Layers to Peel

by Tilly Wallace

  Isabel waited until well past midnight and the quiet hours between the time the nobles toddled off to bed and the early staff rose. Then she tied one end of the rope around the sturdy end post of her bed and tossed the rest out the window. There was no need to watch it drop through the dark; she knew it would stop two feet short of the ground, close enough for her to jump the remaining distance.

  From the same hidey-hole she drew breeches and boots. A maid had taken her other pair, but it didn't matter, she had more. Men's clothing was much more practical for climbing, running, and riding. She climbed over the window ledge and backed out, both hands wrapped firmly around the thick rope. The boots had soft soles, so she could use any toeholds the large bricks afforded. The rampant ivy had taken its toll on the brickwork, and the odd spot was eaten away where its suckers had once clung. While she no longer had the vine to aid her escape, the chipped out-spots where it had been prised away gave her hands some relief as she dug her feet in.

  There was little moonlight; clouds scudded across the sky and cast a dark veil over the earth. One step at a time, she lowered herself down the wall. She crept down between the huge gallery windows on the first floor. The enormous space ran the length of the house so young ladies could walk up and down without ruining their delicate complexions. Then she reached the top of the ground-floor front parlour window. Just a few more feet and she would be free.

  She jumped down, landing softly on the chip of the driveway. Now all she had to do was go around to the stables and select a horse. She drew a deep breath. Freedom beckoned, and it smelt delicious.

  A low growl from the dark made her freeze. She knew all the groundskeeper's guard dogs, had befriended them over the years to ensure they were complicit in her numerous escape plans. But this dog sounded… larger.

  A shadow moved and detached itself from the dark. The creature that appeared was far larger than even a wolfhound. And sturdier. This beast was waist high at the shoulder. Pale eyes glowed in the dark, like two tiny moons.

  "There's a good boy," she murmured, while she fumbled in a pocket to see if she possessed anything to occupy the dog. Her fingers came up empty. Perhaps she could throw it a stick? "Would you like a stick, boy? How about a game of chase the stick off into the dark?"

  It stalked another step closer. Even in the low light, long canines glowed against its dark muzzle. A single shaft of moonlight appeared between the clouds and caressed its face. The beast's fur had a faint auburn tinge, and an ugly scar ran down one side of its face and along its elongated nose. Even more strange, it appeared to have a length of fabric tied to its back.

  Isabel realised this was no dog, but a wolf—and a familiar-looking one at that. The scar couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

  "Mr. Ferguson?" she whispered, feeling foolish for saying it aloud. Then, to make herself feel braver, she added, "Would you like me to throw you a stick?"

  The growl sounded again and skated over her skin, raising goose bumps.

  The wolf shook its head, then its entire body. Fur seemed to drop away but never hit the ground. Skin revealed itself as the wolf stood on its hind legs and turned into the enormous Scotsman. An enormous naked Scotsman. Now she comprehended the purpose of the length of fabric. He twisted the skein around his waist and tossed the end over his shoulder to clad his nakedness in a kilt. His long hair hung loose around his face and almost obscured the hideous scar.

  "I don't chase sticks." He crossed solid arms over a bare chest. "And that was nicely done, lass. One could almost suspect you had climbed that wall before."

  "What are you doing here?" Had God sent the man to vex her every move? How else did he happen to be right beneath her window as she escaped?

  A deep laugh rumbled from him. "I decided to add to your father's security efforts and conduct my own patrol of the grounds, when I saw the rope. I was worried that thieves or scoundrels might have gained entrance to the house."

  She snorted in her own laugh. It sounded too absurd; her father must have advised him that she would try something. She weighed up her options. She could still run. But could she outrun a wolf? "The scoundrels are outside, where they belong."

  He chuckled, as though he found her words amusing, when she meant them to be insulting. Then he took another step toward her. "Where were you planning on going? All on your own, with nothing?"

  She had not thought that far ahead with her plan. After reaching the ground, she planned to steal a horse and ride. She had some jewellery hidden on her, enough to buy passage somewhere. "I would cope and I do not intend to share the pertinent details with you."

  He took another quiet step toward her. For a large man with bare feet, he walked over the gravel without a betraying crunch. "Had ye not thought to see what happened here first? There may be things at play you do not see."

  What a silly comment. What the devil did he mean by ‘things at play she didn't see’? She had just seen the wolf—and she would have seen entirely more of him than she ever wanted, if the strip of plaid hadn't covered his naked bits. Or perhaps he referred to whatever end move her father had planned for her punishment. If it were marriage to this half-man, half-animal, then she would prefer not to stay around and see that conclusion. Not when she could be free instead, galloping through the night with the wind pulling at her long tresses.

  "I think you are the one who is confused. I am quite able to make up my own mind about matters and have decided that a midnight ride is in order."

  "Then perhaps before you gallop away, you would satisfy my curiosity about one thing?" he murmured, the words rumbling deep in his throat.

  "What?" What on earth could this man want to know from her—the name of a good tailor?

  While she tried to think up hurtful insults, she forgot the most pertinent bit of information: She was dealing with a stealthy predator. In the blink of an eye he lunged and pulled her into his arms. Before she could protest he had one strong arm wrapped around her and the other buried in her hair. His lips descended while she still tried to understand how she had ended up in his embrace.

  His lips pressed firmly to hers and his tongue brushed along her delicate skin. Back and forth he teased her mouth, seeking admittance past her clenched teeth. Her body bucked as the sensation re-awakened the fire he had ignited when he licked her cut. As she gasped, he slid into her mouth, and his tongue stroked along hers.

  She tried to breathe, but her body didn't seem to know what to do. Her mind roiled as pleasure unfurled through her limbs for the first time, and it demanded more. His tongue explored her mouth and twisted with hers in a mock duel. Her hands ran up the thick arms that held her captive. She curled her fingers around muscles that seemed crafted of pure steel. He encircled her and held her still as he drank her in.

  All she could think was of the raw strength and power contained within his skin. Wolf and man melded into a magnificent construction that her hands itched to explore. In the grasp of the predator she felt safe and protected, when he could so easily crush her. Her gasp turned to a sigh as she angled her face for more and mimicked his actions. Her body yearned to learn the moves to this fight, and to figure out how to best him.

  Then her mind slammed back into her body and she beat her fists on his chest. She pulled away, her breath coming in short gasps, but his iron grip still held her close. "Unhand me!"

  In achingly slow motion he let her go, but kept his spot. Isabel had to stumble backward a step to put distance between her and his heated flesh. What game had her father unleashed in agreeing to wed her to this man? Even if it were only play-acting, how cruel to taunt her like this.

  "No noble man would take such a liberty." Her lips tingled and heat rolled through her blood. How dare he? She would need a cold bath now to remove his touch.

  His pale gaze seemed to glow like the moonlight above and his canines extended. His face became an amalgam of man and wolf. "Lucky I'm no noble, then, remember? But I shall escort you back inside, in case there are other scoundrels lurkin
g in the shrubbery."

  9

  Alick

  * * *

  Alick and the assortment of people he referred to as his family, or more accurately his pack, relocated to the secluded hunting lodge. Although small by aristocratic standards, it turned out to have ample room for men used to close quarters and gave them privacy away from the bustle of the inn. It also offered plenty of hiding places for the duke's men, who watched them from the bushes. Alick grumbled when he spotted one lurking in the shadows of a tree before he moved away.

  "Only seems fair," Ewan had retorted. "Since we came here specifically to spy upon him."

  Alick made a mental note to see how many he could creep up on in his wolf form, and see if they fouled their breeches where he gave a warning growl from right behind them.

  Dougal loved the change of location. The little dog scampered off into the surrounding forest first thing in the morning, keeping Alick's much larger wolf company as they went hunting. They made a game of it. Alick would creep up silently on his prey, while the terrier used frantic barking when he spotted one hiding and kept barking until they left.

  So far Alick and Dougal were on an even score. The wolf had made two of Balcairn's men soil their trousers and the far smaller dog had barked until another two gave up and left.

  Once they had completed their route around the lodge, they both set off hunting for different quarry. Alick liked to sniff out wild boar, because the stout beasts matched him for foul temper. He needed an outlet to vent his anger at Balcairn's rude treatment of his daughter and the boar was a worthy opponent. The terrier preferred to find a rabbit to drag back for Aster. She would fuss over the dog and then hand the slain creature to Alick to skin and clean for Dougal's dinner.

  But today Alick wouldn't be skinning rabbits, and he chased a quarry more attractive than a bristly boar. Today he poached rich game and would marry a duke's daughter. Perkins and Ewan joined forces, and both men tackled Alick. The large man found himself bathed, shaved, and dressed as though he were a babe.

  "I can dress myself," he grumbled as Ewan and Perkins discussed the best knot for his cravat, given the formality of the occasion.

  The lieutenant took the matter of knots very seriously and it was several minutes before the two dressers decided on the appropriate knot. Then they had to tie the blasted thing.

  Ewan stood back to survey their morning's work. "You're getting married. Humour us and look like a civilised gentleman for a change instead of a Highland wolf."

  "I am a Highland wolf," he grumbled. He briefly toyed with the idea of shedding the stuffy clothes and padding down the aisle in his wolf form.

  "Don't even think about it. Aster is waiting outside the door with her rolled-up newspaper," Ewan said, having read his intentions in the set of his shoulders.

  It pained him not to wed in his uniform, but Ewan thought formal wear better than the lowly stripes of a mere sergeant. His chest constricted as though a boulder settled over his sternum and he drew shallow breaths. Why was he doing this? The ceremony was a joke the duke played on his daughter. The ultimate punishment—marriage to an uneducated dog who couldn't even muster up a commission.

  So why did his heart ache wanting today to be a truth, not fiction? Lady Isabel Grayson could never be his, and the thought made his wolf sit back and howl. The best Alick could hope for was some plain short-sighted country lass who would tolerate him. The hungry void inside him had touched a woman who was both passionate and spirited. How could he ever settle for ordinary when he had tasted extraordinary? How could he let his mate go and never utter a word of what brewed deep inside him, knowing she deserved a world far beyond his reach?

  "I'm a damn fool," he muttered as they left the lodge.

  The previous evening, one of the duke's liveried men had delivered instructions on the location and time of the ceremony as though he were issuing military orders. That had resulted in a discussion about Aster's attendance. Hamish didn't want to risk the foreign agent recognising her if he were about. However, just a few short weeks of marriage had already taught Alick’s cousin the futility of saying no outright to his wife. He offered a compromise that involved a bonnet with a large brim to shield her face. He requested, but did not expect, a demure downcast expression to further conceal her unusual eye colour.

  Now the men rode out, while Ianthe took the reins of the curricle and drove Aster and Sarah. Dougal sat next to his mistress with a bright red bow tied around his neck in the closest approximation to a cravat knot that Perkins could wrangle on the fidgety dog. The sun shone upon the party as they made their way to the church at the appointed hour.

  The church looked as though it had occupied a corner of the duke's estate for hundreds of years. The stone had weathered and aged with spots of moss on the north side, until it became part of the landscape. Roses scrambled over the dainty portico and blooms of buff yellow and palest orange hung everywhere and perfumed the air. Lavender edged the bottom of the building and the tall heads nodded to an invisible breeze.

  Waiting grooms took horses and reins and the men paused outside the door. Aster and Ianthe both kissed Alick's cheek and wished him luck.

  Hamish laid his hand on Alick's arm and drew his cousin to one side. "You don't have to go through with this. We all know it is some kind of charade."

  Alick drew a deep breath. He could walk away and leave the noblewoman to her entitled life and whatever other man the duke found and paid to wed her. The course of her life was none of his concern. Except it was. His wolf recognised something in Isabel that it could not let go. His soul craved to reach out to the woman. She was lost and he would find her and be her rock, if only she would let him. It didn't matter how long the charade lasted; he would take whatever hours they had before it ended.

  Yes, it was a foolish notion and he didn't expect the others to understand. The noble lass was so far above him that he was just a bottom-dwelling fish staring at a star. But the wolf had its quarry in sight and would not be dissuaded. Their old nanny would say he had always been stubborn like that—once he latched onto an idea there was no diverting him. Alick would do all he could to protect the proud woman, even if she did nothing but pour disdain on him.

  He met his cousin's hazel gaze. "No, I don't have to do it, but my gut tells me it's the right thing to do, however this ends. Besides, my wolf kinda likes the fiery lass."

  Another breath and a new memory floated before him as he remembered holding Isabel in his arms and kissing her the night before. A servant had passed him a message from the duke, mentioning that his daughter was in the habit of escaping and that he might want to pace under her window in case his bride chose to run off.

  Lord, how he admired a woman who climbed down a rope and didn't sit round waiting to be rescued. This was a woman who would ride straight into battle holding her sabre aloft and screaming a war cry. When she’d yielded to him it was as though she had hit him in the side of the head with a brick as light had exploded inside his skull. Had he imagined it? Could she feel just a fraction of the fervour she produced in him? Was this what Hamish and Quinn felt when they’d found their mates?

  He glanced at his cousin, wondering if he dared to ask. A part of him cautioned silence in case they laughed at the very idea of the finely-bred lady being his mate.

  Damned idiot, he told himself. He'd gone soft in the head with the endless training exercises and secret missions. Then he slapped Hamish on the shoulder, and they walked inside.

  The interior embraced them with a soft comfort missing from the cold grand ducal mansion. The stone walls were rough, yet welcoming for their obvious hand-carved charm. The timbers of the ceiling were a rich dark hue, and candles burned in wall sconces. The thick glass of the tall, narrow windows emitted a soft light that brushed over the people below.

  Alick thought the church would be empty. He was wrong. The seats were jammed with people. They ranged from aristocrats in delicate silks to the locals in rougher linens. The spectators kept
to their strict places in society: nobles at the front, the back rows and standing room for the common masses. Locals and those from farther afield had journeyed to see if the rumours were true. Had the Duke of Balcairn finally found a man foolish enough to take on the caustic and troublesome Lady Isabel?

  Conversation dropped faster than a stone tossed into a well as a hundred eyes stared at him. He had fought for England covertly, ripped out the throats of their enemies while in his wolf form, and even faced down an enraged soldier with an axe, who had tried to split his head in two. And yet the prospect of walking down thirty feet of flat stone made him break into a cold sweat. He had suddenly forgotten whether it was left foot then right or right then left, let alone remembering to breathe. If he tripped, he would seal his reputation as a buffoon.

  Hamish gave him a gentle nudge with his elbow. It was enough to make his feet work and, in only a few ragged breaths, they had made it to the front. Now the assembled people stared at his back and made the spot between his shoulder blades itch. The cravat was too tight and he longed to tear his clothes off and shake his fur free.

  Next to him, Hamish stood as his best man. Sarah and Perkins stood at the back while Ewan, Quinn, Ianthe, and Aster (with Dougal tucked at her side) took seats at the very front. His family. Some by blood, and others by equally strong bonds of friendship and the ties of the lycanthrope bite. The only people in the world he trusted to guard his back.

  The reverend emerged from an arched door and nodded to Alick. He took his place, looking out over the congregation, and every time he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed up and down over his collar. He clutched the Bible tight in his hands and his fingers kept rubbing over the corners of the worn cover. Alick swore the cleric's hand shook. Anyone would think it was the man's first wedding.