Layers to Peel Read online

  Layers To Peel

  Highland Wolves book 3

  Tilly Wallace

  Layers to Peel © 2017 by Tilly Wallace

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Highland Wolves

  1. Secrets to Reveal

  2. Kisses to Steal

  3. Layers to Peel

  4. Souls to Heal

  * * *

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  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Tilly Wallace

  Author’s Note

  This book uses British English

  1

  Isabel

  * * *

  The women tittered to each other like noisy chickens and clustered around the small round table. One of their number was mage-blooded and the taint revealed itself through the gift of reading tea leaves. The young brunette peered into the depths of the delicate teacup.

  She smiled and looked across the table. "I see a fabulous wedding in your immediate future, to a duke, no less."

  The tittering turned into gushes and breathy comments of oh, you're so lucky. Then the speculation started as to which duke or impending heir would be the lucky groom.

  Isabel rolled her eyes. It was all quite ridiculous. You didn't need mage-blood and tea leaves to predict any of their futures. They were all broodmares waiting to be sold; of course they would get married and reproduce. It was their sole function as politely-bred ladies.

  There were a number of mage-blooded gifts considered socially acceptable for a young lady; the ability to read tea leaves, find lost items, or make flowers bloom. Talking to the dead was sought after in some circles, by those who wanted the excitement of late night séances, but if the dead spontaneously appeared around the woman she would find herself cut. No one wanted a ghost hovering over luncheon. Dead people put such a dampener on an event.

  It infuriated Isabel—as if a woman had any control over what flowed through her veins! She held out her arm and stared at the faint blue lines that ran up toward her elbow. A lady was either lauded or ostracised over something beyond her control.

  "Will you dare to try, Lady Grayson?" a particularly bold chicken asked.

  A delicate porcelain teacup was extended toward her. Pale pink roses entwined around the sides and the handle was painted with gold.

  Isabel's focus moved from lamenting the blood in her veins to another niggle in her life—the insipid women she was forced to keep company with. She swallowed a sigh; may as well get the farce over and done. She grabbed the tea and downed the tepid liquid in a couple of large, and distinctly unladylike, gulps. Then she placed the saucer over the top and tipped it upside down before depositing it on the table.

  "You need to turn it three times," someone whispered.

  And perhaps if she also did a cartwheel with a turnip clutched between her teeth it would make the brown leaves form into the pattern of her future husband.

  Isabel plonked herself down in the chair and used one fingertip to turn the cup around and around on the saucer. Then she slid it closer to their seer.

  The young woman picked up the cup and gave it a small shake to dislodge the last drops of tea. Then she peered into the tiny porcelain chamber. Women gathered closer, waiting to hear her prediction. Isabel rapped her nails on the table. The other woman's showmanship needed some work, but she was drawing this reading out before announcing, to great surprise, that Isabel was yet another young woman with impending nuptials.

  The brunette muttered under her breath and rotated the cup.

  "What do you see? A duke, or perhaps a prince?" someone asked.

  Laughter ran through the crowd. Everyone knew Isabel had a tendency to scare off potential suitors. One lash of her tongue and they took their fortunes and titles and sought a demure wife elsewhere.

  "No, I don't see a suitor. I see… a dog." The fortune reader squinted at the tea leaves.

  "A dog?" Isabel frowned. No suitor for her then, but was that relief she felt or disappointment? Would she watch all her acquaintances marry off one by one, leaving her standing all alone? It wasn't her fault none of the nobles had any backbone, and cowered under her gaze. "Father is probably going to give me a poodle for my birthday."

  "No, not a lapdog. This looks more like—I don't know, a wolf perhaps?" The fortune teller placed the cup back on the table and left it for the others to examine.

  "Luncheon is served, ladies," their hostess announced, breaking up their conversation about whether the remains of Isabel's tea revealed a corgi, wolf, or spaniel.

  The group moved toward the long table. Isabel lingered at the back. Her gaze roamed over the rear wall of the parlour, which held an array of rosewood-framed boxes. Each held butterflies of extraordinary hues, shapes, and sizes. With their wings outstretched, they dazzled and outshone each other, as though they were the living embodiment of an exotic Indian bazaar. And every single one was dead. The riot of colour that created a fantastical quilt on the wall was the lifetime work of the noble's obsession with lepidopterology.

  "How cruel is life to them. One moment drinking nectar, the next gassed and preserved," Isabel murmured to herself. What would it be like to see the delicate creatures free? She imagined standing in a lush jungle, hands outstretched as a swarm of them danced from bloom to bloom, drinking nectar from heavily perfumed flowers—the beauty not just in the insects’ shape and colour, but in the celebration of their freedom as they went about their fragile lives.

  Isabel sighed. The displayed butterflies could be a metaphor for her life: beautiful to look at but dead on the inside. Kept pinned to a wall, never allowed to fly or be free. To be seen and admired as something exotic and decorative, but with no real purpose.

  She tucked a dark strand of hair back behind her ear and surveyed her companions as they all took their assigned seats. They were like the insects—delicate. They would bruise easily if they ever batted up against the bars of their cages. Not Isabel. She used her tall, lithe frame to ride, run, and hunt. Her muscles knew the burn of climbing a tree all the way to the top or using a sword until her arm ached. One day she would be strong enough to pull apart the bars holding her prisoner.

  Her life seemed so stifling. One day blended into the next. Everything was the same. They were all actors with pre-written lines and directions to play out, never allowed to deviate from the script. She could stand in the middle of the room and scream and no one would raise an eyebrow. They were so bound by protocol and etiquette that none would remark on her strange behaviour.

  Perhaps that was why she did it. Why she pushed pe
ople or said outrageous things. She just longed for a reaction. Something, anything that told her she was alive and capable of shaping her life, not trapped under glass. She sighed and brushed a hand over her tea gown. The hideously expensive garment was no match for the magnificent butterfly to her right, resplendent in vibrant shades of green. Current women's fashion favoured the simple white or cream dress with a subtle pattern or inconspicuous decoration. How Isabel longed to be like the butterfly and clad herself in glorious colour. Or she could beat herself black and blue against the walls of her captivity.

  She stood in a parlour expensively decorated with silk-clad walls, which were the perfect backdrop to the butterflies. Persian carpets lay on the floor and fine sculptures were displayed on plinths. The entire ensemble exuded money and entitlement. The assembled women were equally expensive, delicate, and aristocratic. Society's best and most expensive thoroughbred mares gathered for afternoon tea.

  "It's all so pointless," she muttered as she took her place at the ornately set table. The dark polished wood sat hidden under a crisp, white linen tablecloth. Centrepieces soared high with arching plumes and bracts held aloft more flowers, kept in place with tiny wires. The crystal glasses glinted in the shaft of sunlight that dared enter the room from between the lace curtains. Each piece of silverware was laid out a precise distance from the plates and each other.

  Fake smile in place, Isabel tried to be interested as the women around her discussed the latest gossip and the possible engagements for those who had just had their fortunes read. Marriage and landing an eligible catch dominated conversation as though they were all fishermen, each vying for the best spot to cast their line, and discussing what bait to use.

  Isabel went out of her way to scare off the men attracted by her father's position and wealth. At twenty-three years old, she was fast approaching life on the shelf. Thank goodness. A sharp tongue and courting scandal had kept her unattached, although the Duke of Balcairn's patience with his wilful daughter wore thin. But then, what could he do about it? Sell her off to the highest bidder like a piece of unwanted furniture? Let him try, and the papers would be full of the scandal of Lady Isabel Grayson being dragged kicking and screaming down the aisle.

  The duke called her his conundrum. Gently bred, yet unwed. Beautiful to look at, yet men couldn't tolerate her company. The most eligible young woman in England, and not a single gentleman dared ask for her hand. She had everything and yet nothing. Although at least she might soon have a puppy to fill the empty moments she was awake.

  She wondered just what it would take to be banned from London for the rest of the season. She was dying inside like a forgotten houseplant, and at least banishment would bring the freedom to roam their country estate. Nothing she had done so far had worked. She needed to try a little harder to be the brat everyone assumed her to be.

  She stared at her unblemished white ceramic plate with its expensive gold rim. In the exact centre sat a tiny sliver of cucumber sandwich. Looking at the unsatisfying snack gave her an idea. She emitted an audible sigh and then frowned, picking up one corner of thin crustless bread and pushing it down again. Her finger left an indent and ruined the symmetry of the picture.

  "Whatever is wrong, Isabel?" Sarah, who sat to her immediate right, asked.

  "Oh, nothing, I'm sure." She picked up the sandwich, well aware all eyes had swung in her direction. The best actors waited until they held the audience captive before delivering the much-anticipated line. She scrutinised the savoury and screwed up her face and brought it closer, as though her eyes failed her.

  "Do you not like cucumber?" someone farther along the table joked to an answering titter of laughter.

  Isabel glanced up, trying to fix on which pretty face made the comment, but they all swam together and merged into one. Like how the butterflies were individuals up close, but walk away and they became a patchwork of colour. "I like it just fine. A shame, though, that this bread does not do it justice."

  "What is wrong with the bread?" The sharp question came from the head of the table where Charlotte, the hostess, held court.

  "Oh, don't fret, dear. It's perfectly acceptable. Just a little… dry." Isabel frowned at the sandwich again, as though it had committed some great social faux pas, and she dropped it back on the plate. Shame it didn't make any noise; an audible thump would have been most gratifying, but at such events only the tiniest slivers of food were served. No one would deposit a great lamb shank or side of beef in front of gentle ladies.

  "You must be mistaken. These delicacies were made fresh just this afternoon. There is no possibility that the sandwiches could have dried out." Charlotte's gaze narrowed at Isabel.

  A reputation as a troublemaker did tend to precede her and people expected some drama or other. Her problem was that the bar was set rather high, and there were obvious lines even she dared not cross. She certainly wasn't going to take a costermonger as a lover just to outrage her father. There was a delicate balance at play, to create enough of a scandal that her father gave in to her demands, but not so much that society would irrevocably turn its back on her. For what would an actor do without an audience? She needed them to notice her, to wait for her next performance; it was the only thing that reassured her she hadn't turned invisible.

  As the daughter of a duke, protocol demanded she be included whether she was wanted or not. It also meant people turned a blind eye to her activities. Usually she just livened events, but today Charlotte might regret ever including her in their afternoon tea. Today was Isabel's big push toward banishment and she had chosen Charlotte to have a supporting role in the show.

  "Well, if you say so, Charlotte. Although on closer examination the inside is rather soggy while the outside is crusty. Almost makes one suspect they had sat around for some hours." She threw down the culinary gauntlet.

  On cue, gasps raced around the room. Isabel had cast aspersions on the quality of Charlotte's edibles. It was the social equivalent of one man telling another his mistress had the face of a horse's arse.

  The hostess sat up even taller in her chair, if such a thing were possible given her rigid posture to begin with. "You are wrong, Lady Isabel. My kitchen staff made the sandwiches not an hour ago."

  The answering salvo was given. Isabel harrumphed and leaned back in her chair, timing her next move. As tension built around the room, women either held their breath or took the hand of their companion for support. For her peers, this was the most exciting thing to happen all week and would be dinnertime gossip for the next month—if she wrung every ounce of drama from proceedings.

  Isabel tapped one finger to her chin for a moment and then let it drop, hovering above the sandwich and drawing every eye with it. "Did you oversee their construction yourself? Or did you perhaps advise of the menu yesterday? No one is blaming you, my dear. Perhaps your staff were overzealous and prepared our sustenance earlier today, or even yesterday?"

  Gasps turned to twitters and women clutched at their heaving bosoms. To insult a hostess' skills was a grave matter. This could be the scandal of the year unless someone gazumped Isabel's performance by eloping with a footman.

  Charlotte half rose, her hands flat on the pure linen tablecloth. "You go too far, Lady Isabel. Recant your accusation."

  Isabel ignored Charlotte and removed the top slice of bread and laid it to one side. She then dissected the savoury bite with the tip of her knife, peeling the wafer thin cucumber slice from its resting place. Examination complete, she delivered her autopsy findings. "Dry on the outside, soggy on the inside. Consistent with a sandwich of at least three hours old."

  Charlotte pushed her chair away with a squeak and stood. "Take it back. My sandwiches are less than an hour old. Why, the bread is practically still warm from the oven."

  Isabel laughed, and adopted a condescending tone to deliver her final blow—the one she hoped would be too great an insult for Lady Charlotte to leave unanswered. "No one is blaming you that your staff prepared our tea too far in advanc
e. No doubt you were too busy staring in the mirror looking for wrinkles to supervise or ensure they received proper instruction."

  Whispers turned into shocked intakes of breath. Someone even squeaked in alarm. Isabel held the rapt attention of a dozen women in the palm of her hand. She could scream at the top of her lungs and be ignored, but insulting a fellow aristocrat's housekeeping skill while implying she had wrinkles was an entirely different matter.

  Charlotte's face turned red and her cheeks puffed out. "You will apologise for you heinous accusation, Lady Isabel."

  Isabel met Charlotte's furious gaze. Events were going swimmingly. Why on earth would she apologise now? "No."

  The hostess rounded the table, the silk of her skirts swishing with each step. Isabel held her place. The slap came hard and she closed her eyes as heat bloomed over her cheek. The play had reached its culminating moment.

  "I will have satisfaction," Charlotte said.

  Isabel opened her eyes and fixed a bored gaze on her opponent. "Tomorrow morning then, at first light. Be warned, I prefer a blade, not a pistol, and you will want to bring a second, in case you are too scared to defend your sandwiches yourself."

  2

  Isabel

  * * *

  Isabel was already dressed and standing at her window as the first faint blush of dawn crept over the horizon. For the first time in weeks she felt alive, as though her blood was infused with champagne bubbles. Then she wondered if that was a possible mage taint, to have expensive alcohol in your veins instead of blue blood?