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 brother, 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.
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 lurking in the shrubbery."