‘What are you thinking about?’ Isabella asked.

‘What do you think?’

She chuckled. ‘I think that we are not going to be doing much sleeping in that big comfortable bed.’

‘You’re not tired, then?’

She shook her head. ‘I have the rest of my life to catch up on my sleep.’ Her smile wobbled, and his heart lurched in response, but before he could say anything, she had recovered, and took a reviving sip of wine. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘that your scars, they are like a chart of all the places you have been, all the battles you have fought.’

‘My body is like a campaign map, right enough,’ Finlay said, twirling his half-empty glass around on the table. ‘I’m thinking that I’ve scarcely room for any more entries, nor desire for them.’

Isabella reached for his hand and gently moved the glass away. ‘Today, at the site of that terrible battle, and seeing Señor Gebara, too, has brought back horrible memories, things you do not want to think about. I am so sorry.’

Finlay shook his head firmly. ‘I’m not.’ He stretched his legs out, and pushed his plate aside. ‘It’s how we keep going, when we’re at war—not thinking about it. It’s a habit they teach you in the army, not thinking about it, for if you do, you’d not survive. Or you’d run. Or worse.’ He glanced over at Isabella. ‘Some men can’t live with the memories, you know.’

She paled. ‘I did not know. Finlay, I...’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve no intentions of doing anything daft. Quite the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I told you, it was a good thing, seeing that place again. And seeing Alesander. It’s given me pause for thought.’ He twined his fingers in hers. ‘You’ve made me question things. Right from the first moment we met, to be honest, you’ve forced me to confront a lot of unpalatable truths.’

‘Me?’

He smiled at her incredulous tone. ‘Aye, you. You’ve a habit of asking the kind of awkward questions that I prefer to avoid. Such as what I’ll do now that Wellington has brought us a peace that seems like to last.’

‘There will always be other wars to fight, Finlay.’

‘There will,’ he said sadly. ‘Indeed, there will, but I’m done with fighting other people’s battles. If this battered body of mine has to be inflicted with any more scars, I’d like them to be of my own devising.’

‘What does that mean?’

He frowned, shaking his head. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, lass. Despite my nickname, I’ve never really been an upstart, never been anything but unswervingly loyal to my country and my so-called superior officers, but where has it got me? And then there’s you. Look at you. Look what a love of your country has made of you. An exile. A traitor.’

‘Our cases are not the same.’

‘They are more similar than I’d have thought when first I came here. Like you, I’m done with soldiering.’

Across from him, Isabella looked shocked, though when she made to speak, Finlay shook his head. ‘I mean it,’ he said, and found with surprise that he did. ‘I’ve never in my life thought to be anything but a soldier, but now I’m done with it, and what’s more, I’m looking forward to telling Wellington so.’

‘What will he say?’

The question gave him pause, for despite his opinion of the man, as a soldier, Finlay had never had anything other than respect for the duke, and—if he was being really honest, which he might as well be now—no little awe. Not that he’d have to actually face the duke if he resigned. But would he feel he’d truly resigned unless he did? Wasn’t it his duty, and didn’t he always do his duty? He’d not be letting himself down at the last, that was for sure. Finlay shook his head again. ‘I don’t know what he’ll say, though I’ll find out soon enough.’

‘So you will confront him, then,’ Isabella said, with that uncanny ability to read his mind. ‘Even though you do not need to?’

‘As you said, I’m not a man to run away.’ Finlay got to his feet and began to stack the dishes onto a tray.

‘No. You are a man who does his duty. Even when he does not wish to.’

Thinking of tomorrow, he thought she’d never said a truer word. He did not want to think about tomorrow. Finlay set the tray outside the door. ‘Talking of wishes,’ he said, turning the key in the lock, ‘I’ve a few you could help me with, if you’re so inclined.’

He was relieved to see the shadow of melancholy leave her eyes, the sensuous tilt return to her lips. ‘Your wish is my command,’ she said, giving him a mocking little salute.

Finlay picked her up, setting her gently down on the bed. She stretched her arms over her head, stretching the hem of his shirt she wore up to the top of her thighs. He could see the shadow of her nipples, dark through the white cotton. Her hair was spread out like silk on the pillows.

‘I await your orders,’ she said.

Finlay pulled his shirt over his head and hurriedly stepped out of his breeches. ‘Then, lie back,’ he said, kneeling between her legs, ‘close your eyes and surrender.’

* * *

The following morning Señor Gebara brought their breakfast personally, tapping softly on the door just before daybreak. Finlay set the tray down on the table by the window and returned to the bed, pulling Isabella back into his arms. ‘The horses will be ready in half an hour. Alesander has provided us with some supplies, enough to get us to the coast, he says. We’ll be two, maybe three days, on the road.’

‘Then, we should make haste,’ Isabella said, making no move.

‘Aye.’

Finlay pulled her tighter. They had lain like this all night, in the sleepy intervals between their passionate lovemaking. Time had seemed suspended; the hours had stretched, seemingly endlessly ahead, until now. Now, as he ran his palm over her flank, as he nestled his chin into her hair, as she pressed herself closer, close enough for their hearts to beat against each other, time began to gallop out of control.

A few more minutes, Isabella thought. She just needed a few more minutes, and then she would be ready. She wrapped her arms tighter around Finlay’s waist. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat. She felt the stirrings of his arousal and pressed tighter. His erection hardened. She wriggled. She felt his sharp intake of breath. And then his resolute shifting.

‘Isabella...’

She leaped from the bed, tearing herself away from him, because the alternative was to cry and to cling, and she would not do that to him. She had promised she would not let him, or herself, down. ‘Is that fresh coffee? Would you like some?’

She began to dress. The very thoughtful Señor Gebara had had her undergarments laundered, her habit and boots brushed clean of the dust of the road. She was aware of Finlay watching her as she snatched at clothes and pulled them on, pouring coffee, wittering on about the fresh bread, the salty cheese, the smoky ham, as if she cared about anything other than the fact that every minute, every second, took them inexorably towards their separate fates.

She sat at the table and managed to force down her breakfast without choking. Her smile was manic, she knew that even without the look Finlay gave her, but he said nothing, eating his own breakfast steadily, taking a second cup of coffee, a faint frown furrowing his brow. She had no idea what he was thinking. He had that locked-away look, already putting a distance between them as he shaved. She knew he cared for her—how could she not, after the intensity and raw emotion of their coupling? She suspected he cared more than he would ever allow her to know. But she knew, too, with absolute certainty, that he would not allow himself to care enough, and she knew with equal certainty that she would never wish him to. She was not worth the sacrifice, and he would be sacrificing everything. His family. His career—even if he no longer wanted it. More important, his honour, and Finlay was a man who must always be honourable. A man who would always do his duty. As he was doing now.

As she must do hers. Last night was their goodbye. She had vowed she would make it as easy, as painless, as guilt-free as possible for him. He was not detached; he was not indifferent. He was trying to make it easy for her. Isabella pushed her coffee cup aside and got to her feet. ‘Time to go,’ she said, straightening her shoulders, head back, like the trooper he expected. ‘Time to face the future.’

* * *

Finlay stuck to the bargain he’d made with himself for the three days and two nights it took them to reach San Sebastian. He played the soldier, as he had always played the soldier, thinking only of executing his orders as best he could, of protecting and defending Isabella’s liberty, wary at every second of potential ambush, dragging his mind back again and again to the task in hand whenever it strayed into dangerous territory. He would not think of their impending parting. He would not allow his heart to ache. He would not wish for anything other than Isabella’s safe delivery to the waiting fishing boat, and then his own execution of the final elements of Jack’s plan, which would ensure her future safety.

They stood on the final crest above the fortress town of San Sebastian, the scene of the last battle he’d fought in Spain before heading for the Pyrenees in pursuit of the retreating French army. Below, the bay was fringed by a perfect, beautiful crescent of golden sand. A small islet was set like a jewel in the middle of the bay, breaking up the softly rolling waves. It reminded him of Oban bay, in some respects. The distinctively shaped Basque fishing boats, their hulls, to his Highland eyes, so vertiginous and bulky that he found it difficult to believe, looking at them bobbing in the protective embrace of the harbour wall, that they wouldn’t simply topple over in the lightest of swells. Isabella was bound for one of those boats. Isabella was bound for that sea, in the directly opposite direction he would take.