Layers to Peel

by Tilly Wallace

  Apart from the flowers that erupted from over-burdened urns, you wouldn't know there was a wedding here today. There were no rose petals strewn on the aisle, no pieces of perfume-laden jasmine twined around the pews. No children laughed and chased each other through the rows. A sombre air pervaded the church and no joy rose from the congregation. It could easily have been a funeral. Or perhaps it was, for today would see the death of Lady Isabel's social standing.

  The reverend cleared his throat and then winced when everyone locked their gazes on him. "All rise for the bride."

  Alick turned as she glided down the aisle. People stood and a soft twitter ran through the crowd. She was a vision in simple cream silk with a spray of diamonds in her hair and a gossamer-thin veil over her face. An aristocratic bride, who deserved a noble husband. The duke held her arm, but didn't seem to be dragging her or holding a pistol pressed into her side.

  When they reached the front, Balcairn placed Isabel's hand on Alick's arm and then took his seat. From that moment on, Alick had no idea what the reverend said, and he simply he didn't care. He muttered soft words when prompted, but he couldn't take his eyes off the woman at his side. She never smiled, but held herself proud and erect, her gaze locked on the stained-glass window that dominated the small nave. Like a regal Celtic queen seized and taken to Rome as a hostage, she exuded calm dignity throughout proceedings.

  She was his prize, whether he deserved her or not. Regardless of what she thought, he would value her as the gift he knew her to be.

  Her voice only faltered once when she repeated her vows. It seemed the word obey made her cough and she had to skip that bit. Her hand was cool in his as he slid the plain gold band onto her finger.

  After several moments of silence, the reverend coughed into his hand and Alick realised everyone was staring at him in particular and not just at the nave in general.

  He tore his gaze away from his stunning bride to stare at the man, who now seemed to be sweating rather heavily. "What?"

  The nervous cleric rolled his eyes to Isabel and back again and whispered under his breath, "Man and wife."

  Oh. That bit. Already? He cleared his throat and turned to his bride, who had done a damned good job of avoiding eye contact for the entire ceremony. That pesky moment had come where she would have to acknowledge his existence. He glanced down at her hands, making sure she hadn't secreted a dagger in her modest bouquet. Reassured no weapons were within range, he picked up the edge of the veil and lifted it up and over her head.

  Alick slid one hand around her waist while the other encircled the back of her neck, and then he drew her closer. He dipped his head and caught her sudden indrawn breath as he neared. Lavender rose from her skin and he imagined her preparing for this day, naked, immersed in hot water and scented oil. Life was cruel; he was given this gift but he knew she would be snatched away. The only question was when?

  He touched her lips and grazed along the seam as he licked with his tongue. Her hands went to his chest, one flat over his heart, the other curled around the little bunch of roses and lilies. Then he pulled back and released his grip. Let that small kiss satisfy the nobles who came to be entertained. He wouldn't humiliate them both by performing like a dancing bear.

  His family cheered. Aster and Hamish rushed forward. Dougal placed his paws on Alick's knee and yipped. Isabel baulked as Aster kissed her cheek and welcomed her to their family. Hamish slapped Alick on the back and took Isabel's hand to place a kiss by her knuckles. Quinn and Ewan followed to add their congratulations. Only Ianthe lingered, holding back. The former courtesan was more suspicious and made her disapproval of events clear.

  None of the nobles approached. None had so much as a kind word or gesture for either of them. The duke rose and left without a backward glance at the newly married couple.

  Alick tucked Isabel's hand in the crook of his arm and led the quiet woman back down the aisle and out in the late afternoon light. The duke nodded and gestured for Alick while he waited for his carriage to appear.

  "It seems your new father-in-law wants a word," Ewan murmured.

  "Somehow I doubt it's to welcome me to the family." He handed over Isabel, now Mrs. Ferguson, to the lieutenant, and then walked over to the duke.

  "Your grace?"

  Balcairn glanced at him and then away. It seemed a family trait that they couldn't stand to hold eye contact or look upon him for too long. "Remember the terms of our deal, Mr. Ferguson. My banker will make the dowry over to you tomorrow, once the marriage is consummated."

  Alick glanced back at his bride. She spoke little and seemed far too pale, as though overwhelmed. Did she think this a nightmare that she might awaken from at any moment? Where was her spirit, her fight? Where was the woman who had demanded to choose her mate through right of combat?

  "Aye, I remember." He walked back to her. Duke or not, no man could dictate what he did behind closed doors with his wife. The duke's insistence stunk of a larger plot and he'd not be any part of it.

  10

  Isabel

  * * *

  Only one thought kept running through Isabel's mind—that this was a dream, or more accurately, a nightmare. Only one moment of lucidity burned through all events, when Alick gathered her close and ghosted a kiss over her lips. Time and again she touched her mouth, remembering being adrift in a raging ocean and, for one short heartbeat, she had found something solid to cling to.

  Afternoon turned to evening in the large dining room as a procession of dishes passed across the tables. Everything tasted dry in her mouth, like sawdust. Everything was the same, and yet everything had changed. Overly loud voices bounced from the walls and washed over Isabel, making her wince. Smoke stung her eyes from all the candles and the flickering light made shadows on the walls appear monstrous, like creatures waiting to drag her down to their nightmare world.

  She didn't know any of these people and she definitely did not know the scarred brute the new reverend had declared her husband just two hours ago. This was all a cruel jest. The duke punished her in a most realistic fashion; never had he constructed such an elaborate ruse. For that was what it surely was, a ruse. Any moment now he would stand, tap his wine glass as though about to make a speech to the couple, but instead he would ask if she had learned her lesson.

  Except he didn't.

  Her father had the nerve to toast the mangy cur at her side and wished him the best of luck in controlling her.

  "We are most curious to see these wolves you supposedly hide under your skins. Why don't you show everyone what you really look like?" The duke threw out the question to a roar of laughter from the nobles at his table.

  A low warning growl emitted from the man beside her and Isabel shuffled her chair as far away from him as she could. Then the man next to her supposed husband rose. He dropped one hand to the brute's shoulder as though to restrain him.

  "We are soldiers, your grace, not trained dogs who perform tricks on cue. Besides, I doubt you want wolves scratching the floor or chewing your expensive rugs," the captain said.

  There were murmurs of disappointment and some crude jokes about tricks performing animals could do. The duke narrowed his gaze at being thwarted and then made some mental calculation about the possible damage wolves on the rampage might do in the mansion. He waved his hand in a dismissive way and captain took his seat again.

  The air continued to grow thick and warm. Noise assaulted Isabel's ears until she thought she must be underwater. Voices became a distant thrum and she could no longer make out individual words. There were too many people in the room and too little air.

  She placed a hand on her chest as her breath came in short gasps and her lungs struggled to work. She couldn't do this. Why would the duke not end his harsh charade? Alick roared in laughter at something that someone on his end of the table said. The sound slammed into her like a wave. Panic bubbled in her chest and she leapt to her feet. Her chair crashed to the ground behind her as a quick-witted footman scrambled t
o pick it up.

  "I have learned my lesson, Father. You may end this ruse now," she cried out.

  The noise around the room dropped in an instant. People turned to stare, perhaps thinking they may have been deprived of performing dogs but another type of entertainment was about to start.

  The duke drank from his cup and gazed at his only child. "I have told you multiple times, Isabel, there is no deception. You are now Mrs. Alick Ferguson."

  "No." She shook her head. The other women at her table shared worried looks and the one with violet eyes leaned close to whisper in her husband's ear.

  The man she was supposed to call husband turned to face her. The scar pulled tight down his face and glinted silver in the flickering light. The wolf regarded her from the pale gaze and she recalled the way the predator had stalked her under a midnight sky.

  "We'll take care of you, lass." As he said the words, he reached out for her.

  She hissed and jumped back like a cat startled by a hound. "Don't touch me."

  Dear God, if he were truly her husband, he could do as he wished with her physical form. She had no right to deny his touch. Had her father thrown her away to be raped by a soldier? Well, she had a surprise for him. He may be a wolf, but she was no defenceless virgin. Cold steel would keep her company at night and she would bathe the blade in his blood if he ever dared lay a hand on her.

  As though reading her thoughts, he held up his hands and then gestured to the unfamiliar faces around the table. "We are all family now and none will harm you."

  She shook her head, hoping it would clear the nightmarish dream and she would find the harsh summer sun streaming into her room. The room swum and the walls undulated, as though she had drank too much sherry and then sat in the sun overlong. Vague details and recollections about those he called family struggled to click into place in her mind.

  Family? No, he offered her a pack of dirty dogs and women of questionable standing. One woman was mousy and kept staring at her slippers as though too afraid to raise her head. She was obviously of no consequence and certainly not of any breeding, unless it was on the wrong side of the sheets. But now she remembered the other name, had heard it whispered in the lowest tone in the darkest corners of parlours: Ianthe Wynn, the notorious courtesan. A woman who took men to her bed for payment was not fit to be seated next to a well-bred aristocratic lady.

  Isabel found her voice and swept her arm at her husband. "I am quality, the daughter of a duke and a duchess. You are not my family. You are dogs. Freaks. All of you. None of you are even fit to empty my chamber pot."

  Alick met her gaze and fury simmered in his pale gaze. He drew back his lips to expose the points of his canines, driving home that he wasn't entirely man, but an Unnatural fused with a beast. "You forget that you are now my wife and a commoner. You are a lady no more, but bound to a mere dog. Don't worry about the quality of the servants available to empty your chamber pot, for there won't be any. You'll have to toss your piss out the window yourself."

  "No." The word whispered over her lips so only she heard the lone syllable. The implications of her father's actions slammed into her.

  She had lost everything. Wealth. Privilege. Position. All of it was now gone.

  She had tumbled from the greatest heights, where she had played with princes, down into the mud. Parlours across London were now shut to her. She would have to curtsey to women far beneath her while they smirked.

  She stared wide-eyed at her father, while she gestured to the other women. "Is this how you would punish me? By tearing me away from everything I have known? To make me associate with a whore and a servant?"

  Alick rose from his seat and the large man loomed over her. "You will not talk about your family in such terms. You will apologise to Aster and Ianthe."

  She laughed and hysteria crept up her throat. "I will do no such thing. My father has thrown me into the pigsty and made me a nobody just like you. Now I am swine. Or am I the bitch to your dog?"

  He fisted his hands, even as his lips pulled back in a snarl. A low growl rumbled beneath every word he spoke, as though man and wolf spoke at the same time. "Apologise or there will be consequences."

  What more could they do to her? She had nothing left for them to take. Isabel drew a deep breath and dropped her gaze to the table. Reaching out, she picked up her wine glass, turned back to her husband, and tossed the wine in his face. "No one tells me what to do."

  Wine dribbled down Alick's face and left a trail of red as it travelled over his pristine cravat to his waistcoat. He fell silent but raised his head. When his silver gaze met hers, it stabbed fear through her heart. He grimaced and the scar seemed to separate his face into two halves. Wolf and man existed side by side.

  Then he lunged.

  Isabel screamed and ran. She ducked through clustered people as a roar came from behind that sounded more bovine than lupine. She bunched up her skirts, holding them above her knees as she ran out the room and down the corridor. Footsteps pounded behind her. Luckily she was fast, agile, and knew her way around the enormous house. She ducked through rooms to another corridor, but still he pursued her.

  Could she outrun a wolf? She doubted it, given the size of the beast he contained. But perhaps he didn't want to lose valuable time in divesting his clothing and changing form. She didn’t dare look behind her to find out—the sight of his naked flesh turning into fur and paws might make her trip.

  She took the stairs two at time, cursing the placement of her room on the second floor, and her slippers gave almost no noise as she ran, as though the spectre behind chased a ghost. She made it to her bedroom and slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock with a wrench.

  Breathing hard, she leaned against the wall. Moments later, the wood shivered as Alick crashed into the locked barrier. The door handle rattled.

  "Open this door, now!"

  "No." He really was demented if he thought she would admit him, when he’d had a murderous rage in his gaze after she threw her wine in his face. She might be foolish, but she wasn't stupid. The enraged Highlander could just go back to his party, get drunk, and forget all about her. Perhaps they could slide him into her father's kennels after he passed out drunk and he would awaken to a more appreciative bitch.

  The door shuddered again but held, and her pulse settled somewhat. Bravo to the house's original builders, who had used solid oak in the construction of the doors. Perhaps they had anticipated enraged madmen trying to break in?

  Ignoring Alick's efforts, she moved to the window and gazed out across the expansive lawn, beyond which a lake shimmered in the moonlight. A single tear formed in her eye; she was no longer a part of this but had been relegated to observer. Had the time finally arrived for her to leave everything behind and escape? But escape to what? The path before her was as dark as a moonless night and she had no idea where to place her feet. At least here, everything was familiar.

  A crack from behind made her whirl around.

  The door still shook, but under a different type of assault. The dull thumps were replaced by sharp retorts. A piece of wood splintered and flew into the room just as it burst open.

  "No," she whispered.

  He filled the doorway, an axe in his hand, stolen from the suit of armour in the hall and then used to hatchet the lock away.

  She continued to stare, comprehension slow to filter through her overwrought mind as she tried to buy herself time to think. "Is this how things are done in Scotland? Do you murder wayward brides on their wedding nights? Wouldn't it be easier to change form and tear my throat out with your teeth?"

  He frowned and stared at the axe as though he had forgotten he held it.

  "No." He drew the single syllable out and then tossed the weapon back into the hallway. "But I did ask ye to open the door."

  He still blocked her only exit and there was no room to dart between him and the door jamb. Her room was too high to climb out the window without the rope she kept hidden in her wardrobe, and the
re wasn't time to unravel that. She had one small blade hidden in her bodice. If he dared touch her, she could still bite.

  He advanced a step into the room and swung the door closed. It failed to catch, since the necessary part was now kindling scattered over the floor. Without taking his gaze from her, he pulled a dagger from his boot and thrust it into the doorframe, using it as a wedge to keep the door shut.

  Isabel swallowed as he advanced another step. Her gaze flew around the room while her mind calculated how hard it would be to pull the dagger from the wood. If she kneed him in the groin, would it buy her enough time? In order to draw out her hidden dagger, she would have to drop her skirts to free her hands, which would slow her down. She swallowed again and made her decision: It would be the knife in her bodice. He probably had very small testicles and wouldn't feel a blow to the crotch.

  She ran at him and hoped he would assume she would dodge around him at the last moment. He was bigger and she moved quicker. Her plan was to catch him with his guard open and that he would never expect her to attack him. As she leapt, she grabbed at the blade, pulling it from the small pocket hidden between the bodice's seams.

  Except instead of plunging the weapon into his stomach, she found herself flung face-first on the bed while a large knee pressed into the small of her back.

  "The kitten has very sharp claws." He prised her hand open and removed the knife. "Not a kitten but a cat. I shall have to rename you, Isabel. Izzy-Cat. Yes, I like the sound of that, Izzy-Cat."

  She screamed in frustration against the quilt. "Don't call me that!"

  "Izzy-Cat," he purred in her ear. "But now you must be punished for the uncalled-for things you said to your family."