The Soldier's Rebel Lover by Kaye Marguerite

Author:Kaye, Marguerite [Kaye, Marguerite]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2015-10-12T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

As Finlay eased the chapel door closed behind him, the smoky scent of candle wax and the evocative, cloying aroma of incense caught him unawares, hurtling him back in time to the services he’d attended in his childhood with his mother and sisters. He closed his eyes, remembering the sense of defiance that had preceded each clandestine trip to the ramshackle longhouse that had served as their place of worship, for the Catholic religion was officially proscribed in Scotland. It shamed him now, thinking of all the years in the army when he had neglected his church, but it was crime enough to be the Jock Upstart. To proclaim himself a Catholic to boot—no, that would have been beyond the pale. His faith had never truly left him, but he’d kept it well hidden. It wasn’t something he was proud of, looking back on it.

This morning, awaking from a fitful sleep, anxious as to how this pivotal day in his mission might play out, he had been drawn to the silence and sanctuary of the little chapel in the grounds of the estate. Leaning against the door, he drank in the stillness of the space, the hushed serenity he recalled from his youth, and which he had always found notably absent in the ceremonial services in huge churches and cathedrals he’d attended on regimental duty over the years.

This little church, though plain and modest on the outside, was rather ornate and beautiful inside. The nave was tiled with marble and flanked with a number of pillars, painted in bold, bright colours with scenes from the Bible. The vaulted ceiling was dark blue, speckled with stars and bordered with gold. The walls were a paler blue, hung with ornately framed paintings that looked, to his unpractised eye, to be of the Italian Renaissance period. The pews were padded with rich, crimson velvet. The candlesticks on the altar were wrought from solid gold. Above it, the stained glass would speckle the floor with vivid colours later in the day when the sun streamed in. So much wealth and opulence, left quite unattended. Xavier Romero clearly considered his possessions inviolate. One must be very sure of one’s position in society to be so complacent. Looking around him, Finlay was forced to reconsider the man’s standing. If it was discovered that his sister was El Fantasma— No, the possibility did not bear countenancing.

He did not notice Isabella at first. She was kneeling in the tiny chapel dedicated to St Vincent of Saragossa, the patron saint of winemakers, Finlay guessed, judging from the symbolism of the paintings. Her head was bowed low. Her hair was covered in a mantilla. There was something so vulnerable about the fall of lace over her head, the slight curve of her shoulders as she prayed. Whether she was aware of him or not, Finlay decided not to disturb her, retreating into the nave to light a candle and to make his own request for divine guidance.

It was not that he lacked the resolution to act.

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