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 her fan and hid behind it. Relief flooded him. She no more wanted him to acknowledge her than he wanted her to acknowledge him. He was safe. For the time being.
* * *
‘May I present my sister? Isabella, this is Mr Urkyhart.’
‘Urk-hart,’ Finlay corrected wearily. ‘Señorita Romero. It is a pleasure.’
‘Mr Urquhart.’ Isabella made her shaky curtsy. Her heart was pounding, her mouth quite dry. It was undoubtedly him. The English wine merchant bowing over her hand was the Scottish major she had encountered in a ditch more than two years ago. The man she had spent the night with. Dios mio, what was he doing here?
She gazed beseechingly at him. She had forgotten how very blue his eyes were. He was clean-shaven, his auburn hair brushed neatly back from his forehead. He was not wearing his kilt. If only she had mastered the Spanish art of communicating with her fan, she could beg him not to betray her secret partisan past. He had said nothing yet. She had to find a way of ensuring he kept silent about their previous encounter.
She slanted a glance at her brother. Xavier had made such a song and dance about this visit, seeing it as his chance to finally have his Rioja recognised as the great wine he believed it to be. Grudgingly—very grudgingly—Isabella admitted that her brother knew what he was talking about, but still, she had very much resented his command that they do all they could to make the man’s visit memorable. If Xavier only asked rather than ordered it might be different. When she was feeling generous, Isabella put his tendency to command rather than request down to his years in the army. But she, too, had given orders during the war, and she had not returned to play the dictator.
Her brother drew her one of his looks. ‘The first dance is about to start. I believe Gabriel wishes...’
Isabella threw the wine merchant another beseeching glance. Fortunately, he seemed to be able to read this look easily. ‘If you would do me the honour, Señorita Romero, I would very much like to dance with you.’
‘Gracias.’ In a daze, she took his arm, propelling him towards the dance floor before Xavier could protest or stake Gabriel’s prior claim.
‘This,’ the Scotsman said to her sotto voce as they joined the set, ‘is rather a turn up for the books. A very unexpected surprise, to put it mildly.’
The vague, ludicrous hope that he had not recognised her, or that he would ignore their previous meeting completely, fled. Isabella felt quite sick. The first chords of the dance were struck, forcing them to separate. She cast an anxious glance around her. They had spoken in whispers, but even if Xavier was not watching, that cold little mouse of his wife would be.
As the dance began, fortunately one that required only simple steps as they progressed up the line, she tried desperately to regain her equilibrium. The shock of seeing the Scottish soldier again, and in such incongruous circumstances, had fractured her usually immaculate composure. There was too much at stake. She had to pull herself together.
He was alive. In the shock of the meeting, this salient fact had escaped her. She had occasionally wondered what had become of him as the conflict in Spain had drawn to a close and the British and French had taken their battles into the Pyrenees. He had clearly survived that false end to the war. He must have left the army then and established himself in business. He had obviously done very well indeed for himself, though that was not really surprising. He had struck her as a very, very determined and resourceful man.
He had also struck her as a very attractive man. That had been no trick of the moonlight, and judging by the way every other woman in the room was slanting him glances, she was not the only one to think so. She was drawn to him just as she had been before, despite the fact that he could turn her world upside down. When he had brushed a kiss to her fingertips, the memory of his lips on her skin all that time ago had come rushing back with unexpected force. Isabella had no idea whether it was this, or the reality of his touch now, or the underlying terror of exposure that made her shiver. Whichever, it had taken her by surprise, for she had not thought of him in a long time.
He cut as fine a figure in his evening clothes as he had in his Scottish plaid. The tight breeches clung to his muscled legs; the coat made the most of his broad shoulders. She couldn’t help comparing him to Gabriel, the man whom Xavier was eager for her to marry. There was no doubt her brother’s friend was more handsome, but Gabriel’s was the kind of beauty that reminded Isabella of a work of art. She could admire it, she could see he was aesthetically pleasing, but there was none of the almost feral pull that she felt towards this mysterious Scotsman.
Finally, the dance brought them together. ‘May I compliment you on your toilette,’ he said with a devilish smile. ‘So very different from the outfit you wore the last time we met, though I must confess, your gown does not do justice as your trousers did to your delightful derrière.’
Colour flamed in her face. She ought to be outraged, but Isabella was briefly, shockingly inclined to laugh. ‘A gentleman does not remark on a lady’s derrière.’
‘I seem to recall telling you when last we met that I am not a gentleman, señorita. And now I come to think of it, I recall also that you took umbrage at being called a lady.’
She had forgotten what that particular smile of his did to her, and how very difficult it was to resist smiling back as the dance parted them once more. He was dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
‘I never got the chance to thank you,’ he said when they next crossed the set. ‘I’m told your guerrillas did a very thorough job.’
They circled, hands brushing lightly. ‘Of course we did,’ Isabella replied in a whisper. ‘Did you think I would not keep my word?’
He could not answer, for they were once again on opposite sides of the floor, but he shook his head and silently mouthed the word no.
The set moved up. They were separated by ten or twelve feet of dance floor, but she was aware of him watching her. She tried to keep her eyes demurely lowered, but could not resist glancing over at him every now and then. She was merely doing what every other woman in the room was doing. He was the only stranger at the ball, but it was not that that made the female guests flutter their lashes and their fans. Hadn’t she recognised that night they had met, that he was a man who would attract a second and a third glance? Here was the proof of it, and there, in that sensual smile and those sea-blue eyes, was the warning she ought to heed. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, Isabella repeated to herself.
She had to make sure he did not talk. She had to! This thought plummeted her back to earth. When next the dance brought them together she rushed into speech. ‘I must ask you to keep our previous acquaintance a secret.’ There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice, but this was not a time for subtlety. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘It is very important.’
‘Why is that?’
The music was coming to an end. Isabella’s heart was pounding. ‘I will explain, I promise you, but not here.’
She made her curtsy, and the Scotsman made his bow. ‘Where?’
‘Promise