The Soldier's Rebel Lover
A Hero… A Rebel… A Desire Worth Fighting For!When Major Finlay Urquhart was last on the battlefield he shared a sizzling moment with daring Isabella Romero. Two years later Finlay has one final duty to perform for his country – one that reunites him with this rebellious señorita!Except Isabella has her own mission – which means that no matter how much she craves Finlay’s touch she can never tell him the truth. But she’s underestimated Finlay’s determination to protect her, and soon she finds herself letting her guard down... one scorching kiss at a time!Comrades in Arms: war heroes, heartbreakers... husbands?
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COMRADES IN ARMS
War heroes, heartbreakers ⦠husbands?
The close friendship between Lieutenant Colonel Jack Trestain and Major Finlay Urquhart was forged in the heat of Waterlooâs battlefield.
Famed for their daring and courage, these are Wellingtonâs most elite soldiers, but now theyâre facing their biggest challenge yetâfalling in love!
If you enjoyed
The Soldierâs Dark Secret
youâll love
The Soldierâs Rebel Lover
the second instalment of this fabulously intense and dramatic duet from Marguerite Kaye!
âA poignant, sensual historical romance that kept me reading late into the night.â
âRomance Junkies on Rumours that Ruined a Lady
âKaye offers up another sexy romp ⦠with characters who stay with fans long after the last page.â
âRT Book Reviews on Unwed and Unrepentant
âEach novella is a passionate love story in its own right; each a testament that love can survive everythingâ even war.â
âRT Book Reviews on Never Forget Me
âDaring. Dangerous. Delightful. Kayeâs new Regency romance is a riveting and thrilling adventure.â
âRT Book Reviews on Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland. Featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs, she has published almost thirty books and novellas. When sheâs not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com.
Contents
Basque Country, SpainâJuly 1813
Major Finlay Urquhart of the Ninety-Second Regiment of Foot scanned the rough terrain through the eyepiece of his field telescope, his senses on full alert. âGot ye!â he whispered to himself with grim satisfaction.
The French arms dump was partially concealed, set in the lee of a nearby hillock. It was obviously a large cache and therefore a strategically important discovery, especially if it could be destroyed before Wellington began his siege of the nearby fortress at San Sebastian. There were no guards present that he could discern, but they could not be far away, and might return at any time. The French army was severely stretched in the aftermath of the Battle of Vitoria, where they had sustained heavy losses, but even against their presumably depleted defences, any planned assault on the arms cache would carry significant risk, since it was located some distance behind enemy lines.
As was he, Finlay reminded himself. The light was fading fast, and with it any chance of making it back to base tonight, for his journey would take him through some treacherous and hostile terrain. It would be much more prudent to hole up for the night under cover in the small, heavily wooded copse a couple of miles distant where heâd tethered his horse.
âAye, and Prudence is my middle name, right enough,â Finlay muttered to himself. Despite the perilous nature of his situation, he couldnât help grinning at his own joke. With any luck, he could be back in camp and feasting on a hot breakfast not long after sunrise.
He could not have said what it was that put him on his guard. A change in the quality of the silence, perhaps. Maybe the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. A sense, acute and undeniable, that he was not alone. Definitely. Finlayâs hand moved automatically to the holster that held his pistol, but the failing light, and fear of the sound it would make when he primed it, made him hesitate and reach instead for his dirk, the lethal Scottish dagger he carried in his belt.
His ears pricked, Finlay listened intently. A faint scrabbling was coming from the ditch on the other side of the rough track. A rat? No, it sounded like something much larger. He waited on high alert, crouched in his own ditch, and was rewarded by the faint outline of a manâs head peering cautiously out. No cap, but it could only be a French sentry, for who else would be concealed here, so close to the arms cache? He could wait it out and pray he was not discovered, but sixteen years in the army had taught Finlay the value of the pre-emptive strike. Taking the sgian-dubh, the other, shorter dagger he carried tucked into his hose, in his other hand, he launched himself at the enemy.
The Frenchman was in the act of aiming his pistol as Finlay threw himself at him, knocking his arm high and sending the gun spiralling harmlessly into the air. The man fought like a dervish despite his slight physique, but Finlay had experience and his own considerable brawn on his side. Within moments, he had the man subdued, wrists yanked painfully together behind his back, the glittering blade of the dirk only a hairâs breadth from the French soldierâs throat.
