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Chapter Seven
Ever since Chrisdean had returned to the castle, he had stopped thinking about Nimue and started to think about his people and his clan's future. Of course, that didn’t last long, as Nimue seemed to do anything in her power to anger him.
When she had refused to sit next to him so blatantly, in front of his entire clan, Chrisdean’s rage had threatened to bubble over. It had taken all of his self-control to stop himself from lashing out at her when his clansmen and women were right there, watching and listening to his every word. He had thrown that feast for her, he had done everything he could think of to make her feel welcome, but Nimue still seemed to despise him.
For a while, Chrisdean tried to keep his attention away from Nimue. If she wanted to sit at the other table, then he had no reason to stop her, he told himself. He immersed himself in conversation with Brock and drank cup after cup of wine, but none of it was enough to keep him distracted for long.
Eventually, his gaze found Nimue again, and he saw Mairi talking to her. Even though he couldn’t hear her, he knew precisely what she was saying, but he wished that she hadn’t; Chrisdean didn’t want or need anyone else to fight his battles, even if he had no idea how to fight them himself.
He wasn’t surprised to see Nimue approach his table after Mairi had spoken to her, nor was he surprised to see that all of his clansmen and women were looking at her once more, staring like hawks. When Nimue sat down next to him, clearing her throat as though to get his attention, Chrisdean turned to look at her.
“I see ye found yer way to the table,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I’d rather choke on me wine than be here, but Mairi said ye’ll tell me why ye brought me here in the first place,” Nimue said, giving him a wooden smile that didn’t warm up her eyes one bit. “Seein’ as I wish to ken why ye dragged me all the way here, I thought it would be wise to take me seat next to ye. I canna avoid ye all night, can I?”
“Ye could, but then ye wouldna ken what ye wish to ken,” Chrisdean pointed out. “But I’m afraid ye’ll have to wait until the end of the feast. I have no desire to discuss such matters with ye in front of everyone.”
The look that Nimue gave Chrisdean was a scathing one, and he recoiled from it, a small frown appearing on his face. “I said I’ll tell ye,” he reminded her. “Canna ye be patient for once?”
“I think I’ve been verra patient, me Laird.”
There it was again, his title used as an insult. There was something about Nimue’s tone when she said those words that made Chrisdean mad with rage, but he refrained from berating her. Nimue already hated him; he didn’t want to give her another reason to detest him even more.
As far as marriages went, theirs had not started well. Then again, they were not married yet, Chrisdean reminded himself, but that would come soon. Now that Nimue was there with him, away from her home and her father, he was certain that he could convince her to marry him. If promises of seeing her father and her lands once more didn’t work, then threats would.
Nimue spent the rest of the evening in silence next to Chrisdean, no matter how many times he tried to engage her in conversation. Eventually, he gave up and only spoke to Brock and his closest men, impatient for the feast to come to an end, thinking that perhaps the entire feast had been a mistake or that he should have at least shared his plans with Nimue before throwing one. As it were, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy any of it.
By the time his men were drunk, some of them retiring to their beds and others sleeping right there on the tables, Chrisdean had downed several cups of wine himself, and it didn’t take him long to find the courage to turn to Nimue, who pinned him with that piercing gaze of hers once more, forcing him to falter for a moment.
“Weel . . . ye wanted to ken why ye’re here, didna ye?” he asked her as he stood, offering his arm to her. “Come with me. I’ll tell ye everythin’.”
Nimue hesitated for a moment, but Chrisdean didn’t need to ask twice before she took his arm and followed him out of the room. Chrisdean took her outside, to the gardens, where the torches and the moon illuminated the bushes, and the breeze shook their leaves.
He had always known that she was beautiful from the first time that he laid eyes on her. Now that he could look at her, though, truly look at her, without worrying that she would run, without that dreadful distance that always seemed to be between them, he could see every small detail, from the flecks of gold in her eyes to the tiny freckle over her brow. Having her so close made all words die in his throat before they could make it past his lips. His breath came out in staccato puffs, his heart beating faster than it ever had for a woman.
“Weel?” Nimue asked, impatient, her hands on her hips.
Chrisdean took a deep breath, mimicking her position. “I brought ye here because I want ye to be me wife,” he said. “I kent that yer faither would never agree to this, so I couldna ask him for yer hand. I’ve heard the rumors . . . we all have. Yer faither wishes to side with the English, and that’ll ruin us all, Nimue. But if we marry, then yer faither will have na choice but to join the Highlands in our cause. And if he joins, then the rest of the Lowland clans will, too. He’s an influential man; he has more sway than anyone else.”
There was silence between them, and Chrisdean couldn’t quite decipher the look on Nimue’s face, though he could tell with certainty that there was a healthy dose of rage there, as much as he didn’t understand it. As far as he was concerned, his plan was flawless.
“Ye took me out of me home, and ye brought me here to marry me,” Nimue said, and it wasn’t a question but rather a repetition of Chrisdean’s words. “And ye did it to unite the clans.”
Chrisdean didn’t say anything since he didn’t think it was needed. He watched as Nimue shook her head, a throaty, humorless laugh escaping her lips.
“Ye canna be serious!” she said, her voice rising an octave higher. “Ye thought that I would agree to this. Ye thought that ye could simply bring me here and force me to marry ye? Weel, ye were wrong, me Laird, verra, verra wrong. Aye, I indeed disagree with me faither, and it’s true that I wish to see the clans united against the English, but I am tired of being a pawn in men’s games. Ye canna do as ye please and na think about the consequences of yer actions. Na one can, na ye, na me faither, na anyone else! I’m na property, me Laird. I’m na an object.”
Chrisdean was stunned by the sudden outburst, not because he hadn’t expected any resistance from Nimue, but rather because it was the most he had heard her talk ever since they had met. He blinked a few times, the wine coursing through his veins making it even harder to concentrate and shook his head.
“Ye said it yerself, ye wish to see the clans united,” Chrisdean said. “This is the best way to unite the clans, dinna ye see? Yer faither will have na choice but to join us.”
“I willna throw away me future just because of yer own ambitions,” Nimue spat. “I wish to marry for love, na for a political reason. If ye wish to fight the English, then I’m on yer side, but I willna be yer wife. I dinna love ye. I dinna ken who ye are at all!”
“Ye’re a fool if ye think that ye’ll ever be allowed to marry for love,” Chrisdean said. That was the fate of all noblemen and women, after all. They all had to marry for political reasons. “Would ye rather marry an Englishman? At least I’m a Scot! Would ye rather let yer faither marry ye off to a stranger?”
That seemed to give Nimue pause, but it wasn’t long after that that she regained her composure—and her anger. “I dinna wish to marry ye or an Englishman. In fact, I dinna wish to marry at all, especially if all men are like ye!” she said, jabbing a finger at Chrisdean’s chest.
Chrisdean’s gaze followed the movement of Nimue’s finger, and then his eyes snapped back up to hers. If words wouldn’t convince her, then perhaps actions would, he thought, before he grabbed her by the waist, crashing his lips against her own.
