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Chapter Eleven
When Chrisdean read the letter, the blood drained from his face. He didn’t want to be rude to Nimue, but he also didn’t want to be around her as he contemplated his options, so Chrisdean made his way back to the castle, all but running until he reached his study. In its safety, he dared to open the letter again, unfolding the paper carefully and readings the words once more.
Laird MacIntosh,
You are to return Lady Nimue to her father within a fortnight. Failure to comply
with this order will result in the English forces attacking and destroying
the MacIntosh lands.
Furthermore, if you fail to return her, I will send you Laird MacLellan’s head.
Perhaps it can keep her company in the Highlands.
George Wentworth
Earl of Stanford
Earl of Stanford. That’s the man that Nimue was supposed to marry.
Chrisdean had heard those rumors, just like everyone else around Scotland had, and he remembered the name George Wentworth very well. He had never thought the man would demand that Chrisdean gave Nimue back to her father, though, at least not in such a violent and threatening way.
Chrisdean slammed his fist on his desk, cursing himself for being so stupid. It was his fault, he told himself, that George Wentworth even knew about Nimue’s whereabouts, as he had been the one to reveal them. Without anyone knowing, he had written to Nimue’s father, asking for his alliance and assistance, thinking that perhaps the man would be more inclined to help if he knew about his upcoming marriage to his daughter. But now, Chrisdean could see that he had been sorely mistaken. Perhaps kidnapping Nimue and bringing her to the Highlands had angered the Laird, enough to ask Wentworth for assistance, or perhaps he would never change his mind about the English, and no matter what Chrisdean did, he would never be on his side.
Either way, Chrisdean knew that he should never have sent that letter requesting his help. He should just have gone through with the wedding, as that would force the Laird’s hand. Surely, the man couldn’t oppose him when he was Nimue’s husband, as that would only put Nimue in danger.
With a sigh, he began to pace around the room, his gaze fixed on his window. He could see the stables from there, but he couldn’t see Nimue, and he wondered where she could be.
He knew he had to talk to her. Returning her to her father would undoubtedly result in the English attacking the MacIntosh clan, and with Laird MacLellan on their side, few would support Chrisdean. The fear that the English had instilled in his neighboring clans was too strong for them to be of any help.
Na . . . the only thing that we can do is marry.
Determined, Chrisdean left his study, hurrying through the castle's corridors as he looked for Nimue. In the end, he found her where he should have looked for her first, sitting at her favorite spot in the gardens, surrounded by rosebushes and the sound of birds singing in the trees. The sight gave him pause, and he stood there for a moment, watching her.
He saw the way that the light shone off her hair, the way it made her skin look golden. He saw the small smile that graced her lips when a young bird flew close to her, its wings fluttering. He saw her hands, soft and delicate, smoothing her dress just so that she would have something to do; Chrisdean had noticed that she often fidgeted.
The truth was that he had grown to like Nimue, if he were honest with himself, which only complicated things for him. Everything had been easier when Nimue had been just a means to an end, a way for Chrisdean to secure an alliance with her father and nothing more. Now that he had grown to like her, though, he couldn’t help but worry that a marriage between the two of them would make her miserable. How many times had she already rejected him, after all? How many times had she pushed him away and said that she would never marry him? Chrisdean had lost count.
Could he really sentence her to a life of misery, he wondered? Could he force her into an unwanted marriage without a care for her feelings?
Ach, I’m bein’ ridiculous. We must marry, and there is na question about it. This is bigger than her or me.
Having made his decision, Chrisdean walked up to Nimue and sat down beside her on the bench, his own hands busying themselves with the hem of his shirt. He didn’t know how to initiate such a conversation, and so he remained silent for a few moments, his gaze glued onto the horizon.
“There’s somethin’ wrong, isna there?” Nimue asked, and the fact that she didn’t sound surprised at all made Chrisdean frown. “That letter . . . it was the letter, right? What did it say?”
Chrisdean turned to look at Nimue, then, and he was surprised by the look of concern on her face. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but the most he could manage was an unpleasant grimace.
“Aye,” he admitted. “It’s bad news, Nimue.”
“Aye, I thought so,” she said. “What is it?”
Chrisdean hesitated, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he considered the best way to break the news to Nimue. Taking one of her hands in his own, he pulled the letter out of his pocket and handed it to her, thinking it would be better for her to read it herself.
As Nimue read the letter, her eyes widened, and her lips parted, a frown of worry clouded her face. “George Wentworth,” she said, her tone dripping with hatred. “Of course, . . . that vile man doesna have anythin’ better to do than give me faither orders. How . . . how did he find out that I’m here?”
“I sent yer faither a letter, tellin’ him that ye were here and that we’re gettin’ married,” Chrisdean said. “I wanted to ask for his support and . . . weel, I thought that if ye kent that he approves of our marriage, then ye’d be more inclined to accept me proposal.”
