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Chapter Thirteen
Chrisdean wanted nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He was drinking, talking, and laughing with his clansmen, his exterior perfectly crafted and maintained. He tried his best to appear a happy newlywed, a man who was eager to start a life with his new wife.
On the inside, he was panicking.
Everything had gone according to plan, and he had gotten precisely what he wanted. His clan would be safe, and the Highlands would have the support of the strongest Lowland clan in the war that was sure to come against the English. He had managed to be the kind of leader that his father would have wanted him to be, the kind of leader that he wanted to be himself, and so Chrisdean was surprised to see that any feelings of triumph that he had were overshadowed by dread.
Dread, because that night, he would be expected to consummate his relationship with Nimue.
Chrisdean didn’t consider himself inexperienced in such matters, though he certainly wasn’t quite as experienced as some of his men, who seemed to have a child in every other town. For him, duty had always come first, and he had never had the time for women, not even those who would leave his bed before dawn.
What if I’m na good enough? What if she hates it?
It didn’t help that his plan to marry her for strictly political reasons had been foiled by his own feelings, which had sprung seemingly out of nowhere and had caught him by surprise. He didn’t want her to think that he was an inadequate husband or that he couldn’t perform as expected, but Chrisdean didn’t even know himself if he could. Most of all, he didn’t know what to do with that ball of lead that had settled in his stomach, those tangled up feelings that had turned him into a nervous wreck.
He figured that alcohol would help, though, and so he knocked back cup after cup of wine. Brock seemed more than happy to fill his cup for him every time that he emptied it, and the rest of his men kept his mind off the end of that night, for the most part, with their chatter. He told himself that all he needed to do was get through the feast and then the rest of the night, while hoping for the best.
Chrisdean was aware of Nimue next to him, who alternated between talking to the clansmen and women who offered their congratulations and watching him from the corner of her eye, but he never once gathered the courage to speak to her. He didn’t know what to say, and though he was certain that she wanted to speak to him, he didn’t give her a chance.
I’ll make it up to her the morrow--if she still wishes to be around me by then.
The night went by faster than Chrisdean would have liked, and eventually, Nimue excused herself. Chrisdean watched her, thinking about how she would be walking to his chambers and laying on his bed, a thought so unfamiliar that it left him with a frown. Chrisdean could have followed her. Perhaps he should have followed her, he thought, but instead, he stayed where he was, content to continue his conversations with his men and to drink more wine than he should.
“Willna ye follow yer bride?” Brock asked Chrisdean, once Nimue was gone. “It’s yer wedding night. Dinna ye think ye should go up there, lad?”
Chrisdean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, his fingers drumming a hectic rhythm on the surface of the table. “Na . . . why would I? I’m enjoyin’ meself right here.”
“I’m sure ye’ll enjoy yerself even more up there,” Brock said, and the rest of the men erupted in laughter. “What are ye waitin’ for? Go to yer bride!”
Chrisdean didn’t want to share his concerns with Brock, at least not in front of everyone else. Had it been just the two of them, perhaps he would have asked him for advice, he thought, as he couldn’t imagine anyone giving better advice than his godfather. It seemed to him as though everyone was listening, though, and having such a conversation in front of his men would only result in his ridicule, he thought.
Not seeing a way out, Chrisdean stood, forcing his lips to stretch into a grin. “Verra weel!” he said. “Since ye dinna want me company, lads, I’ll go to me wife!”
Another roar of laughter and Chrisdean began to make his way out of the room, his cup of wine still in his hand. As he walked through the door, he handed it to a servant and then stumbled up the stairs to his chambers.
When he opened the door, he found them empty.
Chrisdean frowned to himself, wondering where Nimue could be. Drunk as he was, it took him several moments to realize that she was perhaps in her own chambers, and he crossed the hallway to her door, knocking gently before opening it.
Sure enough, Nimue was there, in bed. Her wedding dress was draped over a chair, and Chrisdean couldn’t help but think that it didn’t look quite as good without her in it.
He didn’t know if she had been sleeping when he came in, but she was sitting up on the bed, her lips drawn into a thin line as she gazed at him. It would have given him pause, but he was drunk enough to think nothing of it, and instead, he began to take off his clothes, dropping them on the floor in a trail behind him as he approached the bed.
“Ye should have gone to me chambers, lass,” Chrisdean said, fumbling with his kilt. Taking it off had never seemed so complicated to him before. “I suppose they’re yer chambers noo, too.”
“I didna ken if ye’d want . . .” Nimue’s voice trailed off when Chrisdean finally managed to remove his kilt, throwing himself onto the bed once he was fully nude. “Ye’re drunk.”
Chrisdean frowned. “Aye. It’s me wedding night. How could I na be drunk on me wedding night?”
Nimue didn’t respond to his question. Instead, she shuffled to the side, moving away from Chrisdean, much to his surprise. When he slid his hand over her wrist, pulling her a little closer, he felt her stiffen, her muscles locking up.
“What is it, lass?” he asked.
“Whatever it is that’s supposed to happen, I dinna want it to happen when ye’re drunk,” Nimue said, snatching her hand back. “This is me wedding night, too. I dinna . . . I dinna want ye drunk.”
“Ach, I’m na that drunk,” Chrisdean said, waving a hand dismissively. “I can prove it to ye.”
Chrisdean moved closer to Nimue, his fingers trailing a path over her neck and dipping under her night shift, pushing the neckline lower. He watched as he revealed more of her pale skin, his gaze transfixed on her, unable to look away.
Nimue’s sharp inhale was a song to his ears.
