France. Ireland. America.’
‘You are so lucky, I have never been out of Spain.’
‘I’m not sure that you see the best of a country when you go there to fight.’
‘No, but—tell me please. Describe what America is like. Is it the wild, untamed wilderness that I have heard tell of?’
‘Once you leave the east coast, yes. And vast. A man could lose himself there.’
‘Or find himself?’
* * *
Finlay was still musing on that thought when Isabella wriggled around under the blanket to look up at him. He tensed, willing his body not to respond to the supple curves of her. Her hair tickled his chin. He was inordinately grateful for the thick layers of clothing between them, and tried discreetly to shift his thigh away from hers. Concentrating his mind on answering her questions, he found she drew him out, that his desire, while it remained a constant background tingle, was subdued by his interest in her, by hers in him.
Eventually, as the moon sank and true darkness fell, they grew silent. He thought she slept, though he could not be sure. He thought he remained awake, though he could not be certain of that, either. They moved neither closer nor farther apart, and that, Finlay told himself, was as it should be.
* * *
In the morning he was glad of it. She stirred before sunrise, and he lay with his eyes closed, affording her some privacy. Only when she stood over him did he pretend to wake, getting to his feet, trying not to notice the way the water she had splashed on her face had dampened her hair, making a long tress of it cling to her cheek.
‘You will find your way back to your own lines?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘It’ll be easier in daylight, provided I keep a weather eye out for French patrols.’
‘I will send word when we have—when it is done, I promise.’
‘I believe you.’
He took the hand she offered him. In the dawn light, her eyes seemed more golden than brown. He wanted to kiss that nervously smiling mouth of hers. He wanted, quite fervently, to have her body pressed against his, her arms around his neck. He took a step towards her. For a moment he felt it, the tug of desire between them, that unmistakable feeling, like the twisting of a very sharp knife in his guts. It was because he wanted to kiss her so much that he stopped himself, bent over her hand, clicking his heels together, then let her go. ‘Adiós, Isabella. Good luck. Please be careful. Stay safe.’
‘Goodbye, Finlay. May God protect you and keep you from harm.’
She turned and slowly walked away, following the path of the stream as it meandered along the floor of the valley. Finlay watched her until she disappeared from sight behind a large outcrop of rock. Then he picked up his saddle, and within a few moments, just as the sun streaked the sky with pink-and-orange fingers, he, too, was on his way, heading in the opposite direction.
England—autumn 1815
‘So, Jack, are you going to spill the beans on why you had me hotfoot it down here? I’m intrigued. But then knowing you, you old fox, that was precisely your intention when you composed the enigmatic message I received.’
They were strolling in the grounds of Jack’s brother’s home, Trestain Manor, where he was currently residing, Finlay having arrived post-haste in answer to an urgent summons. Now he eyed his friend grimly. ‘You’re looking a bit rough around the edges, if you don’t mind my saying so. Is this anything to do with the information I dug up for you regarding your wee painter lassie?’
‘Her name is Celeste, and she is not, as I told you in London, my wee painter lassie,’ Jack snapped. ‘Sorry. I’m just— What you told me helped me a lot, and I’m hoping to solve the rest of the puzzle now that I have permission from Wellington to delve into those secret files.’
‘But things concerning the lassie herself don’t look so hopeful?’ Finlay asked carefully.
Jack shrugged. ‘Let’s just say I’m advancing on some fronts but have sustained some collateral damage on others.’ The words were light-hearted but the tone of his friend’s voice told Finlay the subject was not open for further discussion. ‘The reason I asked you here is nothing to do with that, although indirectly it brought it about.’
Finlay rolled his eyes. ‘Would you get to the point and stop talking in code, man!’
Jack smiled faintly. ‘A habit that’s difficult to break. It’s a delicate matter, though, Finlay, and obviously everything I tell you is in the strictest confidence. I don’t mean to insult your utter trustworthiness, but Wellington made me promise...’
‘Wellington!’
‘When I accosted him at that dinner I attended on your behalf with my little problem of those secret files, he told me about a little problem of his own.’ Jack’s expression darkened. ‘Save that it’s not only the duke’s problem, Finlay. I see it as very much mine. When we were in Spain, do you recall talk of a partisan commander called El Fantasma?’
‘The Ghost! I’d have had to be deaf and dumb not to. He was a legend in the north during the Peninsular Campaign.’
‘Yes, he was. The partisans in that area were incredibly effective in targeting the French supply lines thanks to him, and in intercepting mail. He was one of my most reliable and effective spies. The information he provided saved a great many lives.’ Jack plucked a long piece of grass, and began to twine it around his finger. ‘The thing is, Finlay, this El Fantasma knows some pretty compromising stuff, politically, that is. Some of the things that were done in the name of war—they wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny in the press.’
‘Jack, none of the reality of war would sit well with the peacetime press.’
‘You’re right about that. To be honest, I think it would be a good thing if some of it did come into the public domain. Since Waterloo, no one wants to know about the suffering of those who fought, the pittance they have to live on, the fact that the army has cast them aside, having no further need for them.’ Jack broke off, fists clenched. ‘Sorry, I know I’m preaching to the converted in you, and I’ve strayed from the point again. The problem, as far as the duke is concerned, is that, were El Fantasma to fall into the wrong hands, it could be extremely embarrassing, not to say damaging to his political career.’
‘The wrong hands being...?’
‘The Spanish government. Since Ferdinand was restored to the throne, the ruling elite has been cracking down on the former partisans and guerrillas who continue to speak out against them. Many of the more vocal liberals, the ones with influence, have been exiled, a significant number of them executed. El Fantasma, however, is still a thorn in their side. Rather more than a thorn, actually. You know that the freedom of the press in Spain is one of the many liberties that’s been curtailed? Here, take a look at this.’
Jack handed Finlay what looked like a political pamphlet. It was written in a mixture of Spanish and Basque, from what he could determine, and the printed signature at the end was quite clearly
