Christian Seaton_ Duke of Danger(81)

‘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.’