Page 95 of Surrender Your Grace
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Mary had come and gone, quick and efficient as always, leaving Cici ready for bed. She stood in her night rail, auburn waves tumbling loose around her shoulders, staring into the fire. Her arms wrapped loosely around her waist, but her fingers trembled—betraying the storm inside her. Elizabeth’s confession echoed in her mind—unrepentant, cruel, final.
Cici hadn’t wept. She hadn’t screamed. She only felt hollow.
The door creaked open behind her, and the air shifted. In need of distraction from the storm of her thoughts, Cici turned toward her husband—never more grateful to see him. He leaned against the doorway, coat gone, shirt open at the collar, his gaze unreadable. Her relief dimmed when she spotted the thick length of leather in his hand.
“What is that?”
He pushed off the frame and stepped into the room. “A Scottish tawse. Laird MacPherson thought it might help me manage my duchess’ more rebellious inclinations.”
Her brow arched. “You’re not seriously going to spank me with that.”
His tone was calm. Affectionate. But firm. “You disobeyed me, Cici. I told you I was handling it.”
She lifted her chin. “But we put an end to it.”
“The end doesn’t excuse the means.”
“In this case, I think it does.”
“Cecilia…”
She nervously licked her lips. “Did you know you only use my full name when you’re vexed.”
“I’m more than vexed. I’m disappointed. And worried. Your recklessness could’ve cost us everything.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “But… can’t we make an exception this once? It’s been a harrowing day.”
“I think not. You’ll rest better with a clear conscience.” He sank into the armchair and patted his lap. “Come here.”
She hesitated. “There are plenty of ways to clear my conscience that don’t involve leather straps.”
“You’re stalling.”
“You noticed?” she said sweetly.
A flicker of a smirk tugged at his mouth. “We could’ve been finished by now—and well into the rubbing, kissing, and more that always follows.”
“That part’s always lovely. Can we skip to it?”
“No.”
“Well... if I’m already condemned, might I at least choose my punishment?”
“That’s not how this works.”
“There are rules for spanking?” she quipped, turning toward the armoire with a mutter. “Of course there are. Look who I’m talking to.”
“Cici…”
She smiled. That at least was progress.
After rummaging through the bottom drawer, she rose and walked back to him.
Andrew’s gaze dropped to what she held—and he blinked. “Where did you get that?”
“Your study. Right where you told Duncan it would be.” She held up the bundle of birch rod bound in twine—lightweight, flexible, and considerably less terrifying than the tawse. At least, she had to hope that proved true.
