stain on my character. No, whatever I do, I have to go back.’

‘You are not a man to run away from anything, are you, Finlay?’

‘You know me very well. Indeed, I am not.’

‘I wasn’t being serious about you coming with me,’ Isabella said, who had actually never been more serious in her whole life. ‘The Duke of Wellington might very well be persuaded that El Fantasma has been killed, since it is what he fervently hopes to hear, but his Jock Upstart leads a charmed life. He would know it was a ruse if you did not return.’

‘Aye, like as not.’ Finlay tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m sorry. This morning I was a bear with a sore heid, and now I’m having a fit of the blue devils. You’ll be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Aye,’ she said, ‘like as not.’

He was forced to laugh. ‘I’m thinking, once we leave Vitoria, it will be a hard and dangerous push to the coast. The boat will be waiting on standby at San Sebastian. She’s a fishing boat. The captain is one of Jack’s connections. A fine sailor, he assures me. He’ll take you on to Lisbon, where you’ll pick up a cargo ship bound for the New World. I’m afraid I don’t know the detail—that has been left in the hands of the fisherman. You can trust him with your life, Jack says...’

‘Finlay, you need not worry about me. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Trust me.’

‘I do. I have every faith in you. But I wish...’

‘No.’ Isabella put her finger to his lips. ‘Wheesht, now,’ she said. ‘You have saved my life. You have given me the chance of another life. That is a priceless gift, Finlay. I promise you, I will make the most of it in return.’

‘I know you will.’

‘So let us have no more of it.’ She looked up at the lowering sky. ‘It’s going to rain. We should think about finding somewhere to camp for the night.’

‘We’ll not be camping rough. Tonight you’ll have the bath and the feather bed I promised you.’ He shook his head when she made to protest. ‘It’s the last chance you’ll get for quite some time. Like I said, the authorities are likely to be hot on our tail all the way to the coast.’

‘Then they are likely to be here, in Vitoria, Finlay.’

He smiled at her. ‘One advantage I have, of having been in this place before, is that I made a few trustworthy acquaintances, and one of them just happens to be an innkeeper. You shall have a hot bath and a comfortable bed, and you shall be quite safe.’

‘Will you share it with me?’

He raised a quizzical brow. ‘The bath?’

‘I meant the bed, but you are welcome to share both. More than welcome. Very much more. It will be our last chance. I would like...’

‘Yes.’ He caught her in a tight embrace. ‘Yes. I would like that. More than like that. Very much more.’

* * *

Alesander Gebara, proprietor of the Hosteria Vasca, greeted Finlay like a long-lost brother, and seemed not at all surprised when informed of the need for discretion. ‘They are looking for an Englishman, the soldiers. You,’ he said, poking Finlay playfully in the chest, ‘are Scottish. So when they come again tonight, I can say no, no, I have seen no English. But it will be best, I think, if I serve you dinner in the privacy of your chamber.’

The inn was ancient, a veritable warren of narrow corridors and rickety staircases, but it had a charm all of its own. The bedchamber Señor Gebara ushered them into was low ceilinged, the heavy, dark oak exposed beams ran at odd angles and a massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, while an imposing tester bed took up most of the floor space, leaving room only for a small table and two chairs set in the window embrasure, and a chest of drawers tucked into a corner.