Alick chuckled at the mention of the duel. He could appreciate a woman who called out another. Shame the reason was so petty. The duel was fought over the state of a sandwich, not a country, nor honour. Did that simply confirm that the women involved had no real thoughts in their heads?
"Has the sight given you any guidance, Ianthe?" Aster asked of the other woman.
A trace of mage blood ran through Quinn's mate and gifted her with the second sight, although she struggled to make sense of the flashes it gave her.
A frown furrowed her brow. "I cannot direct it, but when I think of the days ahead, all I am shown is a cat fighting a wolf."
Alick huffed. "A wolf would make short work of a little cat."
She pressed her fingers to her temple, as if the act of retrieving the memory gave her a headache. "No. This is a big cat, more like a panther. It is an equal match for the wolf and they are locked in combat. Round and round they roll, looking more like an ouroboros with no end and no beginning."
Quinn passed his mate a glass of water and Ianthe said no more.
"Perhaps another type of unnatural creature? One who shifts into a large cat in the same way we can adopt wolf form," Ewan suggested.
They dropped the subject of trying to interpret Ianthe's vision and the rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity—at least on the part of the women and staff. Alick stayed out of everyone's way and took to the stables and the quiet rhythm of grooming the horses.
Given that just four men had originally ridden from Edinburgh to Woolwich, it was a far larger party that journeyed to Oxfordshire. Two of the men now had their mates in tow, which gave rise to the need for a carriage—or carriages, since Ianthe travelled with her own little household. Alick rode at the back and sniggered each time his cousin, Hamish, tended to some little need of his bride. While Alick treated his captain's mate with all due respect and admired her intellect, he vowed that he would never be at the beck and call of some woman.
By late afternoon they had reached their destination, an inn just two miles from the enormous estate of the Duke of Balcairn. In the bright light, the inn's courtyard bustled with people, horses, and vehicles. Hamish and Quinn handed down the women from the smart carriage, while grooms rushed to take the horses and bags. The men had saddlebags and the women had a number of chests between them. Ianthe's abigail, Sarah, oversaw the care of the luggage.
Aster leaned against Hamish, as though tired, and he drew an arm around her. He narrowed his eyes at Alick over the top of her head and gestured inside with a flick of his gaze. Alick then shared a curious look with Ewan and followed the group inside. Hamish caught him as they slipped into the cool interior.
"Aster spotted a familiar face in the yard," the captain murmured under his breath.
Alick stiffened, his body on alert, and his hand went to the blade at his back to check it was still there. Then he leaned against a post while rooms were taken. He scanned the room under lazy lids but he didn't miss a face. The other patrons appeared to be merchants and minor nobles, and he saw no sign of a lurking assassin amongst them. His curiosity itched but it would have to wait until the privacy of upstairs to be scratched.
With room keys in hand, they headed up the wide stairs. Three rooms were theirs for the next couple of nights, but they converged in one suite first. When they were all gathered, Alick shut the door and then lounged against it. Just in case. If the face Aster recognised tried to reach her, he would have to go through Alick first.
Hamish pulled out a chair for his wife and she sat down, then took off her bonnet and laid it on the table before speaking. Aster’s hands smoothed the ribbon, the only outward sign of her nervousness. "Out in the yard, I saw one of the men who took Sir John."
Hamish stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder, giving her strength. Silence fell for a long moment as they remembered Sir John Warrington. He had been both Aster's father and employer at the Records Office, until three men after a piece of paper had removed him from the office. Only Sir John's quick thinking and preplanning had saved Aster, but unfortunately the four Wolves were too late riding to the rescue. They had been unable to save Sir John.
"You are sure?" Ewan asked.
Her hands curled around the ribbon she had so carefully straightened. "Yes. I will never forget them."
"Interesting that one shows his face here, in the backyard of another traitor." Hamish had killed one of the three men in an altercation on a balcony, but he had vowed they would all pay for what they did. It was simply a matter of tracking them down.
Alick was relieved. Aster’s spotting the man meant there was a chance someone might get killed this week, and the prospect of a good fight always improved his mood.
"The question is, are they known to the Duke of Balcairn?" Ewan rubbed his smooth chin, as though contemplating a completely unnecessary shave.
"Another reason to be vigilant tonight." Hamish's hand tightened on Aster's shoulder. "Perhaps it’s better if you stay here, in case someone recognises you."
Aster huffed a breath. "A grand ball and you want me to stay hidden here? And who, pray tell, will ensure my safety while you are all dancing the night away? Surely I am safer at the ball with all of you around me?"
Ianthe laughed. "Aster has a point. And if she does not attend, who amongst us can recognise the man, given none of us have seen him? You cannot follow a trail without a scent."
Hamish sighed. Alick could see the argument well up in his chest and then he gave it up as futile. Alick chuckled to himself. Hamish and Quinn had both found themselves outspoken and strong-willed women. It caused him no end of amusement to watch the men trying to wrangle their heart's partners.
One woman with her mind made up was difficult enough; two would be completely immoveable. "Very well. But at least two of us stay with Aster at all times. And you." He tipped her head to meet her violet gaze. "Let us know the instant you see him. Once we have his scent, we will be able to follow him back to wherever they are hiding."
She arched an eyebrow. "Yes, my husband."
How did a woman manage to make words of submission sound like the complete opposite? Aster was a sensible woman; of course she would alert them if she spotted the traitor. Perhaps the subtle issue was in Hamish's command? He may as well have called the woman a lackwit, when she was smarter than all the men in the room bundled together.
Alick pondered the mysterious ways of women, and thanked his lucky stars he didn't have to contend with one, as they made their plans for the evening. Then they split off to their separate rooms. Alick grumbled about having to share with Ewan, but the lieutenant shook his head and simply enquired as to which one of them snored the loudest. He had a point, but it wasn't Alick's fault he was larger, stronger, and more muscled than the scrawny lieutenant.
The other rooms were taken by Hamish and Aster in one and Quinn and Ianthe in the other. Perkins and Sarah were given a smaller room out the back, used by staff. Then the women swapped with the men, saying they needed to prepare for the evening. Aster and Ianthe shut themselves in one room with Sarah. Perkins, Ianthe's manservant, was given the unenviable job of making Quinn presentable. Bodies were washed, faces shaved, hair slicked down, and uniforms made to look immaculate on all four men before Perkins finally stepped away from the door and let them out.
Four travelled in the curricle while Alick and Ewan rode behind on their horses. The men wore the full dress uniform of the Highland Wolves. The forest green jackets were brushed free of every tiny mote of dust or dirt. The only individual unhappy about the evening was Dougal, Aster's faithful Scottish terrier. The little dog was told to stay and he was not pleased about missing out and being shut in the room. If the big dogs were going, why couldn't he?
Footmen, wearing black livery with a delicate silver stripe, stood on guard in the sweeping driveway. They handed women down from carriages while grooms ran to take reins.
"Ready?" Hamish enquired as they walked under the enormous portico and through the
wide-flung double doors. Music came from within and they followed the steady stream of well-to-do people to the ballroom.
Alick surveyed the assembled nobles and pulled on his stiffened collar. He didn't fit here; there were too many people and the roof seemed far too low. Even though it soared to double height above, it still contained them. A roof was a roof, whether it was thatch and mere inches from your head, or gilded and painted and thirty feet away. He would far rather see the night sky and stars above him as he lay waiting for slumber to claim him.
He had never been raised as noble—he had barely been raised as civilised. Taking the lycanthrope's bite had been a relief, as it revealed what had always lurked in his blood. Now he much preferred to stay in his wolf form. People were scared of him anyway, and the wolf wasn't bothered by their rejection.
Ianthe flowed amongst those assembled and held court. The beautiful courtesan was hard to ignore. Curvaceous with milk-white skin and flaming red hair, she attracted bucks like bees to an exotic bloom. Alick watched them gather around her, while noble women hid behind their fans and bemoaned the situation.
"Does it not make you want to shift, rush over there and rip them apart for staring at her?" he asked Quinn. If he had a mate, impossible as that was to contemplate, it would make his blood boil to see other men drooling all over her.
The young man turned his humorous gaze to Alick. "No. They can adore her all evening, but I know who she is leaving with."
Alick shook his head. What did the courtesan see in the poor youth, who had neither title nor fortune? They were an odd couple, and yet they loved each other fiercely. Aster said that was the way with wolves. They knew their mates instinctively and it didn't follow a rational thought process. Did that mean the right woman was out there for each wolf, or would some still be destined to go through life alone?
He ran a hand down the left side of his face, and the scar ridge was thick under his fingertip. The blow could have cleaved his head in two. From his forehead it cut through his eyebrow, sliced down his cheek, and stopped at the corner of his mouth. The line had faded over time to silver, but it did nothing to improve his looks. Most women were repulsed by the scar and looked no further. Even his wolf form was cursed to bear the same long scar over its face and muzzle. He doubted there would be a woman anywhere in the world who would gaze at him with the same heated longing that Ianthe bestowed on Quinn. Lucky bastard.
A murmur ran through the crowd and whispers flew that the main entertainment was about to begin. The Duke of Balcairn, their current target, led his daughter to the centre of the room. She was an attractive lass. Not curvaceous like Ianthe, but lean and muscled, built like a legendary Highlander lass who wielded a sword next to her warrior mate. Her stature was unusual in a noble girl. She had dark hair piled high in some fancy arrangement atop her head. A dress of burnt-orange silk clung to her form and emphasised high rounded breasts that were begging for a man's hands to caress them.
"Ladies and especially gentlemen, if I might have your attention," the duke said, commanding the floor. He was a tall and lean man, attributes his daughter had inherited. But their similarities ended there. He had the drawn face of a man under constant stress and his once-dark hair was streaked with grey.
People murmured and whispered and parted around father and daughter.
He smiled to his daughter and curled his fingers tighter around her hand until white spots formed under each digit. "As you may be aware, my daughter is unwed. I wish to remedy this defect. Tonight, one man amongst you will be named her fiancé and you be will wed this Sunday."
A gasp went around the room, and the woman in question swayed on her feet. Her hazel gaze fixated on her father, and she whispered no under her breath. The duke pulled a tight smile and kept an equally tight grip on her hand, as though he suspected she might bolt.
Now that Alick glanced around the room, there seemed to be a large number of robust footmen manning every exit. Perhaps the duke did indeed expect the Lady Isabel to run for freedom. He was starting to like this girl. She got into duels and had a reputation for escaping despite having the odds stacked against her.
The duke waited for the initial rush of conversation to ebb before he continued. "I am aware this is an unprecedented situation and that the prize itself might not tempt the more faint-hearted. To compensate the bridegroom for a lifetime of inconvenience, after the wedding he may collect a five-thousand-pound purse—or we can call it a dowry, if you prefer."
"No, Father, you cannot do this. I have learned my lesson." Isabel's words carried even over the chatter that erupted.
The pretence of a smile dropped away from the duke's face. "You are twenty-three and on the shelf. I have given you ample leave to decide on a suitor; now I will take charge of the situation."
Isabel turned to her father, further conversation between them lost over the outburst of chatter. A number of men stepped forward to calls from their friends or elbows from their fellow contenders.
"I cannot be married without the reading of the banns," she said, firing her ammunition at her father.
The duke laughed. "The advantages of being a duke, dear daughter. I have friends in high places who can issue the necessary dispensations."
The woman paled. She swallowed, then seemed to draw herself up and met her father's stern gaze as she took stock of her desperate situation. "Then I demand the right to decide my future husband through combat."
Laughter burst around the room and the duke's gaze widened. "I am seeking a husband, Isabel. You are not charged with a crime. There is no right of combat in affairs of marriage."
The titter turned to laughter again. This was turning into the sort of evening Alick enjoyed—one that ended in a fight.
Isabel's gaze pleaded with her father. "How exactly do you expect to lead me up the aisle? Will I be bound and gagged? Allow me to at least choose a husband who can hold a foil and I will acquiesce to your punishment."
Alick chuckled to himself. At least the lass had gumption. This would be far more entertaining than watching people dance.
Aster paled at his side and leaned close to Hamish. A whispered conversation took place, and then the captain looked up to survey the crowd. He gave a side-eye gesture to Alick.
"Aster has found our friend. I think it would be more discreet if Ewan and I follow him. I leave Aster in the care of you and Quinn," Hamish said.
"Aye," Alick whispered, and Quinn drew his adopted sister to his side.
With Aster safe between them, Alick went back to watching the unfolding spectacle.
4
Isabel
* * *
Isabel was trapped in a nightmare. Events couldn't possibly be real. If she closed her eyes and counted to ten, when she opened them again everybody would be gone. She would be back in her bedroom, probably bored and staring at the ceiling wondering what to do, but she would be alone. She wouldn't be the sole focus of over a hundred pairs of eyes. Odd that she usually sought attention, but not like this. Not as a broodmare about to be auctioned off.
Her father could not sell her. The very idea was ridiculous. Except she was familiar with the cold look in his gaze. The stare that calculated and assessed a person's worth and how it could be exploited to his benefit. The chilling look that reminded her she was only a daughter and of no real importance, unless she advanced his cause. Over the last four years he had thrown numerous suitors in her path, and Isabel had gleefully kicked them all aside. Now her actions came home to haunt her and she did not like it one bit.
But why hadn't the tea leaves shown this, and revealed the profile of whomever would take her hand tonight? I see a wolf—the words echoed in her mind as she surveyed the room. More like jackals, waiting for a sign of weakness to tear apart her flesh.
A number of men stepped forward and appraised her as though she were a horse at market and, from the wariness in their stares, one known to kick and bite. While she carried impeccable bloodlines, no one wanted to risk their prize s
tallion near an unpredictable mare who could lash out at any moment. She wondered if she should bare her teeth, so they could count them.
Or would they demand a physical examination, to determine if she were a maid? Such information might impact the price her father had to offer to see the back of her. Would she be held down on the parquet floor while matrons inspected under her skirts? They may as well; the physical spectacle could not hurt any more than her current emotional humiliation.
Since her father wanted to play the night as a spectacle, she may as well add to it and ensure society had something to talk about in the oncoming weeks. She would not go through with this charade engagement to just any man. Oh, no. She had a very particular set of requirements for any man who sought to call her fiancée.
When the world spiralled out of control, Isabel needed something to cling to, some way forward that allowed her to think she exercised some power over events. There was one thing that made her stand up taller, her spine straight. One way to ensure she was no hapless victim. She would fight.
Isabel met her father's determined gaze with one of her own. "I demand the right to decide my future husband through combat."
Laughter burst from the men present and women gasped. Her father stared at her as if she had gone stark raving mad and he might even contemplate a spot for her in Bedlam instead. Then the wardens could charge the public to come stare at mad Lady Isabel Grayson.
Life wasn't fair. If a woman had the touch of mage in her blood she was allowed to follow where the taint led. She could be a seer, finder, witch. There were innumerable other ways the gift manifested. If Isabel had been born a mage she would have had control over her life and no man would ever have dominion over her. But if a woman was born ordinary, she was chained to the expectations of society and treated as chattel by first her father, then her husband, and lastly her son.
Layers to Peel Page 3
