He sighed, exasperated, then sat down again on the stool. He looked at me levelly.
"Now, listen. Ye understand me, ye say, and I believe it. But there's a difference between understandin' something with your mind and really knowing it, deep down." I nodded, reluctantly.
"All right. Now, I will have to punish you, and for two reasons: first, so that ye will know." He smiled suddenly. "I can tell ye from my own experience that a good hiding makes ye consider things in a more serious light." I took a tighter hold on the bedpost.
"The other reason," he went on, "is because of the other men. Ye'll have noticed how they were tonight?" I had; it had been so uncomfortable at dinner that I was glad to escape to the room.
"There's such a thing as justice, Claire. You've done wrong to them all, and you'll have to suffer for it." He took a deep breath. "I'm your husband; it's my duty to attend to it, and I mean to do it."
I had strong objections to this proposal on several levels. Whatever the justice of the situation—and I had to admit that at least some of it lay on his side—my sense of amour-propre was deeply offended at the thought of being beaten, by whomever and for whatever reason.
I felt deeply betrayed that the man I depended on as friend, protector, and lover intended to do such a thing to me. And my sense of self-preservation was quietly terrified at the thought of submitting myself to the mercies of someone who handled a fifteen-pound claymore as though it were a flywhisk.
"I will not allow you to beat me," I said firmly, keeping a tight hold on the bedpost.
"Oh, you won't?" He raised sandy brows. "Well, I'll tell ye, lass, I doubt you've much to say about it. You're my wife, like it or not. Did I want to break your arm, or feed ye naught but bread and water, or lock ye in a closet for days—and don't think ye don't tempt me, either—I could do that, let alone warm your bum for you."
"I'll scream!"
"Likely. If not before, certainly during. I expect they'll hear ye at the next farm; you've got good lungs." He grinned odiously and came across the bed after me.
He pried my fingers loose with some difficulty, and pulled firmly, hauling me to the side of the bed. I kicked him in the shins, but did no damage, not having shoes on. Grunting slightly, he managed to turn me facedown on the bed, twisting my arm to hold me there.
"I mean to do it, Claire! Now, if you'll cooperate wi' me, we'll call the account square with a dozen strokes."
"And if not?" I quavered. He picked up the strap and slapped it against his leg with a nasty thwapping sound.
"Then I shall put a knee in your back and beat you 'til my arm tires, and I warn ye, you'll tire of it long before I do."
I bounced off the bed and whirled to face him, fists clenched.
"You barbarian! You… you sadist!" I hissed furiously. "You're doing this for your own pleasure! I'll never forgive you for this!" Jamie paused, twisting the belt.
He replied levelly, "I dinna know what's a sadist. And if I forgive you for this afternoon, I reckon you'll forgive me, too, as soon as ye can sit down again."
"As for my pleasure…" His lip twitched. "I said I would have to punish you. I did not say I wasna going to enjoy it." He crooked a finger at me.
"Come here."
I was reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the room next morning, and fiddled about, tying and untying ribbons and brushing my hair. I had not spoken to Jamie since the night before, but he noticed my hesitation and urged me to come out with him to breakfast.
"You dinna need to fear meetin' the others, Claire. They'll chaff ye a bit, likely, but it won't be bad. Chin up." He chucked me under the chin, and I bit his hand, sharply but not deep.
"Ooh!" He snatched his fingers back. "Be careful, lass; you don't know where they've been." He left me, chuckling, and went in to breakfast.
He might well be in a good mood, I thought bitterly. If it was revenge he'd wanted the night before, he'd had it.
It had been a most unpleasant night. My reluctant acquiescence had lasted precisely as far as the first searing crack of leather on flesh. This was followed by a short, violent struggle, which left Jamie with a bloody nose, three lovely gouges down one cheek, and a deeply bitten wrist. Not surprisingly, it left me half smothered in the greasy quilts with a knee in my back, being beaten within an inch of my life.
Jamie, damn his black Scottish soul, turned out to be right. The men were restrained in their greetings, but friendly enough; the hostility and contempt of the night before had vanished.