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“Aye. I wrote him before the ceremony,” Chrisdean said. “Do ye think I did the right thing?”
Brock hesitated, and Chrisdean didn’t like the silence that followed his question. When Brock spoke again, it seemed to Chrisdean that he was choosing his words carefully, deliberately.
“I think that ye did the best ye could under the circumstances,” the other man said. “Nimue may na be pleased, but ye did what had to be done. Ye may na be pleased either . . . are ye?”
Chrisdean turned to look at him then, and the concern on Brock’s face caught him by surprise. Brock had been the one who taught him how to be a Laird, and part of that lesson had been that his people always came first. Seeing him so concerned about his happiness made no sense to him, especially since Chrisdean himself thought that he was doing quite well, all things considered.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Why wouldna I be? I’m only worried about this war, but there’s na a thing I can do about it, na until the time comes. And when it does, we’ll be prepared.”
Brock gave Chrisdean a smile, but Chrisdean could see the worry etched on it still. He didn’t want him to worry about what he was going through, but he also didn’t know how to reassure him, so he remained silent as they rode their horses to the first village, which didn’t help with his panic over the way he had treated Nimue.
She would be awake by then, he thought. What could she be thinking? Would she be upset that he had left without saying anything, or would she be too angry about the previous night to care? Chrisdean didn’t know. All he knew was that he would have to apologize, and though he didn’t want to share anything of what had happened with Brock, he was still the best person to give him advice.
“Brock?” he asked, his tone hesitant. “What do ye do when Mairi is angry?”
Brock cocked an eyebrow at that, a small smirk etched over his lips. “I kent that there was somethin’,” he said. “What did ye do?”
“I dinna wish to talk about it,” Chrisdean said. “I just need to ken how to fix it.”
“Weel . . . it depends on what ye did, lad,” Brock said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Na all criminals deserve the gallows. Some things ye can fix with sayin’ that ye’re sorry. Other things ye canna fix at all.”
Chrisdean didn’t want to consider the possibility that he couldn’t fix things between him and Nimue. He had to believe that it was possible. Otherwise, he would go mad. “I must fix it, Brock. I just married the lass! How am I supposed to spend the rest of me life with her if she’s angry with me?”
“I’m sure that she’ll forgive ye, whatever ye did,” Brock said. “Ye’re a good lad. It canna be that serious.”
Chrisdean shook his head. He knew that it was far more serious than Brock could ever imagine, which only reinforced the worry that Nimue hated him. His hands gripped the reins tightly, so tightly that his nails dug into the flesh of his palms, and his skin paled, to the point that even Brock noticed.
“Chrisdean . . . it will all be fine,” the other man said. “Bring her some flowers. Mairi always likes it when I bring her flowers.”
Flowers. As if flowers will do anythin’.
“Verra weel,” Chrisdean said, instead of what he was thinking. Then, eager to change the subject once more, he asked, “Are the men ready for war? It’ll be sooner than we think, Brock. The Sassenachs are loomin’ right around the corner, and we . . . we dinna have the army to face them.”
“We will,” Brock assured him. “Once Laird MacLellan joins us, once the rest of the clans join us, we will.”
“People will die. Good men will die.”
“People always die.”
Chrisdean remembered his own parents and his sister, how they had all perished at the hands of the English. They hadn’t shown any mercy then, and he doubted that they would show any mercy now. If anything, he expected them to be even crueler, to take no prisoners and leave no one alive if they were given a chance. Chrisdean didn’t think that he could bring himself to do the same. It made him a better man, perhaps, but it also made him a weaker leader.
“Dinna fash yerself,” Brock said as if reading his mind. “Dinna ye think that a united Scotland can defeat those bastards? Have ye na seen Scottish lads fight? What will the Sassenachs do when they go up against our men? Na a shite, that’s what. Our men will have them runnin’ for the hills.”
Chrisdean smiled at the thought, though he doubted it was the truth. The English were well-trained and disciplined, and he doubted that they would run at the first sign of trouble. Still, imagining that they would was an amusing image.
“I hope ye’re right,” Chrisdean said. “I dinna think ye are, but I hope ye are.”
The two of them spent the rest of the ride in comfortable silence until they reached the first village. It was a small place, with a few farms and people who welcomed them warmly, a permanent smile on their faces. Chrisdean was glad to see that they were happy, that they were prospering, and that he was doing his job as a Laird. Many clans didn’t have the same luck, he knew, though that was mostly the fault of Lairds who didn’t care about their people.
He and Brock had to decline invitations to stay for the rest of the day and the night to follow. The two of them visited a few more villages before they reached the last one for that day, just as the sun was setting.
“We’ll have to stay here tonight,” Brock said. “I hope Nimue doesna miss ye too much.”
Chrisdean thought that Nimue would probably not miss him at all, but he didn’t share that with Brock. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he assured him. He didn’t feel ready to see her yet, as she still didn’t know what to do, other than bring her flowers like Brock had suggested. The mere prospect of meeting her again left him with trembling hands, and he had to shove that thought to the back of his mind while in Brock’s presence to not worry him any further.
That night, the two of them drank more wine than they should have—apparently, Chrisdean hadn’t learned his lesson—and ate the copious amount of food that the villagers had prepared for them before going to sleep. Chrisdean could hear Brock’s incessant snoring from when his head hit the pillow, but he didn’t have such luck himself. No matter what he did, sleep evaded him, and he ended up staring at the ceiling, thinking about how his life had taken such turns.
He had never particularly wanted to get married. It had never been one of those things that he had actively pursued, and so he had never given much thought to it. He had always known that any marriage he would have would be for political purposes, and he had never minded. To him, a marriage of love could be messy, much more dangerous than a strategic pairing.
And then he had begun to have feelings for Nimue, feelings that he had never wanted. He couldn’t deny it any longer, nor could he hide it from himself anymore. He had grown to like her, and he had done everything in his power to make sure that Nimue would hate him. Every step he had taken in their relationship had been the wrong one, and now he was stuck in a disaster that he couldn’t fix.
People have a change of heart all the time. Maybe I will, too, in the end.
With a sigh, Chrisdean stood quietly and dressed. It would be dawn soon, he thought as he glanced out of the window, and he wanted to return to the castle as soon as possible. No matter how much it scared him, he had decided that it was time to talk to Nimue.
And he needed some flowers.
