Layers to Peel

by Tilly Wallace

  12

  Isabel

  * * *

  A chill brushed over Isabel’s skin and woke her, as though a cat that had curled up in her lap suddenly left and deprived her of its warmth. She stretched her arms up over her head and then straight out. When her hand found a warm dip in the bed, she stroked it for a moment, as though the sheet were the phantom cat. Then, as the sunlight crept over the floor, memory returned and she sat upright with a sucked-in gasp.

  What was she doing in bed? She should be in the chair by the hearth. She looked down at her body, but still wore her shift and robe. Fearing the result, she nonetheless wiggled and squeezed her thighs, but nothing hurt or seemed out of place. If the hulking ogre had taken her, surely she would be sore? Although she also thought she would remember it, or at least have got one shot off, but the pistol lay by the bed and seemed as unused as her.

  Movement drew her attention as Alick strode across the floor naked. Isabel glanced, looked away, and glanced back. If they were truly married she may as well peek at what her life was now shackled to. The soldier had broad shoulders with skin tight over muscle as he moved. His hair hung loose and obscured his face and she could conjure up another visage, if she wanted. His body tapered to a narrow waist, and below tight buttocks were legs with clearly defined muscles.

  She assumed he was passable. If one liked wild animals built to survive in the forests and jungles, able to tear other creatures apart. He didn't have the soft and pale countenance of many nobles. Nor did he have the sculpted beauty of a marble statue. No, her new husband was all hard muscle and strong angles. This was a man built to fight and for charging into action. A man who made something stir in her body that didn't feel like the revulsion she should experience at the thought of having to perform her marital duties with him.

  She clenched her thighs as she remembered the raw power when he held her to the bed. No matter how she had fought and struggled she couldn't break free, and part of her revelled in finding a man who not only matched her, but could contain her.

  Then had come the sharp bite as he smacked her and the slow glide of his hand over her buttocks. The bite turned into a fire that made her moan and he touched her in a way that built an inferno within her until her mind exploded. Such things weren't proper. It showed what a heathen he was, that he elicited such a response from her body by spanking her. The indignity, that he dared punish her like a spoiled child. If he tried that again she would bury her knife in his gut. She nearly convinced herself that she would, until her mind whispered, but, oh, it was like flying as he threw me into the air.

  Although he had his back turned, the noise made it abundantly clear what Alick was doing. Isabel watched him place the porcelain bowl on the floor by the bed.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at his shoulder blades. "That's not a chamber pot."

  He looked over his shoulder at her, then back at the bowl. "It looks like one."

  How could a person not tell the difference between a vase and a chamber pot? Perhaps he was used to urinating out a window on passersby? "It's a shallow vase for floating camellia blooms, which is why it was on the dresser and not under the bed."

  His chest shook as he huffed a laugh. "You won't want to be floating camellias in that today."

  She sighed; this was what her father had reduced her to—married to a man who urinated in vases. Although given a wolf lurked inside him, she should be grateful he hadn't just cocked his leg on the armoire. If he opened a drawer to move his bowels she would draw the line and have to shoot him.

  He turned to walk to his clothes and she bit back a gasp and looked away. It was one thing to inspect her husband's naked back, quite another to be confronted with the full sight of their physical differences. When he had changed form the other night, the clouds and the length of tartan draped around his waist had protected her delicate sensibilities. She covered up her gasp by climbing out of bed and opening the curtains.

  He paused and frowned. "Have ye not seen a naked man before?"

  "You would be my first." She fussed with the curtains and pulled them open, hoping he would at least put on his trousers before she turned around.

  "Do you not want a closer look, then? I promise not to bite if you do. You can even touch if you like." His words were softly spoken, but with his burr they made her stomach do strange things.

  Damned man was taunting her. She would show him that she was no coward. She let go of the drape, turned around, and took a step closer. With a deliberate and slow gaze she took in what he offered. The broad torso with the faint white line of old scars and the deeper red of newer ones. Muscles etched beneath his skin and the corded veins in his forearms. The trail of dark hair that led from his belly button down to a jutting member that, oh—

  Her eyes widened as she took in the size and heat bloomed over her skin. Where had he hidden that when in his wolf shape? She didn't remember his fur being that long. And really she should stop staring; that was quite enough looking. "No nobleman would parade around naked as though he possessed something to be proud of."

  He picked up his trousers and, from the corner of her eye, she caught the smirk on his face. "Perhaps that's because they don't have anything to be proud of. I happen to be rather pleased with my endowment and I will have you know it is much larger than what God handed other men."

  Life wasn't fair. That one piece of clay missing from her sculpture meant her father disregarded her and cast her aside. One small—or not so small, apparently—appendage and she couldn't inherit or live the life she wanted.

  "Shame it doesn't possess intelligence to make up for what is lacking in your head." Why were men so proud of what dangled between their legs? Or rose up to near his stomach, in Alick's case. It was just flesh and blood and didn't serve any real practical purpose beyond a momentary contribution to conception. Or no useful purpose that she had yet observed.

  A quiet knock sounded on the door moments before it opened. Two servants entered, a maid and a footman carrying a small trunk. The footman deposited the trunk on the floor and slunk away, as though he thought Alick would lunge at him.

  "Oh, good. You can help me dress." Isabel waved at the maid. At least that process would distract her from thinking any further about her husband and his miscellaneous bits. Her mind also wanted to keep returning to the fact he could turn into a wolf and the child in her wanted to bombard him with questions and possibly demand a pony ride on the creature's back.

  "No, milady." The maid wrung her hands as though doing invisible laundry.

  "What do you mean, no?" Isabel frowned. What was going on this morning? She awoke where she had not gone to sleep and the entire world seemed to have turned upside down overnight.

  "His grace said to tell you that you no longer have a lady's maid and you need to learn to dress yourself." The woman's gaze shot to Alick.

  Isabel bit off the retort that flew to her tongue, for she suspected her morning was about to get worse. "And the trunk?"

  "You are to pack what belongings will fit inside. His grace says you won't be needing your fancy dresses anymore. He will meet you downstairs when you are ready to leave." The young woman bobbed a curtsey.

  "Leave?" Isabel choked on the word. The world spun and she sat on the end of the bed. The small trunk mocked her with its battered leather exterior. Her father must have dug it out of the attic; she didn't even warrant a new valise. "But what about breakfast?"

  Her question went unheard for the maid had scampered from the room and the door slammed behind her.

  She would not cry, not in front of him. Instead she bit down hard on her fist and silenced a scream. Then she breathed in the tears before they had a chance to do more than dampen her eyes. There was one other thing she did: She vowed revenge on her father for his cruel treatment. He could humiliate her, toss her from all she knew and every luxury she had ever enjoyed, but he could not quash her spirit.

  A large hand dropped on her shoulder. "Everything will b
e all right, Izzy-Cat. I will take care of you."

  "Stop calling me that. My name is Isabel." Did the brute of a man go out of his way to annoy her? Really, how hard was it to use her given name? Both had the same number of syllables.

  So she must dress herself like a pauper—well, that she could do. Isabel flung open her wardrobe and considered the expensive gowns within. She cast a doleful look at the small trunk. Two, perhaps three at most, would fit. She ran a hand over delicate muslins and exotic embroidered silks. They would be no use in her new life.

  Moving to the back of the wardrobe, she selected two practical wool gowns and one cotton.

  "The orange one you wore the other night," Alick muttered from behind.

  "Don't be ridiculous. When will I ever need a ballgown again?" The very idea of no more balls struck through her like a barb. No more dancing or merriment. Didn't poor people live in drudgery, bereft of music? The poor people she saw all looked miserable, their dirty hands extended to beg for a coin.

  "I thought you looked striking in it. You stood out amongst all those noble girls. Like a gerbera floating in a vat of milk." He then had the good grace to look embarrassed at his clumsy words and he turned his back as he finished dressing.

  Lummox. Although it could have been worse; he could have compared her to a camellia floating in a bowl of urine. What was she to do with him? There was still a chance he would be killed in war and she could return home as a widow. There—every cloud had a silver lining; one just had to look for it.

  She folded and packed her choice of gowns and two changes of shifts. She swallowed a lump as she tried to condense her life into what the trunk would accommodate. Her gaze drifted around the room and caught on an old ball at the back of a shelf. Once it had been bright red but now it was worn, with frays on the stitching. She glanced from ball to husband and an idea formed in her head.

  Isabel picked up the ball and tossed it to a corner of the room. Alick, who was standing by the window, whipped around at the soft thump-thump as it bounced and then rolled to a stop. He strode over to the other side of the room, picked up the ball, and returned it to Isabel.

  "Thank you," she murmured.

  He shrugged and walked back to the window, where he watched the garden staff cutting the edges of the grass that lined the paths.

  Isabel waited a moment and threw the ball again, to the opposite corner.

  Again his head swung round at the sound and he trotted off after the ball and returned it to her outstretched hand. A frown pulled at his brow. "Are you trying to get rid of the ball or decide if you want to keep it?"

  "Oh, I think I've decided to keep it," she replied, and she tucked it into the trunk. The ball might come in handy in the future for distracting her husband. Perhaps if she threw the ball hard enough in one direction she could escape in the other while he chased after it.

  Then she turned back to distilling her life down to the few items she needed to keep with her. She settled on a book of poetry, a portrait of her mother, a polished jade whale, and a few trinkets from her dressing table, all slotted into the remaining gaps. Then she closed the lid and buckled the strap.

  "It's done," she whispered.

  "I'll take it down." He picked up the trunk.

  She nodded. "Thank you. I'll be down shortly."

  He said nothing, just took the remnants of her life and left the room. At least he followed directions like a well-behaved hound, and strangely the room seemed emptier without his presence.

  Time to say goodbye. She walked the room and paused to stroke the heavy curtains, then laid a touch to the smooth wood of the bedposts. One hand trailed over the back of the armchair. Then she stood at the doorway and, with one last sigh, she stepped out into the corridor and closed the door on her former life.

  Her steps down the long hall were slow and deliberate. Here and there she stopped to adjust a floral arrangement that no one would see except the servants as they hurried past. She paused to gaze at the portraits of ancestors who looked down patrician noses at the commoner she had become. Each step brought her closer to the main stairs and her exit. Each step was one that could never be retraced.

  With one hand on the railing, she drew a breath and descended the stairs, her spine rigid and her face composed. She refused to let her father know how he had sliced her open and eviscerated her by selling her to the Highlander like a cattle beast.

  The duke and Alick stood in the tiled entranceway, the little trunk at his feet.

  "Ah, Isabel. You have a bloom about you," her father said as she reached him.

  She arched an eyebrow but kept her silence, as did Alick. Good. She just prayed her father didn't want a detailed account of how her husband consummated their marriage. He would be sadly disappointed.

  "Father. How good of you to awaken early to see me thrown out of my childhood home." Bitterness crept into her tone, as much as she tried to hold it inside.

  The duke gave a tight smile. "You are no longer my concern, Isabel. You now belong to Mr. Ferguson."

  She was no longer her father's conundrum, but another man's chattel. Was it too late to throw herself at her father's feet and beg forgiveness? What if she promised to be a dutiful and grateful daughter? Except she couldn't. Her spine stiffened a little further as the door to her gilded cage cracked open. She just didn't know what lay beyond. Dirt. Filth. Hunger. Fleas as well, probably.

  "Your husband is staying in the hunting lodge. I thought it would afford you privacy for a few days while you become accustomed to one another." Again the cold gaze flitted from Alick and back to her.

  "The lodge?" She knew the place. It stood on the edge of the forest by the river. It had been empty for some time. It probably contained rabbits, fox, and pheasant hiding from the occasional hunting party.

  "Yes. Then perhaps at the end of the week you could come for dinner and tell me about your plans and where you're off to … Edinburgh, is it?" Her father tried to play the solicitous host, but Isabel suspected he simply wanted them both gone.

  Wouldn't do to have the lower classes hanging around, or worse, the Unnatural beast. They might get ideas above their station. In fact she was surprised he was letting them leave by the front door and wasn't ushering her through the kitchens and round the back.

  "Edinburgh is where we're based, aye." Alick rocked on his heels, as though he would bolt for the door at any moment.

  "Well, until the end of the week." The duke gestured to the footman, who flung open the enormous front door. Alick picked up the trunk and slung it to his shoulder. Isabel was frozen until her new husband enclosed her hand in his and gently tugged her away.

  Out in the drive stood a grey gelding with a parrot nose, sturdy bone structure, and deep chest. His head turned to Alick and he nickered a greeting. The soldier dropped the trunk to the ground and then stroked the animal's muzzle and crooned.

  "You can ride, I'll walk," he said.

  Isabel hesitated for a moment. Riding astride would expose her legs when her skirts rode up. But really, after everything else that had happened to her, what did it matter? She had no reputation anymore to worry about. She took the reins in one hand and placed her hand on the back of the saddle.

  "Ready?" he asked, before legging her up. As she settled in the saddle he picked up the trunk and balanced it on his shoulder.

  At least her skirts were slightly full and she had donned short boots as the more practical footwear choice. Without a backward look, she urged the gelding forward and they walked down the drive and into the unknown.

  13

  Isabel

  * * *

  As they rounded the heavily treed drive, Isabel expected to find the little lodge cold, empty, and lonely. Perhaps with rats scurrying away into dark corners and the shades of lost souls hovering in the windows. Instead she found laughter, people, and a small dog darting back and forth.

  Pulling the gelding to a halt, she tried to make sense of the bustle of life bursting from the low stone build
ing. "We're not here alone?"

  Alick chuckled and dropped the trunk. "No, but I can tell them to all sod off, if you want to be alone with me?"

  A snort escaped her throat. Which fate was worse—alone with her coarse husband or enduring the company of his boorish family?

  Aster appeared in the doorway, an apron protecting her dress, and she wiped her hands on it as she called out, "Have you had breakfast yet?"

  "No, and we're famished," Alick said.

  Isabel dismounted and Alick led the horse to the small stables across the courtyard, where other horses nickered in greeting from within the darkened interior. Isabel stood in the middle of the packed earth square and pondered her options. Run for it or go eat? A rumble from below made her decision; breakfast first seemed the best idea. Nobody wants to run away on an empty stomach.

  "Come on, Isabel, Alick won't be long," Aster said, standing aside as she gestured inside.

  With no other immediate plan in mind, Isabel followed the other woman like a visitor, though her father owned the property. The lodge was freshly swept, and the windows thrown open to air out the rooms. The kitchen door stood wide open to admit the sunlight, and the little dog settled on the doormat like some watch beast. The men sat on bench seats arranged around a long pine table. A cheerful bunch of wildflowers took pride of place in a blue and white-striped jug. There was nothing fancy or pretentious here. Everything felt worn and patched, yet clean and homely at the same time.

  The men called out greetings to her as though she were a constant in their lives and not some unwelcome interloper. The friendliness bristled over her skin. What game were they playing at? Isabel kept her thoughts under tight control as she took a seat next to Quinn Shaw. The young man had the most open face. He smiled and passed over the pot of tea. One would think the men's arms were painted on; not one stood to serve her. Apparently if she wanted breakfast, she would have to dish it up herself. Just as well that none of her former acquaintances were present to witness her continued descent into manual labour.