Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [183]
“Well, that’s the point,” he said slowly. “Ye might. And it’s because ye dinna take things as serious as they are. Ye come from a place where things are easier, I think. ’Tis not a matter of life or death where ye come from, to disobey orders or take matters into your own hands. At worst, ye might cause someone discomfort, or be a bit of a nuisance, but it isna likely to get someone killed.” I watched his fingers pleating the brownish plaid of his kilt as he arranged his thoughts.
“It’s the hard truth that a light action can have verra serious consequences in places and times like these—especially for a man like me.” He patted my shoulder, seeing that I was close to tears.
“I know ye would never endanger me or anyone else on purpose. But ye might easily do so without meanin’ it, like ye did today, because ye do not really believe me yet when I tell ye that some things are dangerous. You’re accustomed to think for yourself, and I know,” he glanced sidewise at me, “that you’re not accustomed to lettin’ a man tell ye what to do. But you must learn to do so, for all our sakes.”
“All right,” I said slowly. “I understand. You’re right, of course. All right; I’ll follow your orders, even if I don’t agree with them.”
“Good.” He stood up, and picked up the belt. “Now then, get off the bed, and we’ll get it over with.”
My mouth dropped open in outrage. “What?! I said I’d follow your orders!”
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