The innkeeper set about a flurry of activity, summoning a chambermaid to air the bed and set the fire. Another maid was put in charge of the bathing arrangements while Señor Gebara himself brought refreshments from the taproom. ‘The finest Rioja in the region,’ he said, pouring a glass for each of them.

Isabella took a sip and smilingly informed her host that it was indeed the best she had ever tasted, but she could not help thinking of her brother as she did so. Xavier would be safe as long as the Spanish soldiers were searching for her, but when they were forced to admit defeat, what then? Would the influence her brother wielded really be sufficient to keep him safe from harm?

She would never know. The knowledge gave her a sickening jolt. She would never know. A mixture of panic and fear made her feel faint. She couldn’t do this. She had thought herself so strong; she had prided herself on her courage and her daring. What a fool she had been. She was absolutely terrified. She couldn’t do this. She simply couldn’t.

A warm hand slid around her waist, pulling her up against a strong, solid body. Finlay’s smile was warm, too, his sea-blue eyes reassuring. He believed in her. When she had told him how worried she was about letting him down, he’d said she could not. The mist of her panic began to recede. She wouldn’t let him down. She would never let him down. Isabella smiled back. Finlay settled her more firmly against him, and returned to his conversation with Señor Gebara.

Isabella listened, sipping at her wine, enjoying the comfort of Finlay’s physical proximity, gradually beginning to relax again. It took two maids to carry the enormous copper bath into the room, which they then placed behind screens in front of the now blazing fire. The room was becoming delightfully warm. Steam rose from behind the screens as bucket after bucket of hot water was poured into the bath. The two men were talking of Spain, the changes since the British army and the French had left. The innkeeper sounded very like Estebe. It was not only his accent but the repressed passion that underscored his words. She wondered if he had ever read any of El Fantasma’s pamphlets. But Señor Gebara was clearly a prosperous man, his business thriving. He had a wife and a child now, he’d told Finlay. Such a man would not risk all he’d built, would he?

He caught her staring, and smiled warmly at her. He had a very nice smile. He was not much older than Finlay. ‘Forgive me, señora, I have allowed my tongue to run away with itself, talking of the old days. So many times, I have wondered what became of the Jock Upstart. Not that I doubted he would survive, because—what is it you always said, Finlay?’

‘A man who is born to be hanged can never be drowned.’

Señor Gebara laughed. ‘That is it, that is it. I am very pleased indeed to see that you are still evading your fate. Those soldiers... If they knew they were chasing the Jock Upstart, they would give up and go back to Madrid. You need have no fear, señora. While you have this man to protect you, you are perfectly safe.’

‘Ach, you don’t know the señora here,’ Finlay said. ‘She’s more than capable of protecting herself.’

‘A fellow soldier.’ The innkeeper nodded. ‘I see now why she has your heart, my friend. I am very glad that you, too, have found a woman to share your life.’ He turned to Isabella. ‘I lost my betrothed in the war,’ he said sadly. ‘I thought I would never love again, but my Maria, she has shown me that the human spirit is a strong thing, the human heart even stronger. I hope you are as happy with this Jock Upstart, señora, as I am with my Maria.’

Isabella did not need Finlay to caution her. She was pleased to be able to maintain the innkeeper’s misapprehension, to speak the truth for once. ‘I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy,’ she said. ‘None.’

* * *

Alesander left with promises to serve them the best dinner the region could provide in an hour. It was good to see his old friend and ally so happy, but Finlay couldn’t help envying the man, too. Alesander had made a new life for himself. Who’d have thought that the wild, bold and fearless guerrilla fighter he’d known would be so content running an inn? Though the way he’d spoken, Finlay would not be surprised to hear that Alesander was still, in his own quiet way, fighting for a better life for his wife and child. Not so very different after all from the man he’d known? Perhaps.

‘I like your friend very much,’ Isabella said. She was standing at the window, her cheek on the pane. ‘Finlay, do you not think that he is in the right of it? The human spirit is a very strong thing. Your friend has made a new life for himself. I would like it so much—so very, very much, if I could believe you could, too.’

He joined her at the window. She clutched his hand tightly. There were tears sparkling on her long lashes. She looked up at him beseechingly. I can think of no other man capable of making me this happy, she had said to Alesander. She had said it to maintain their cover, he knew that, but her words had, to his pathetically desperate heart, seemed to carry an undertone of truth. She did care, though. Best not to think about how much; he was heartsore enough.

‘Finlay?’

She wanted an answer. She needed the reassurance of an answer. He tried, he tried bloody hard, but he could not imagine what kind of new life he’d forge for himself, and he would not lie to her. ‘Isabella,’ he said, kissing the tears from her lids, ‘we’ve only got tonight before we spend a lifetime apart. Let’s not think about anything else. Not tonight.’

Her lips were soft, sweet, shaped perfectly for his. He ached for her in a new way. The desire was just as fierce, but his need to cherish her, to meld himself to her, to be as one with her, was so much stronger. They would make love, but not yet. He wanted to spin out every single moment of time with her, to be everything to her as she was to him, just for tonight, because tonight was all they would have. He had to make it enough for the memory to last forever.

He had never shared anything so intimate as a bath before. They undressed each other slowly in the fading light, lit only by the glow of the fire, and Finlay discovered that he was wrong about the urgency, the need, the desire, as they touched and stroked, and kissed and licked. The pace was not only his to set. Isabella, his beautiful, feisty Isabella, had a passion to match his. When she pulled him down onto the rug by the fire, he was hers to command. Her mouth, her hands, her hips, captured him as no other had. When she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her inch by gut-wrenching, achingly delightful inch, he moaned her name, could not resist telling her, in his own language, how much he loved her. They found their rhythm quickly. She seemed to know him instinctively, when to rock on top of him slowly and when to buck and thrust urgently. She came with wild abandon, her climax making him lose control, his own so powerful that he managed, only just, to lift her safely from him at the last second.

* * *

She would shed her skin for this man. There was nothing she would not do for him. Lying in his arms, her heart thudding wildly, her body singing with pleasure, Isabella closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to his heartbeat and whispered her love. She had behaved without any inhibitions because, quite simply, she had none with Finlay. He knew her as no one else ever had. Or would.

Pushing this last mournful thought to one side, Isabella sat up. They would have tonight. She was going to make the most of it. ‘The bath,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You promised you would join me.’

‘It will be a tight fit,’ he said, smiling back.

It was his wicked smile. It seemed she was not, after all, completely sated. ‘I think you have already proved that to both our satisfaction,’ Isabella said with a wicked smile of her own.

He laughed then, getting to his feet, his muscles rippling, picking her up and holding her high against him, flesh to flesh, skin to skin, and stepped with her into the bath. He set her down carefully. They stood facing each other and kissed again. The water was still warm. After the icy streams they had washed in of late, it felt hot.

Finlay picked up a tin pitcher and poured water over her. Her skin, alight with his lovemaking, felt every trickle. Another pitcher full. Then the soap. The lather made his hands slippery. His fingers slid over her shoulders, down her arms, back up to her breasts. Her body thrummed with anticipation.

Isabella picked up the jug. There was a delicious ache in postponing pleasure. Water trickled down Finlay’s chest, clinging to the rough hair there. Another pitcher full of water. She took the soap from him and began to lather. Her fingers slipped and slid over his skin, finding the ridges of old scars. They were long healed. Some were just the faintest of shadows; others ran deeper.

‘Where did you get this one?’ she asked, and he told her. ‘And this one?’ she asked. ‘And this one?’ There were scars on his shoulders. On his belly. On his thighs. The long, vicious scar on his back was from Corunna, he said. She kissed each one. When her lips reached the base of that worst marking, he turned her round, taking her into his arms. Their bodies slid together, against each other, adhering to each other with the soapsuds, and she forgot about the scars and concentrated on kissing him. By the time they finally stepped from the tub, the water was cold.

* * *

Dinner was, as Alesander had promised, excellent. Hearty Basque cuisine, venison in a rich wine stew flavoured with the blood sausages that reminded Finlay of home. They ate at the little table by the window, watching the bustle on the street below, for it was the hour of the paseo. Isabella wore one of his shirts. Another first. They’d also managed a couple of other firsts in the bath there, he thought with a grin.