Alick appeared in the open doorway and he stooped down to pat the dog before entering. He stood behind the bench and glared at Quinn. "Shove along, lad, I want to sit next to my wife."
She closed her eyes as he said that word, wife. It shouldn't be him calling her that, and the single word shivered down her spine, mocking her. He took the space next to her and the meal was loud as the men talked and joked.
Aster kept her own counsel but Ianthe joined in and seemed to enjoy a spirited debate. It was not the type of breakfast Isabel was used to. Her father normally hid behind the paper and she was left to quietly contemplate her boiled egg and toast cut into slices with a ruler to ensure all the lines were straight.
She didn't know what to make of events. These people didn't know her, yet they cast no judgement in her direction. They simply made space for her at table and shared what they had. Odd. The walls didn't press down or stifle her. And for once she could breathe, as her lungs found sufficient air and she didn't have to gasp in panic. She could perhaps be herself, without any need to play the dutiful daughter or the role society assigned her. But once stripped of all the trappings of her rank, who was she underneath?
Once she resigned herself to common company, she admitted to a certain amount of curiosity about them, especially knowing Alick could turn into another creature. Unnaturals were gossiped about in her circles but no one ever admitted actually knowing one. They all feared their unfortunate afflictions might rub off or prove contagious, and that would never do.
She took a sip of tea and gathered her courage. "Are you all wolves?"
"Aye," her husband said from beside her.
"All the Highland Wolves are afflicted with lycanthropy," Aster responded. "It's quite fascinating to see how the men interact as a pack and I can't wait to observe the full dozen of them together."
Men. Dogs. Wolves. Isabel suspected they all acted exactly the same in a group, poking each other to do stupid things and making jokes about bodily functions.
"And what does he turn into?" Isabel pointed to the small dog, now lying on his back, feet in the air and quietly snoring. Was he some hairy child?
"If you asked him, he would probably tell you that he is also a wolf. But alas, Dougal is, and always will be, a terrier. Just don't tell him," Hamish Logan said and his wife smiled.
When everyone had eaten their fill, plates were cleared away and the table was wiped down. The men even chased the women out into the yard so they could wash the dishes. Isabel found herself back where she started, standing in the dirt, staring at the lodge in wonder.
"You will grow accustomed to how they do things. We don't live by assigned roles and the men are used to looking after themselves in the army," Aster said as she tied an enormous bonnet on her head. The thing shaded her entire face and turned her eyes to black shadows. "Everyone pulls together in this family, and it took a fair bit of work to make the lodge clean and comfortable."
Isabel shook her head, as she tried to gaze through the white-washed walls into the kitchen. "My life is dictated by roles and expectations. Everyone knows their place and what is expected of them. Now I find my new husband is washing dishes like some kitchen maid."
"Come on, let's leave them to their chores and go for a walk." Ianthe donned her bonnet and handed another to Isabel. The sun was climbing high in the sky and, noble or not, nobody wanted freckles.
Isabel thought she had tumbled into a novel. Nothing seemed to be like it should. Men were in the kitchen doing chores and a courtesan and a woman of no consequence invited her on a country walk. Not only that, her company was now comprised of Unnaturals and, if the rumours were true, a mage-blooded courtesan. The little dog sat at her feet and peered up at her. If he started talking it wouldn't surprise her at all.
Hard to believe that only a week ago she so desperately wanted to escape her cage that she had insulted a cucumber sandwich, fought a petticoat duel, and found herself banished to the countryside. Now she was married and a lady no more. Perhaps she should view this as an adventure and see where the road led? Then why was there a niggle in the back of her head, the whisper of longing to be back in her room surrounded by beautiful, expensive, and useless things?
"A walk it is, then." She secured her bonnet and joined the other women for a gentle stroll. May as well do something while she plotted her escape and revenge on her father.
They walked a path that ran along the edge of the forest, while the terrier dove into leaves and holes looking for prey. Conversation was light, and mainly between Aster and Ianthe. Isabel walked as though in a dream, or a nightmare—though the sun didn't normally shine in nightmares. With each step she tried to make sense of her life and how she had come to this point. Then she gave up. Plans formulated in her mind as resentment at her father grew. He tore her down and cast her out, thinking her a useless woman. She would show him what a woman could do. All she needed was a scheme of her own.
"I know it has only been a day, but what do you think of married life and Alick?" Aster asked as the terrier disappeared with a woof.
Isabel stopped in the middle of the track. How to answer that question? "I do not think much of either."
"Oh." Aster's face fell, as though she had expected an enthusiastic response. "Well, it is early days. Wolves can be rather overwhelming up close and Alick seems to be more wolf than man most days. Try to look past his gruff exterior; there is a generous heart in that large body. Think of him like an excavation—you need to dig deep to find the buried treasure."
"Most certainly not! He needs to be buried and covered back over like the stinking old bone he is," Isabel replied.
This time Aster blanched. "That is a horrid thing to say. Given your tenuous new position, I am surprised you judge Alick so harshly, without getting to know him first."
Isabel met her gaze with a cold one. "You don't understand what it's like to lose everything."
The other woman shook her head. "You haven't lost everything, you have gained Alick. A Highland Wolf has far more to offer than any other man and Alick will lay down his life to ensure you are always warm, safe, and fed."
Isabel snorted. "I don't call living in a ditch eating a raw rabbit ‘warm, safe, and fed.’ He is nobody, with nothing of substance to offer."
The violet gaze hardened and turned cool. "No, you're right, I cannot understand your position. I never had material possessions to lose them. I only lost the two people who meant everything in the world to me, my mother and then my father. When I huddled under a hedgerow on cold nights with only Dougal to keep me warm, I often pondered the hardship the aristocracy must suffer when their toys and fripperies are torn from their grasp."
With her piece said, she turned on her heel and walked away. The little terrier stared at Isabel for a moment and then trotted after his mistress.
"Well, I never," Isabel muttered. Honestly. As if Aster could compare her past situation to Isabel's current one. She had lost far more than pretty dresses and a carriage. She lost prestige, position, and influence. Her father had torn her down from being somebody to being a nobody. That was a far worse situation than some peasant who had a sleepless night under a tree. But then a person who had always been a nobody could never understand what the loss of one's social standing meant.
Ianthe stood in silence for a long moment and then turned to stare at Isabel. There was a cold gleam in the woman's grey gaze.
"Society long ago formed its opinion of Lady Isabel Grayson. She is said to be wilful and rude. What a shame you choose not to take the opportunity a new beginning presents, to forge a better identity as Mrs. Alick Ferguson." With a nod, the courtesan hurried to catch up with her friend.
Isabel placed her hands on her hips while her mouth opened and shut. How dare they? She was the daughter of a duke and neither woman could talk to her like that. However, they just had, and she felt like a chastised child. She wanted to scream at them to come back, so she could tell them how wrong they were. She was not rude or wilful. Well,
perhaps a little, but only because others were rude to her. And besides, she had every right to judge the oaf she was supposed to call husband. He was far beneath her and she was under no compulsion to find the man hiding inside the gruff exterior.
Frustration licked along her arms and she picked up a stone, hurled it at a tree, and let loose a scream. The stone hit with a thud and sunk into the undergrowth. That was her, fallen to the ground and no longer visible. Life wasn't fair. She wanted people to see her, the real Isabel. Not the shallow, barbed-tongued woman society thought her to be. Why should she bother to find the treasure buried within Alick when no one ever made the effort to know her better. But if she made the effort to see the real Alick, would other people in turn see the real Isabel?
Would finding one reveal the other? There was a conundrum to puzzle out.
Her feet walked the dirt track while her mind tussled with the questions the crossly spoken words had stirred. Did losing her position give her the freedom to start anew? Could she now choose to be whomever she wanted to be? Would Alick be the sort of husband who demanded obedience or would he give her room to stretch her wings and find herself?
The situation was quite unprecedented. In all her years of luncheons, teas, and soirees, she had never been challenged this way. No one had ever asked, Who do you want to be? They all just presumed and imposed their own ideas. She was like clay, stamped with a mould of someone else's choosing.
It was a much more thoughtful Isabel who caught up with the others a mile down the road. They sat on a log and watched Dougal staring down a rabbit.
She stopped by them and clasped her hands together. "It seems I owe you yet another apology, ladies."
Aster shook her head. "No, you don't, but you owe it to yourself to learn something about Alick before you judge him."
"I can but try." And, for once, Isabel meant her words. She would try. Although honestly, she was rather short of options at the present.
"Good." That seemed to satisfy one woman. The other would be harder to convince.
Ianthe raised an eyebrow but remained silent. No words were needed to see the reproach in her gaze. She rose and dusted off her skirt. "Shall we return and see what the men are up to?"
Back at the lodge they followed Dougal, who darted around the side to the open paddock beyond. Edged by trees, the meadow ran back to the dense forest. The men gathered at one end, complete with their horses and an array of sabres and spears. To one side, under a spreading elm, they had laid out a blanket and parasols for the women.
Sarah emerged from the lodge carrying a bundle of what looked like patchwork squares and approached the serious-looking group of men. "I found an old sheet that was beyond repair. It should do the job. Just as you asked, ten inches, six, and three."
"Excellent. You are a marvel, Sarah." Quinn took the fabric and kissed the woman's cheek.
She swatted at him, blushed, and then hurried away. The men started laying out the squares in a row, pacing out their strides to ensure each one was several feet away from the next, as they marched across the grass in a straight line.
"What are they doing?" Isabel asked, trying to ascertain meaning from the squares of cloth and the arguments that ensured over the exact placement.
Ianthe laughed, an easy tinkling sound that was more relaxed than her earlier words. "They are doing what men throughout history have always done when women are watching. They are going to show off."
"Fools," Isabel muttered under her breath.
The courtesan smiled from under her parasol. "At least on that, we are in agreement."
"They are going to have a game of tent pegging," Aster said. "It's a cavalry exercise. I used to watch sometimes at the Royal Arsenal. Ring jousting is also quite something to watch, but there's nowhere to hang rings in an empty meadow. They will take turns galloping down the lane and trying to pick up the squares with the nominated weapon."
"Why do they need to practice riding their horses when they are all wolves? Don't they just run into battle as the creatures?" And really, it all sounded terribly boring.
"They were all cavalrymen first and will always have a love of their horses. Besides, a horse can gallop faster than a wolf can run and they don't want to get to a battle after everyone else," Aster said.
Isabel tried to ignore events by staring at a patch of grass and counting blades. Almost against her will, she found herself casting glances at the men from under her lashes. Each time her attention was held for longer and longer, until she found herself watching with growing incredulity and excitement.
Each time they galloped down the meadow, the targets became smaller. Each time the men leaned farther off their horses until she was sure they would tumble and fall. And yet each man ran the gauntlet successfully, a collection of white scraps hanging from the tip of his sabre or spear.
"How is that possible?" She was on her feet and clapping as Quinn hung right off the side of his mare, then bounced off the ground back into the saddle.
"Because they are all rather excellent cavalrymen. The volunteers for the Highland Wolves were all drawn from the Scots Greys, who do have something of a reputation for this sort of thing," Aster murmured.
The day wore on and the sun rose higher in the sky. The men were down to the smallest squares of cloth when Sarah and Perkins emerged from the lodge.
"Beer!" Perkins yelled. A man of few words, he chose to call out the one that would be of most interest the thirsty riders.
Ianthe's staff carried trays laden with bread, cheese, meat, and cold pitchers of beer. It was a simple meal, eaten on the ground under a tree. Isabel contemplated her husband as she chewed a lump of cheese. How to ascertain the true character of a man who was built like a mountain and rarely spoke? She doubted they would intelligently discuss politics or literature. What he did say seemed more jest or rebuttal to his comrades. Perhaps she could throw the ball for him to chase or offer to brush the wolf's fur free of burrs?
Occasionally their gazes met at an awkward juncture and then both would look away. She let loose a deep sigh. What could she say to the man? It seemed so much easier between them when they were fighting with either blades or bare knuckles. There was no need for polite conversation when she was trying to pummel her fists into his stomach.
"Down your beers, 'tis time for the final round, lads," Hamish said. They toasted each other and tossed back the remains of their drinks and stood.
Quinn and Hamish both took the opportunity to each claim a kiss from his heart's companion. Isabel glared at Alick, in case he was struck by a similarly foolish idea.
Then each man retrieved his grazing mount and swung into the saddle. For the last round all men were to use their sabres. The swatches of cloth were tiny. From where Isabel sat, the men almost appeared to be tilting at dandelion heads, the targets were so small. Yet again each man galloped down the paddock, leaning off the side of his saddle and skewering square after square.
"A draw," Isabel said, once Ewan had finished his successful run.
"I doubt they will be satisfied with that." Aster rose to her feet.
"Why?" Isabel watched as the men dismounted and reins were looped over the horses' heads.
Ianthe joined them, as the women pondered what drove men to the things they did. "Men need a clear winner. Someone must be king of the day."
The horses were left to graze while the men met in a loose circle and their voices rose and fell. After a heated discussion, it seemed the soldiers reached a consensus. Jackets were removed and shirtsleeves rolled up.
"Now what are they doing?" Isabel asked.
They paired off, Quinn and Hamish and then Alick and Ewan. The men lay down on the grass, facing each other, one arm propped up on its elbow.
Ianthe laughed. "They are trying to determine an overall winner, and by the looks of it, I’d say they intend to arm wrestle."
Hamish defeated Quinn, and slapped the younger man on the back and sent him off to sit with Ianthe. Ewan didn't last much longe
r against Alick. Then the cousins met, hands locked as they battled for the top position. Fists wavered first one way, then the other. Then, with a feral roar, Alick slammed Hamish's arm to the ground and emerged victorious.
Elation leapt in Isabel's chest. Her husband had won. She cast a sideways glance at the other women, but they didn't seem bothered by the fact that their men had lost. Aster fashioned a rose from one of the linen squares and approached Alick. The man bent down so she could tuck it into a buttonhole.
"I declare you tent pegging champion," she said, then stood on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek.
While he murmured his thanks to Aster, his heated gaze rested on Isabel until she was forced to look away.
14
Alick
* * *
Alick the champion felt anything but victorious, as Hamish claimed Aster for a consolation kiss and drank deeply of his wife. Ianthe arched her neck and Quinn took the offered invitation and nibbled his way up the exposed skin. For one brief moment hope flared in Alick's gut, that perhaps his bride might bestow a kiss on the day's winner. Not likely, though, when she refused to even make eye contact.
He was the first wolf to be spurned by his mate. How could the creature have got it so wrong? From what he heard from the others, the inner wolf was supposed to recognise its mate on a deep, instinctive level. That it had settled on a woman who obviously loathed him, and who was far above him in social standing, just went to show his wolf was as daft as he was.
The years ahead stretched cold and empty in his gut. His wife found him too hideous to even look at. He would be reduced to scrounging at her feet for any scrap of affection like a starving dog. He swallowed down his disappointment and schooled his features into a bland expression. He was well used to revulsion from women; why should this one be any different? He would find a way to survive, even as the pain of her rejection whittled slivers from his heart.
Layers to Peel Page 12
