Alick set off to find the Greek meditation garden. He wandered for some time and found an ornamental pond with flashing gold carp. Next he encountered a petite parterre that made him feel like a giant striding over verdant walls, and, beyond yet another hedge, a regimented rose garden. For such an enormous estate, there seemed to be a distinct lack of staff to ask for directions. Or were they all hiding in the bushes, keeping away from the dreadful Scottish wolf being used to punish Lady Isabel?
He waged an internal battle with the wolf as to what skin he was wearing today. His face wore a scowl and the scar irritated him. He kept running his finger down the groove to alleviate the itch. The scar always bothered him when trouble was afoot, but the others laughed at him when he mentioned it. Another thing he kept locked up in his dark recesses.
Just as he was about to retrace his steps and go back to the beginning, he passed through a doorway carved in dense yew and found what he assumed was the Greek meditation garden. But it was being used for quite a different purpose than quiet contemplation.
The quiet space held two enormous marble benches, modelled after Grecian day beds with rolled ends, that sat beneath arbours of white roses. In each corner of a close-cropped square of lawn stood a large plinth. Atop each pillar stood a marble bust, each of a different man with laurel leaves in his hair. Alick assumed these were the Greeks, but there was just a distinct lack of meditation. The statues were being used as corner markers for an impromptu boxing ring.
Within the square, Lady Isabel and a footman sparred. Well, Lady Isabel sparred. The footman looked like he was trying to ward off an attack from pudding, given the limp way he held his hands.
Today the scandalous young lady wore pale breeches, a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a charcoal grey fitted waistcoat. Tall riding boots enclosed her slender calves. Alick was starting to see the appeal of meditation if he could sit and reflect on this sight for a while.
The woman in question glanced at him and scowled. Apparently distaste for him was endemic on the estate. It was enough to hurt his feelings.
"What do you want?" she asked as she circled her opponent, or, as Alick christened him, the pudding-tosser.
Ianthe labelled her rude; Alick considered it direct. No need to dance around polite pleasantries and pointless observations about the weather with this one. He scratched his chin and considered how to approach the thorny lass, whose own father considered her a conundrum.
A vague memory jumped to his mind about rolling a hedgehog in mud, tossing it onto a fire, and waiting for it to bake hard. Then you could crack the creature open and remove all the prickly quills from the soft flesh. Perhaps the lass needed tossing in mud to reveal the soft flesh underneath? He blinked at the images conjured in his mind. Best keep that idea tucked at the very back of his head.
"I thought we could talk and get to know one another better." Or not talk; he didn't really mind. You learned just as much by watching someone.
She rolled her shoulders and then her eyes. He got the impression she didn't like him.
"Why would I want to converse with you? I don't have any need for a dog. Would you like me have a servant toss a stick for you to chase?" She placed another blow on the torso of the hapless pudding-tosser.
Alick sighed. Had the duke assembled the household after he was gone and told everyone the Highland Wolves were all lycanthropes who could shift into wolves, or had he simply said his new son-in-law was a mangy cur? A growl of annoyance came from deep inside him. "I'm a wolf, not a dog, and I don't chase sticks. I thought since we are to be married, you might want to converse beforehand."
She snorted as though the distinction was irrelevant and danced on her toes as she spoke. "You are either a willing participant in my father's scheme, or a deluded canine. Which is it?"
Lupine, he mentally corrected her, and longed to show her how different a wolf was from a mere dog. Hauling his mind back on track, he didn't like either of her options. It would appear that not only did she not like him, but she also had a low opinion of him. "Why can't there be a third option?"
"Oh? Such as?" She ducked left as the wet blanket lobbed an invisible blob of jelly to the right.
He drew a breath, wondering if he dared say the words that wanted to spill forth. Silly words that revealed far too much. Bollocks. What did he have to lose? She already thought he was an idiotic dog. He set the words free on his exhale. "I saw a woman waiting for a man to step forward and fight for her."
She missed her punch and went wide, allowing her opponent to strike her torso. The footman froze in horror, no doubt imaging the duke acting in retaliation and setting him to clean the privies or remove his privates. He started gushing his extreme apologies, which just seemed to annoy the woman. Isabel brushed him away.
"Why don't you go back to the house, lad?" Alick said as he stripped off his jacket and waistcoat and tossed them to the marble bench. The neatly tied cravat followed next, and he was damned grateful to toss that aside. "I'll keep an eye on Lady Isabel."
The footman nearly crumbled in gratitude and he scampered through the garden before Alick changed his mind. Isabel stood her ground and eyed him with a wary stare as his rolled up his sleeves.
"You would spar with a lady?"
He laughed. "If you want to learn to fight properly, you need a decent fighter to teach you. Not a limp biscuit who only knows how to ladle soup."
She narrowed her gaze, but he assumed her silence was acquiescence. As he moved into her makeshift ring, she lifted her arms but kept her weight on the back of her heels, as though too cautious to rock toward him. He kept the scowl on his face as they circled each other.
He had never been a talker, and she just seemed to run verbal circles around him anyway. Instead, he corrected her form by butting his foot against hers. Or knocked a hand to raise or lower an arm as she struck out. One finger to her torso was enough to change her balance. She proved to be a quick study and soon lost her caution and threw her weight into each punch as her self-assurance grew.
Alick grunted as she struck his forearms, or his stomach when he shielded his face from her blows. He thought she would vent her anger like a kitten swiping at a ball of yarn. To his surprise, the woman didn't pull her punches. She fought more like a big cat.
Ianthe's words echoed in his mind: a wolf and panther locked in eternal battle. Was this what she saw? Was Lady Isabel his match? The wolf huffed inside him. It thought so.
They continued to trade blows and he landed sufficient light blows on her to make her work harder for the punches she scored. He admired someone who threw themselves into a task and didn't hold back. His blood stirred, as did other parts of his anatomy. He had a weakness for strong, troublesome women.
"We are to be wed; are you not a little curious about me?" The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to know. He now understood why her father called her a conundrum. She was a puzzle he wanted to unravel. A treat he wanted to taste and savour over hours, weeks, and years.
She laughed. A light sound, tinged with just a little of something not quite level. Perhaps sadness at the trap her father laid, or hysteria at being forced to wed the Highland Unnatural. The law giving them the same rights as all other Englishmen was only recent. Society had not yet had time to fully adapt to the creatures around them, which had previously lived hidden existences.
She struck out with another blow to his head. "I am the daughter of a duke and you are a dirty Unnatural. Do you really think my father would cast me to the swine?"
She really did have a caustic tongue. He caught her hand as she punched him in the gut and pulled her close, then snatched her other hand as she threw a sideways hit. She struggled but couldn't free her fists from his grasp. "Swine? I'll have you know I'm a soldier and a wolf, not a swineherd or a pig shifter. Now if you have a previous engagement or understanding with a noble, I shall of course step aside for him."
Isabel sucked in a breath and pain flashed behind her brown gaze. There was no
one else, they both knew that, because no one wanted her. Except Alick. She lowered her head and looked away. As she pulled once more, he let her go.
"Come, lass, we are to be man and wife. We must find a way to get along with one another." He offered the proverbial olive branch, hoping she would see that he simply wanted to protect her from the storm bearing down on her father. If they could prove he was a traitor grasping for the crown, she would be left friendless and alone. Except he couldn't tell her that. What did she think were his motives, solely the purse? He wondered if anyone had ever wanted the lass for the woman inside.
She raised her head, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. "You are a fool. There is not now, nor will there ever be, anything between us. This is just an elaborate charade my father is orchestrating to amuse himself. The fact you are a lycanthrope was supposed to horrify me into submission and have me begging Father's forgiveness."
She turned and walked away, and a little of his pain eased as he watched her leave. As her breeches-clad derrière disappeared through the greenery, Alick thought women wearing men's fashion had much to recommend it.
8
Isabel
* * *
He could turn into a dog, pig, or a canary for all Isabel cared. It made no difference to her; he was still a confounded oaf who was delusional enough to think the ceremony would ever go ahead. She assumed they bred them extra dense in Scotland to cope with all that cold weather. Why on earth would she want to get to know him?
Just because he didn't sneer at her for wanting to learn to box, that didn't make him a suitable match. Admittedly he had given her some excellent pointers and corrected her stance without a single word of condemnation or saying she should be inside doing embroidery. But that didn't mean she would take him seriously.
Really, he hadn't bested her in the duel at all. He had cheated by dropping his blade to grab her. Grazing her skin with her own foil was proof of how he didn't understand the subtle and nuanced rules that governed society. He would never fit into the rarefied world of the ton, with all his girth and muscle. It would be like bringing a bull in from the field and placing it in the front parlour. Ludicrous.
No, wolf, he had reminded her. A wild creature used to roaming the forests. An animal that ran free and obeyed no laws but its own. A shiver raced down her spine. What would it be like, to run free?
Her shoulder burned where he had brushed his tongue over the graze the previous night. Surely it was just a reminder from her body of how foolish people were and nothing more? It had absolutely nothing to do with a slow fire lit in her core at possibly finding a man mentally and physically strong enough to challenge her. Perish the thought. He probably didn't even know his soup spoon from a dessert spoon.
Lord, how much of a wolf was he? Did he even eat at a table? He might devour live rabbits while lying in front of a fire. And what if he had fleas? With the way he kept pawing at her, they might jump from his fur to her clothing.
There was so much she didn't know about him or what he was capable of. When her father called her to his study, he simply announced that her future husband was an Unnatural who could take on the form of a dog. Or wolf. The duke hadn't seemed to know exactly which, except that he was something furry with sharp teeth and that she would soon be bound to him.
Or perhaps she spied some sliver of kindness in her father's actions. His plan must be orchestrated to galvanise her into action at long last. She was twenty-three years old now; perhaps it was time she settled down and re-evaluated the noble suitors her father constantly recommended. There must be a nice marquis or earl with fine breeding and manners among them, who would be far more suitable than the Scottish Unnatural.
She should marry the sort of peer who would have gentle, aristocratic expectations of her. Like sitting in a parlour and doing needlework while she gestated the requisite heir. She could marry well and spend her days entertaining other equally shallow women who spoke of nothing of consequence. Within such a marriage, her husband most certainly wouldn't allow her to wear trousers, box, or duel.
Bother.
A subtle cough interrupted her train of thought. A footman tried to make eye contact from under lowered brows.
"Yes?" She couldn't help the exasperated sigh that escaped her chest. Did the servants not understand she had quite a bit on her mind?
"His grace wishes to see you, milady." The footman gestured to the study doors.
Well, if his grace expected her to prostrate herself and apologise, he was in for a long wait. Despite how unhappy she was and the woeful inadequacy of her prospective bridegroom, she was determined to play her father at his own charade. She was certain the duke no more wanted the common wolf as a son-in-law than she wanted him as a husband. The only question was which of them would blink first in their game.
She pushed into her father's domain and stopped before his desk. The duke looked up and, judging by the way his jaw dropped open, promptly forgot what he was going to say. Then it slammed shut as his face screwed up in a scowl.
"Really, Isabel, breeches? Have you lost every modicum of decorum? I often wonder if you would have been better raised as an innkeeper's daughter, rather than by the foremost peer in England."
Isabel swallowed her burst of temper. Yet again she was reminded that she wasn't good enough to be his daughter. Alick Ferguson hadn't complained about her choice of attire. But was that a mark in his favour or did it show his lack of breeding? "I was working in the garden, Father, and it was more practical."
"But it is indecent. Only an actress or a trollop would display herself like that. You need to go change." He waved a hand, dismissing her from his presence.
"I thought you wanted to see me?" Let him endure the breeches for longer. The sight might make him so uncomfortable he would renege on this sham engagement.
"What? Oh, yes, I did." He rose from his desk and crossed to the window. His study looked out across the lawn to regimented rows of pleached hornbeam. The trees were spaced an exact distance apart as they marched in two lines to form an avenue of intertwined greenery. At the very end was an enormous statue of the previous duke looking as grim and unwieldy as the current title holder.
A gardener trundled past their view, pushing a wooden cart holding new plants to go in the herbaceous borders. The duke clasped his hands behind his back. "The ceremony is tomorrow and I have had a pretty dress delivered for you to wear."
A dress? He called her into his study to tell her about a new dress? Well, that wasn't what she wanted to hear; the duke was supposed to call it off and tell her Mr. Ferguson had been told to never darken their door again. "Excuse me, but did you say a dress?"
The duke turned from the pleasant outside view to the seething inside one. "Yes. You will wear a dress tomorrow. Remember your promise, Isabel. I let you chose your bridegroom and you promised to walk down the aisle without complaint."
Oh, no, he got that bit wrong. She never agreed to not complaining. Her father could dictate the direction of her feet but not the momentum of her mouth. Alick Ferguson would feel the lash of her tongue if her father insisted they go through with the charade. It certainly appeared that he intended to wring every minute of perverse enjoyment from his punishment. With each passing hour she suspected he intended to wait until the cleric asked if anyone knew a reason why they could not be wed. Only then would he leap to his feet and declare his punishment complete.
"Of course, Father." She murmured the words so demurely the duke's gaze shot up.
He narrowed his eyes at his only child. "Do not cause me any problems, Isabel. I need you wed so you do not affect Walter's engagement. His fiancée wants to shine without your antics overshadowing their nuptials. Her father has made his concerns clear about your behaviour sullying the family name."
She bit her tongue for once. Walter was her cousin and the boy child her father adopted when it became clear her mother would not produce the requisite heir. Walter's widowed mother, wife to the duke's younger b
rother, had agreed that her son be raised as the heir, with all the privilege that entailed. A nephew was of more importance than a blood daughter, for she could not inherit. Nor could she advance her father's plans.
What could she say? Apologise for being born the wrong gender? He had punished her enough for that. Why did no one see the woman she was? It didn't matter if she could ride, fence, and box better than Walter, she still lacked a certain vital piece of equipment. Life wasn't fair.
"I think I will go lie down. I have a rather big day tomorrow and I would like to look my best." She curtseyed and took her leave.
In her room, Isabel shut the door and then kicked the wall. Blast it. Her father would make a mockery of her by forcing her to go through with the ceremony. Well, not if she had anything to say about it. She prided herself on being resourceful. Part of her was certain her father had constructed an elaborate ruse. A teeny part of her suggested an escape plan, just in case the duke's most fiendish punishment yet proved to be true.
This was her childhood home; most of her mischief started and ended here. Or with being shut up in the attic nursery for days. As a naughty child who was regularly punished, she had learned to adapt—like stealing small items from her so-called friends to pay her expenses when her allowance was cut off. Which reminded her, she would not have Sarah as her bridesmaid, since it turned out the treacherous woman never genuinely liked her. Not that she had asked.
Isabel picked up a book and curled up on her room's window seat. She tried to read to pass the afternoon, but ended up practising her knife throws against the shut door. A silent maid delivered dinner on a tray, while a footman stood guard, as though they expected her to lunge for the door. Night fell, the tray was taken away, and still she paced her confines like a caged animal.
The rope was hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, an appropriate length to reach the ground from her second-storey window. The duke had cleared away the ivy from her section of the wall when she’d first escaped down its leafy vines at age ten. Since then she had grown more creative. Knotting sheets together wasn't at all practical and took forever. Now she always kept a rope somewhere, hidden close to wherever she might find herself confined. Despite his best efforts and the finder on the staff, the duke couldn't sniff out all her escape supplies.
Layers to Peel Page 7