He wondered what this woman’s family thought of her wandering about the countryside armed to the teeth. Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps she was married to a rebel warrior herself. It struck him, as it had often recently, how very different it was for the Spanish who fought alongside them, or who fought as this woman did, in their own underground guerrilla groups. Finlay was a soldier, doing the job he’d been trained to do, had been doing, man and boy. His cause was whatever his country and his commanding officer decreed it to be, his enemy whomever they nominated his enemy to be, and for the past few years it had been the French. He loathed the barbarities they had been responsible for, but he equally loathed the atrocities his own side, drunk on bloodlust and wine, had committed in the aftermath of Ciudad Rodrigo. But he did not hate the French indiscriminately. He admired their soldiers—they were worthy adversaries—and he would be a fool to do anything other than respect Napoleon’s military genius.

Napoleon, however, had not invaded Finlay’s homeland. The French army were not living off Finlay’s family’s croft, eating their oats and butchering their cattle. This woman, still striding out tirelessly as they crested the hill, was fighting for her country, her family, her village. And he, Finlay, might not be the enemy, but his men were still laying waste to the countryside in battle, laying siege to their ancient fortress towns and eating their hard-earned grain, even if they were paying a fair price for it. No wonder she had taken up arms. He’d bet his own sisters would do the same.

‘What do you find amusing?’

They had come to a halt on the ridge. The copse where Finlay’s horse was tethered was in the valley, about a hundred feet below. He hadn’t realised he was smiling. ‘I was trying to imagine my mother’s reaction if she caught my sisters playing the soldier, as you are.’

The woman bristled. ‘This is no game. Our sovereignty, our very existence is at stake.’

‘I did not mean to trivialise the actions of you and your comrades, lass—señorita. In fact, I was thinking just then how much I admire what you are doing. And thinking my sisters would likely do the same, if our lands were invaded as yours have been.’

‘You have many sisters?’

Finlay laughed. ‘It feels like it at times, though there’s only three of them.’

‘And brothers?’

‘Just the one. What about you?’

‘Just the one,’ she said, with a twisted smile. ‘He is with our army, fighting alongside you English—British. I don’t know where he is exactly.’

‘You must worry about his safety.’

She shrugged. ‘Of course, though if he was close at hand I would not have the opportunity to be so—’ she indicated her tunic, her gun ‘—involved. And so it is perhaps for the best, since we can both fight for our country in our own way.’

‘Your family don’t object to your active participation?’

‘My mother is dead. My father is—he is sympathetic. He turns the closed eye, I think that is what you say?’

‘Blind eye. Your English is a lot better than my Spanish.’

Another shrug greeted this remark. ‘I have been fortunate in my education. Papa—my father—is not one of those men who thinks that girls should learn only to cook and sew. Unlike my brother. Without Papa’s support and encouragement I would not be here, and we would not have known about that cache of arms.’

‘So your partisan group do intend to do something about it?’

The question was out before he could stop it. The result, he could have predicted if he’d given himself a chance to think. She folded her arms and turned away. ‘As a soldier yourself, you cannot expect me to disclose sensitive military information like that to a complete stranger. I will accompany you to the copse down there, and then we must go our separate ways.’

Cursing under his breath in Gaelic, Finlay followed her, determined more than ever, now that he’d made it even harder for himself, to find a way of making her trust him. If he was to do so, he’d need to stop her leaving. Which meant abandoning his plans to be back at camp by dawn, bidding farewell to the prospect of anything more appetising than the hard biscuits he had in his knapsack. On the other hand, it was not as if a few hours in the company of such a bonny and intriguing lass would be any great hardship. Even if their situation was fraught with danger. Maybe precisely because their situation was fraught with danger.

* * *

Isabella watched the Scottish soldier stride over to his horse, which was tethered to a tree on a rope long enough to let the animal reach the stream burbling along the valley floor. She watched him as he quickly checked that the beast was content before hauling a large bundle that must be the saddle from where it had been concealed under a bush.

He was a big man, solid muscle and brawn, with a fine pair of powerful legs revealed by that shocking garment he wore, and a broad pair of shoulders evident under his red coat. She knew enough to tell that it was an officer’s coat, though she had no idea what rank. He did not have the haughty manners of a typical Spanish officer. There was none of their pompousness and vainglorious pride in his demeanour. Perhaps it was different in the English army? British—she must remember to call them British.

His hair was the colour of autumn leaves. It glinted in the moonlight, and the stubble on his face seemed tinged with flecks of gold. His eyes... She could not tell the colour of his eyes, but she could see well enough that his face was a very attractive one. Not exactly handsome, but nonetheless, the kind of face that would always draw a second look. And a third. The smile he gave her now, as he walked back towards her, was the kind of smile that would ensure its recipient smiled back. She bit down firmly on her own lip, and equally firmly ignored the stir of response in her belly.

‘Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Foot,’ he said. ‘I know it’s a bit late in the day for introductions, but there you are. I am delighted to meet you, señorita...?’

‘I—Isabella. You may call me Isabella.’

To her surprise he took her hand, bowing over it with a graceful flourish, brushing her fingertips with his lips. ‘Isabella. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said, as his smile darkened and took a decidedly wicked form.

‘Major Urk...Urk...’

‘Urquhart. It’s pronounced Urk-hart. It might be easier if you called me Finlay.’

‘Finlay,’ Isabella repeated slowly, smiling. ‘Yes, that is better. Well, Finlay, it has been very nice to meet you, but I must...’

‘Don’t go just yet.’

Truthfully, she did not want to, though truthfully, she did not want to admit that to herself. It was not the journey home that bothered her; she could do that blindfold. It was him. She ought—indeed, she had a duty—to discover what the British plans were with regard to the French arms dump. Reassured, she gave a little nod. ‘I will stay for a moment,’ Isabella conceded, ‘and rest a little.’

‘You don’t sound in the least as if you need a rest.’

‘I don’t,’ she said, instantly defensive, almost as instantly realising that she had contradicted herself. ‘But I would welcome some water. I am parched.’

‘Sit down. I’ll bring you some.’

‘I am perfectly able...’

‘I’m sure you are, but I have a cup in my knapsack—it’s a mite easier to use than your hands. Sit down there, I won’t be a minute.’

Though she was loath to do as he bid her, loath to be waited on as if she was a mere woman, Isabella sat. The water was cool and most welcome. She drank deeply, and consented to have more brought for the sake of placating the soldier, and for no other reason. ‘Gracias.’

‘De nada.’

He sat down beside her, leaning back against the tree trunk. His eyes, she could see now, were a startlingly deep blue under heavy brows, which were drawn together in a faint frown. Despite the fiery glints in his hair, his skin was neither fair nor burned by the sun, but tanned deep brown.

‘Well, now, Isabella, it seems to me that it would be daft for us both—my men and yours—to consider launching a sortie against this French arms dump, would it not? No point treading on each other’s toes unnecessarily.’

His accent was strange, lilting, soft, and some of the words he spoke she could not translate, but she understand him only too well. He was going about it more subtly this time, but he was still interested in one thing only from her: what were the partisans’ intentions with regard to the French arms cache? Fine and well, for that was also the only reason she was interested in him. The thought made Isabella smile, and her smile made the soldier look at her quizzically, an eyebrow raised, his own sensual mouth quirking up on one side.

‘I’d give a lot to know what is going on in that bonny head of yours, señorita. I mean,’ he said, when she looked confused, ‘I’d like to know what you are thinking.’

‘I wager you would, soldier, but I’m not going to tell you.’

‘Finlay. It’s Finlay.’

‘Finlay,’ she repeated.

‘Aye, that’s it, you have it. There’s not many use my name these days, apart from at home, that is. But it’s been nigh on seven years since I’ve been there.’

‘And where is home?’ Isabella asked.

‘A village in Argyll, not far from Oban. That’s in the Highlands of Scotland. My family live in a wee cottage not unlike the ones you see in the villages hereabouts, and they farm, too, just like the villagers here, though they grow oats not wheat, and it’s far too cold and wet for grapes, so there’s no wine. Mind you, my father makes a fine whisky. He has a boat, too, for the fishing.’

Isabella stared at him in surprise. ‘So your family are peasant stock? But you are an officer. I thought that all English officers were from grand English families. The Duke of Wellington, he is famous—’