The Soldier's Rebel Lover - Marguerite Kaye

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referred to it as the Peninsular Campaign. Señor Romero’s fellow British officers, two of whom Finlay had tracked down, had little to say of him other than that he seemed like a sound fellow, which Finlay took to mean that he was innocuous enough, and unlike the Jock Upstart, had the prerequisite amount of blue blood in his veins to fit in to the officers’ cadre.

      ‘We use oak barrels as they do in Bordeaux, but our grape varieties are very different. The main one is Tempranillo, as you will know, but...’

      Señor Romero said nothing about his estate workers, a subject that interested Finlay much more than grape varieties, given the real nature of his business here. There was a small hamlet about a mile away, a cluster of cottages and farmland, planted with what looked like olive groves. Was it possible that the woman he had so fleetingly encountered lived in one of those cottages? He seemed to remember she said her family had some land.

      Señor Romero was still pontificating. ‘Of course, the estate is quiet at the moment while we wait for the first fermentation, but you should have seen it in September and October,’ he said proudly, ‘a veritable hive of activity. Grape picking is seasonal work. Once the harvest is in we have a big fiesta, which goes on for days. If only you had timed your visit better—but there, it cannot be helped.’ His host pulled out a gold timepiece from his pocket and consulted it, a frown clouding his haughty visage. ‘I apologise, Mr Urker, I got quite carried away. We must leave the rest of our tour until tomorrow, when I will do my best to answer the many questions I am sure you must have. I hope you do not mind, but tonight I have taken the liberty of arranging a small gathering in your honour. A few friends, only the best families in the area, you understand. Some of them produce Rioja, too. They will try to tell you it is superior to mine.’ Señor Romero laughed gently. ‘They are misguided.’

      ‘I am sure that I will prefer your Rioja to anyone else’s,’ Finlay said.

      He would make certain he did, even though he suspected he’d taste not a blind bit of difference between them.

      * * *

      As he wallowed in the luxury of a deep bath situated behind a screen in a luxurious bedchamber with a view out over the vineyards, Finlay was in fact starting to feel a wee bit guilty for raising his host’s expectations, knowing that nothing would come of them. He hoped that two or three days at most would be sufficient for him to establish contact with the female partisan or to establish that she was not contactable, one way or another. The thought that she might be truly beyond any earthy communication was not one he wished to contemplate.

      A glance at the elaborate clock on the mantel informed him that he had no time for contemplating anything other than getting himself dressed. He had refused the offer of a valet, but the evening clothes that he had, thankfully, packed at the last moment, had been pressed and laid out on the bed for him. Finlay dressed quickly. A brief assessment in the mirror assured him that he was neat as a pin and that his unruly hair was behaving itself for once. He would pass muster.

      He gave his reflection a mocking bow and braced himself. Señor Romero had gone to a lot of trouble, but the idea of an evening spent making polite talk to the man’s family and blue-blooded friends filled Finlay with guilty dread.

      * * *

      ‘Ah, Mr Urkery, here you are. Welcome, welcome.’ Xavier Romero broke away from the small cluster of guests as Finlay entered the large vaulted room.

      The collection of friends and family was significantly larger than Finlay had anticipated. This gathering reminded him of the glittering balls he had attended in Wellington’s wake in Madrid. The scale of the room took his breath away. It was the full height of all three storeys of the building, with a vaulted ceiling, making it resemble the interior of a cathedral. The tall, arched windows were above head height and facing west, so that the fading evening sun cast golden rays over the assembled company of, Finlay reckoned, about a hundred if not more. The ladies’ gowns in vivid colours of silk were high waisted and low-cut with puff sleeves as was the fashion in England, though their heads were dressed with the traditional mantilla of lace held in place with jewelled combs. The gentlemen, in contrast, seemed to be as Finlay was, dressed in black with pristine white shirts and starched cravats.

      It was stifling in the room. Fans were fluttered, handkerchiefs used to mop brows. Jewels glinted; conversation buzzed. It was everything he hated. He had a very strong urge to turn tail and leave, but Xavier Romero was handing him a glass of sherry and telling him that he must before all else introduce his guest to his family.

      As they made their way around the room, Finlay was the centre of attention. Women peeped at him over the tops of their fans. The men stared at him openly. He was probably the only outsider present. A small orchestra was tuning up. The acoustics of the place were impressive. That pretty woman over there in the red dress was making it very clear she would not be averse to an invitation to dance. She had a mischievous look that appealed to him. He would ask his host to introduce them later.

      ‘Ah, at last. Allow me the honour of introducing you to my wife. Consuela, my dear, this is Mr Urkery, the wine merchant from England who is our guest of honour. I am afraid my wife speaks very little English.’

      ‘No matter, I speak some, admittedly very bad, Spanish,’ Finlay said, switching to that language as he made his bow. ‘Finlay Urquhart—that is Urk-hart—at your service, Señora Romero. It is an honour.’ The woman who gave him her hand was young and very beautiful, with night-black hair, soft, pretty features and a plump, voluptuous figure. ‘And a pleasure,’ Finlay said, smiling. ‘Your husband is a very lucky man, if I may be so bold as to say so.’

      Beside him, Xavier Romero managed to look both flattered and discomfited. ‘Mr Urkerty is going to introduce our Rioja to the English, my love,’ he said, edging closer to his wife. ‘I am pleased to say that he believes, as I do, that they should drink wine from the vineyards of their allies, not Bordeaux from the vineyards of their former enemies. It is long past time that they did so, do you not agree, Mr Urkyhart? They have been happy to import as much port as your Portuguese friends in Oporto can supply. Now you and I, we will make sure that Rioja, too, takes its rightful place in the cellars of England, no?’

      ‘The cellars of Scotland being too full of whisky, I suppose you’re thinking,’ Finlay said with an ironic little smile.

      Fortunately, Romero simply looked confused by this barb. ‘I must introduce you to—’ He broke off, frowning, and scanning the room. ‘You will excuse me for just a second while I fetch my sister. She has obviously forgotten that I specifically told her...’

      He spoke sharply, clearly irked by his sister’s non-compliance. Finlay had already taken a dislike to his host. Despite his attempt at obsequiousness, he had an air of entitlement that grated. Señor Xavier Romero considered himself as superior as his wine, his wife and sister mere chattels in his service. Finlay felt a twinge of sympathy for the tall woman about ten feet away whose shoulder Romero was gently prodding.

      She wore a white lace mantilla. From the back, it obscured her hair and shoulders completely. Her gown was white silk embroidered with green leaves and trimmed with gold thread. Her figure was slim rather than curvaceous. She turned around, the lace of her mantilla floating out from the jewelled comb that kept it in place, and Finlay, not a man often at a loss for words, felt his jaw drop as their eyes met.

      Dark chestnut hair. Almond-shaped, golden eyes. A full sensuous mouth. A beautiful face. A shockingly familiar face. Merciful heavens, but the person he had come on a wild goose chase to attempt to track down had, astonishingly, landed in his lap. The gods were indeed smiling on him.

      Finlay’s fleeting elation quickly faded as two thoughts struck him forcibly. First, she might very publicly blow his cover wide open. And second, she was clearly not who she had said she was. Extreme caution was required. Resisting the urge to storm across the room and cover her mouth with his hand before she could betray him, he forced himself to wait and watch.

      That she recognised him was beyond a doubt in those first seconds. The shock he felt was mirrored in her own expression. Her mouth opened; her eyes widened. For an appalling moment he thought she was going to cry out in horror, then she flicked open

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