voice when he’d warned her about the French soldiers; it spoke of experiences he would rather forget. But then everyone involved in this struggle, including her, shared those.
Isabella gave herself a shake. ‘I believe you,’ she said, realising that Finlay was still waiting on an answer.
‘Good.’
His tone was curt, though he should be grateful for her trust. And she did trust him, which was extremely surprising and, little did he know it, very flattering. She glanced at him, as he sat, eyes closed, head thrown back, resting on his elbows. He did not look like the poor son of a farmer. He did not look like a peacock officer, either, and while he certainly didn’t have the hands of a gentleman, he had the manners of one. No, that was not fair. He had not treated her as a fragile flower with no mind. He had treated her with respect, and she liked that. He would be a popular officer, she was willing to bet, and those were few and far between, if her brother was to be believed. She tried to imagine her brother wearing that skirt—kilt. He would look like a girl, while this man—no, there was nothing at all feminine about this man.
‘Once again, lass, I’d give a lot to know what’s going on in that head of yours.’
Caught staring, Isabella looked hurriedly away. ‘I was thinking that you must be a very good soldier, to have become a major.’
Finlay laughed. ‘That is a matter of opinion. Being a good soldier and a good officer don’t necessarily go hand in hand. It’s taken me a great deal more time and effort than most to get to where I am. As you said yourself, Wellington is not at all keen on the idea of commoners rising through the ranks.’
‘In that, I think the Spanish and the English— British armies are the same,’ Isabella said. ‘Before the war, most of the officers were more concerned with the shine of their boots than the fact that some of their men had no boots at all. Things will be different when we have won our country back from the French.’
‘You speak with conviction. It is not over yet.’
‘No, but when it is...’
‘Oh, when it is we can but hope that the world will turn in a different direction,’ Finlay replied. ‘Maybe they’ll even allow women soldiers,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Though if you asked me to tell the truth, I’d say that right now, the army is no fit life for anyone, man or woman. We’ve been fighting too hard for too long, and all we want is for it to be over.’
‘That is all my people desire, too.’
‘Aye, you’re in the right of it. You must be desperate to see the back of all of us.’
‘If you mean that we want you to go home...’
‘To have your country back.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your life.’
‘Yes,’ Isabella said again, though with less certainty.
‘Provided that it doesn’t go back to exactly how it was before, eh?’ Finlay said, as if he had read her mind. ‘Now that you’ve had a wee—a small taste of freedom?’
‘Yes.’ Isabella smiled. ‘A wee taste of freedom,’ she repeated carefully. ‘And you, too, you will be able to go back to your father’s farm in Scotland, and see all your loved ones. You will like that?’
‘I will look forward to it,’ he said, after a moment, sounding, to her surprise, as hesitant as she had.
‘You do not wish to see your family?’
‘Oh, aye, only I don’t—ach, no point in talking about that. The war’s not over yet. Once we’ve kicked the French out of Spain, we’ll like as not have to chase them across France for a while. Which leads me back to that cache of arms.’ He sat up, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘Look, you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but these are unusual circumstances we find ourselves in. We can’t allow the French to turn those guns on either of us, and I can make sure that they don’t. Have I your assurance that the local rebel forces won’t interfere and queer the pitch?’
‘I don’t know what that means, but regardless, I think it would be much better to leave it in our hands,’ Isabella said firmly. ‘We will put the arms to good use, and—and it would be excellent for morale and quite a coup if we were successful.’
Finlay pressed his fingertips together, frowning down at his hands. ‘I’ll be frank with you. I would quite happily agree to what you suggest if I could only be sure that the mission would be successfully accomplished. You understand, much as I’d like to, I can’t just simply take your word for it.’
She bit back her instinctive retort, frowning now herself. ‘If I told you that the information I have gathered tonight would go direct to El Fantasma, would that be enough to convince you?’
‘You know El Fantasma?’
Isabella nodded.
Finlay looked unconvinced. ‘He is like his name, a ghost. Everyone has heard of him, nobody knows him.’
‘I do,’ she said firmly. ‘At least, I know how to get in touch with him.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I cannot. I can only give you my word.’ She spoke proudly, held his gaze without blinking and was rewarded, finally, with a small nod of affirmation.
‘You have three days to act. If I don’t receive word that you have been successful by then, I’ll send my own men in to finish the job.’
‘Thank you. You can be sure that word will be sent to you before the three days are up.’
He took the hand she held out, enveloping it in his own. ‘You don’t ask where to send word.’
With a smile of satisfaction, she told him exactly where his men were encamped. ‘One of our men will find you.’
‘I’m beginning to think they will.’ He still had her hand in hers, but instead of shaking it as she had seen Englishmen do, he once again bent his head and brushed her fingertips with his lips. ‘We have an agreement, then,’ he said.
Once again, the touch of his lips on her skin gave her shivers. Isabella snatched her hand away. ‘We have indeed,’ she said quickly.
She had what she wanted; she was free to leave. Reluctantly, she made to get to her feet, but the Scotsman’s hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Stay until it’s light, won’t you? It’s not safe for me to leave before then. Unlike you, I don’t know the terrain. Also, it’s been a while since I’ve had the company of a woman. It would be good to talk of something other than guns and field positions.’
‘You think I cannot?’
‘Why in the name of Hades are you so prickly? I’m not one of those men who think women have no mind of their own. If you met my mother, you’d know why.’ He turned to look at her, his gaze disconcertingly direct. ‘As to you women being the weaker sex—if ever I thought that, just seeing what the wives following the drum have to endure would change my mind. They have to be every bit as tough as their menfolk. Tougher, in some cases, when they have bairns with
