Layers to Peel

by Tilly Wallace

  He twisted her arms behind her back and used one of his large hands to hold both of hers in place as he knelt on the bed next to her. With his other hand, he drew up her skirts.

  She fought. Oh, how she fought. No man would lay a hand on her. She twisted and squirmed but could not break his hold, nor could she lever herself up. Her legs kicked out but could not connect with his shins. She tried to spit but only succeeded in gulping mouthfuls of quilt. Cool air washed around her buttocks as he pulled aside her skirts. A tear ran down her face and was wiped away by the fabric under her cheek.

  As she fought, small details registered with her body. Given his larger size and heft, he could have simply knelt on her and she would have disappeared into the mattress. And yet from his position beside her, he only leaned sufficient weight on her back to hold her down. The hand holding her wrists had a gentle grasp. He kept her captive, but not tight enough that it would result in bruises.

  The first smack on her bare bottom sent her immobile with shock. She had been a child the last time her father took a switch to her backside, and even then only ever through layers of clothing. This sharp bite was like a bee sting. She jerked under his hold and then his large hand rubbed her flesh, soothing the angry mark, as though he did not want to hurt her. Turning her face, she screamed her frustration and rage into the quilt.

  Another whack fell and burned her skin, and again he rubbed her buttocks. The sting rolled outward and turned to heat under his palm and a moan rose unbidden in her throat. Pieces of a puzzle fell into place for both her body and mind as Alick restrained her and held her captive. Here was a man who might use his strength not to control her, but possibly to protect her. Her conscious mind struggled to make a connection that her body yearned for.

  The third smack struck her bottom and she jerked, but this time, not from shock. This time, the blow speared heat straight to her core. His hand stroked lower over the curve of her arse. His fingers dipped between her cheeks and over hot flesh and she moaned aloud. She closed her eyes and turned her face into the quilt as pleasure burst over her body. Like when he kissed her in the dark and his tongue thrust into her mouth, but more intense, this radiated from her centre to the outer edges of her skin.

  His finger rubbed over her nerves and her breath shortened as she waited for the next smack. Yet his hand lingered, stroking the curve of her body. She chewed mouthfuls of blanket, trying to stop herself from crying out again as her body bucked against his hand. Not to escape, but seeking more. When slap number four fell, it made her rock back into his hand. His hand slid under her and a large calloused finger pressed into her entrance while his thumb drew circles on her nub. The spanking sent fire racing along her skin and his hand burned her from the inside out.

  Tension built as her hips rocked against him. Her body sought release and her tears became those of frustration as she desperately sought to crest a peak out of her reach. Another smack fell, the large palm soothing while the fingers of the other hand thrust up into her. Her back arched and he continued the pressure. Circling, pushing, as she cried out. Her brain didn't even register that he was using two hands and only the gentle weight of his elbow in the small of her back kept her in place.

  With her hands free, she stretched and fisted the quilt, pawing and releasing like a cat. Then he pinched her hot cheek with one hand as he thrust two fingers into her depths. Isabel cried out, her voice hoarse as her body capitulated to him, and with her submission, release exploded through her.

  He crooned to her in Gaelic as he continued to stroke her while the sobs and spasms racked her body. She clenched around his fingers as he drew the moment out. Her bones turned to liquid and all the tension drained away as she slumped, limp, over the bed.

  He dropped her skirts back over her bottom and then moved over her body, caging her beneath him. His chest was a light pressure against her back as he tilted her head and kissed her with a gentle caress of his lips, soothing and comforting like the strokes after the spanking.

  He rolled to the side so they lay beside one another, and his eerie, too-pale gaze saw her, captured her, held her. "When you have gathered your thoughts, you will return to the dining room and apologise to Aster and Ianthe."

  11

  Alick

  * * *

  Alick had a damned stiff walk back to the dining room. Changing forms wouldn't have alleviated the problem, as the wolf suffered alongside him. He never expected a spanking to make him as hard as granite. When he’d pursued Isabel from the room he had no thoughts of harming the lass, but she needed to be punished for what she had said and done.

  Hamish had yelled, "Human, Alick—don't panic her further."

  Obeying his captain and pack leader meant he couldn't tear off his clothes and tackle her to the expensive Persian rugs like he wanted. Running in his two-legged form was slower and clumsier on the stairs and he made her room just as she slammed and locked the door in his face. Then he had spied the set of armour with its large axe.

  To give his new wife due respect, she certainly put up a decent fight. Luckily he caught the glint of steel as she drew the knife and was able to toss her to the bed before either of them was hurt. The woman certainly committed to a fight and didn't hold back.

  Alick lived in a constant fear of crushing a woman beneath him and once he had her face down on the bed, he only exerted enough pressure to contain his wildcat as he paddled her bottom. He nearly couldn't go through with it when he exposed those round, taut globes. They called to him to be licked and nibbled instead. He raised his hand for the first smack before he lost his courage to carry through his threat of punishment and dire consequences.

  With each spank, he trusted his wolf to use its heightened senses to monitor every sound and movement she made. He was ready to stop the instant he caused her any real pain or distress. Instead, he caught the hitch in her breath before she even realised she did it. He had soothed each slap, not wanting to cause her further upset, and in the process, he brought her pleasure.

  Through the course of his life Alick had encountered different types of sexual preferences. He had seen women and men who found release through being bound and spanked. Some even sought the taste of a lash. He could never give control over his body to another, but he wondered if something about being held captive allowed Isabel to capitulate.

  As he held her, he kept her restrained but also protected. Did her body know that he only used as much strength as necessary to stop her hurting either of them? She was a woman who fought the world, and in him she found an opponent who could best her while still caring for her. He lifted the burden of always being in control from her, and in doing so freed her body and mind to embrace release.

  Not that he would suggest that the former Lady Isabel needed to adopt the role of being submissive. He suspected that would earn him a blade through his eye socket. No. She was the rare type of woman who would never willingly hand over control to a man; he needed to earn it from her. Events and tension between them had reached a boiling point in her room and broke the locks holding her body prisoner.

  It was an interesting response and one to mull over. Or one to discuss with Ianthe, if he could summon the courage. The courtesan would know far more than he on the subject and might be able to offer him suggestions as to how to handle the hellcat. His wolf certainly had some ideas of exactly what it wanted to do with her.

  He returned to the dining room where the split in those assembled became more obvious. His side talked and laughed, and the other, where the duke sat with a few associates, was washed in dour silence. Each aristocrat was intent on the serious business of draining his wine glass.

  "You seem to possess all your fingers, still," Ewan said as Alick took his seat.

  "Aye, but the lass nearly stuck me in the ribs with a knife." He would never live it down if the woman got the better of him in a fight. She had a fine aptitude and he would look forward to teaching her other ways to beat a man in a tight situation.

  "You ma
y need to sleep with one eye open." Hamish refilled his glass and laughter shone in his cousin's eyes.

  It was all right for him; Aster would never bring weapons to their bed. Her gentle disposition was the perfect match for her calm husband. Alick's own rage at the world was matched by his bride's fury, and he worried she would carve out his ribs during the night. Perhaps he should have let the unknown assassin duel Isabel. But no, he couldn't stomach the thought of whatever plan Balcairn had concocted that involved putting her into that man's bed. A modicum of relief eased through his body that at least he stymied the part of the duke's plot that would have injured his proud daughter.

  My mate, his wolf whispered from deep inside him. As if it could be that simple and not a fancy imaging he had concocted to ease his loneliness.

  A sigh blew out from between his clenched teeth. All problems for another day. Tonight he was supposed to celebrate. He took a drink and let the conversation wash over him and hoped the night would soon end.

  The room fell silent as Isabel returned. Alick watched her over the rim of his glass. Lord, but she was a beautiful woman. Not the sort of lush beauty like Ianthe, that inspired weaker men to write sonnets and poetry. His wife was strong and proud like someone used to ruling over the common folk. A woman fit to lead men into battle. The tight lines around her eyes had gone and even her walk seemed more fluid and relaxed.

  The wolf grinned but Alick kept his face staunch. His actions had loosened her limbs but there was no need to point it out to everyone. Enough for him to take quiet satisfaction in teaching her a lesson about her body. He hoped it was an experience she enjoyed.

  Isabel stopped before Ianthe and Aster and clasped her hands in front of her body. "Ladies, I wish to apologise for my earlier words. They were harshly spoken. This day has been a long and arduous one and it was not right for me to lash out at you. I do hope you will accept my apology and that we can find a way forward."

  Aster smiled; forgiveness came easily to that one. "Of course. You have endured a stressful few days."

  Ianthe arched an eyebrow and kept her silence. The courtesan would be harder to win over. She looked for deeper motives in the actions of those around her. She did, however, incline her head in the smallest gesture of acceptance.

  "Thank you. Tomorrow perhaps we could start anew?" Isabel murmured. Her tongue wet her lips and Alick moved in his seat. Parts of his body still hadn't settled from their heated encounter and his clothing was far too restrictive.

  She stared down at her hands. "But now, if you would excuse me, I will retire."

  The new Mrs. Ferguson turned and dropped a curtsey to Alick.

  "Husband," she whispered, while keeping her lashes lowered, but he caught the twitch of her lips. Cheeky woman; while looking demure she still managed to infuse that one word with irony and sarcasm. Then she left, like a striking proud wraith.

  The duke watched his daughter leave and then fixed his new son-in-law with a stare. "Well, I have never seen Isabel so acquiescent. What on earth did you do?"

  Alick stared into his drink. "I spanked her."

  Balcairn's gaze widened for a moment and then he laughed. "I knew you were the sort of man she needed. More whip was always needed with that filly."

  Alick's hand tightened around his drink. He didn't hit the woman or hurt her. Why could Balcairn and his cronies not see the difference? With a few words he reminded all present that he was nothing but a blunt tool. He thought of Isabel's pleasure under his hand and of her throaty gasps and cries as release claimed her. No, these people would never understand.

  He caught Ianthe's gaze. "I didn't hit her. Not like that. I would never hurt her. I lightly spanked her and she—"

  He couldn't continue, not when so many ears listened, but he needed someone to know what had happened. Perhaps she could then explain it to him. Ianthe leaned a little closer to encourage his confidence.

  "Go on," she whispered.

  He dropped his voice, so only they would hear his quiet confession. "She found release through it, if ye ken my meaning."

  Ianthe arched an eyebrow and then quickly dropped it. "An interesting response, but perhaps not unexpected when one considers how tightly that woman is wound."

  Alick chuffed and took a sip of wine. Perhaps it was that simple: The noble lass needed to be unwound or let loose, like a mechanical toy. "I did not beat her. I would never do that to a woman."

  Ianthe squeezed his arm. "You and I know the difference; they do not. But ask yourself, does their opinion really matter?"

  He drew a deep breath and thought of the spasms that had racked his Izzy-Cat's body moments before she went limp. There was only one person's opinion that mattered. "No."

  He mulled over the one word that sprang to his mind when he thought of her—his. To those on the outside looking in, the marriage was a sham. But it was never that for him. One lick of her skin in the ballroom was all it had taken for the wolf to claim her, even if the man couldn't wrap his head around the idea.

  If the duke tried to retrieve his daughter now, he would be in for a fight. Alick kept close hold of those things he treasured, like his wife. His mate. The only question was, how could he tunnel a way to her heart and see if there was any hope the woman could spare the tiniest sliver of affection for him?

  The duke narrowed his gaze and stared at Alick over the top of his wine glass. "Well, you appear up to the task before you, and we shouldn't keep you overlong from the marriage bed."

  Something about his superior's dull gaze ate at him, as though he approved of what he imagined Alick would do with his well-bred daughter. The people present started to disperse and Alick said his goodnights to his family before walking the long corridors on his own, with a single candle to light his path.

  He found Isabel's room quiet and lit only by the dancing light of the fire. The room wasn't cold but perhaps she wanted the company of the flames. A servant had already made a rough repair to the door and he was able to close it behind him without needing a chair to prop it shut.

  The quilt on the bed was smoothed flat, with no sign of his new wife. He found her as he walked farther into the room, curled up in an armchair before the fire. She wore a delicate embroidered shift and a robe. A pistol lay in her lap with her fingers curled around the grip as though it were a toy a child might take to bed.

  He huffed a silent laugh and admired her for being prepared. Shame she ruined it by falling asleep. If that was where she felt safest, he would leave her to her slumber. He pulled back the bedsheets, then drew the blade from his boot and pricked his finger. Fat droplets of blood hit the linen below and bloomed, running along the threads of the fabric. He let them join up and form a larger pool.

  He had no idea what Balcairn expected to find in the morning, but hoped his wounded finger would provide sufficient evidence for him to release the dowry. Alick knew what he would do with the money: Give it all to Isabel. If the woman wanted to escape then she would have the funds to start a new life, with or without her brutish husband.

  He stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into bed. For a few minutes he relished the large comfortable bed and soft, but warm, bedding. As he listened to the gentle tick of the clock on the mantle, sleep claimed him and he drifted off.

  The fire had gutted out when he awoke and only a shaft of moonlight illuminated the room. A chill brushed over him and he reached to pull the quilt up, and then stopped. Would Isabel be cold? He should check, as that was the sort of thing a husband did even if his wife loathed him.

  He crept across the floor to where she still slept and pondered whether to disturb her or not. How did a man tell if a sleeping woman was warm enough? He let his wolf shimmer through the surface and used its far superior night vision. By the dim shaft of moonlight, he spotted tiny goose bumps along her arms.

  Blast it. He would have to move her and hope she didn't wake and shoot him in the face. He slid his arms under her body and lifted her close to his chest. She turned her face and snugg
led into him but remained asleep, the pistol still held in limp fingers. He'd worry about that once he moved her.

  He laid her on the side of the bed closest to the window and away from the door. Taking the weapon from her relaxed grasp, he placed it on the table next to the bed, where she would see it on waking. Then he tucked the blankets up over her shoulders. At least the bed was big enough they could both sleep without coming close to one another.

  While he had no intention of going near his new bride, on waking the next morning Alick found that slumbering bodies gravitate to one another. He occupied the middle of the bed, lying on his back, with Isabel curled by his side with her head resting on his bare chest as though he were a pillow.

  He should have slid out from under her.

  He should have moved.

  But he couldn't.

  By the soft morning light he gazed at her, lost in wonder. Strands of dark hair were feathered over her face and draped down over him. The gentle golden light softened the sharp lines of her face and yet again her regal beauty stunned him. Not soft and vulnerable like most noble lasses, but strong and proud. A Highland queen of long ago, and he had fought, and won, the right to call her wife.

  In his deepest reaches he admitted to jealousy at the love Hamish and Quinn had found. They had won their mates so easily. Alick assumed his path through life would be a lonely one. Most women baulked at the sight of him, and even the bobtails preferred it when he took them from behind, so they didn't have to look at him. Yet fate had delivered him a woman warrior. She may not want him, but he would do everything in his power to deserve her. If one day she looked at him with a modicum of affection instead of disgust, then he would be content.

  He brushed the lightest kiss on her brow as something warm and content stole into his heart. Then he slid his body out from under her and left the bed.