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Chapter Twenty-Three
Chrisdean was getting restless. He had begun to worry about Nimue after not seeing her for so many hours, and no matter how many times he told himself that he was being paranoid and that Nimue was simply busy with something else, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened to her.
He just couldn’t figure out what, and no one would tell him anything, not even Mairi, who knocked on his door every half hour to ensure that he was alright.
The healer’s concoctions had helped with the pain, making it subside enough for Chrisdean to be able to sit up on his own and even stand and walk around the room, and he tried to release all the energy that he had accumulated while stuck in bed by pacing around his chambers. Stubborn as he was, he was already thinking about the attack that they would carry out against the English camp, even though he had heard nothing about it from Brock.
He still refused to be left out of it. He would do anything it took to fight alongside his men.
A knock on the door pulled Chrisdean out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Brock there, as though summoned, looking at him with an expression that could only be described as grim. He had never seen that look on Brock before, and it didn’t take long for him to realize that something was wrong.
Nimue. He’s here to tell me about Nimue.
“Chrisdean—”
“What happened to her?” Chrisdean asked, taking the few steps that separated them until they were face to face. “It’s Nimue, isna it? What happened to her? Where is she?”
Brock gestured at the bed with a sigh, silently asking Chrisdean to sit down, but he refused. “Just tell me,” he said, the unnecessary wait only serving to feed his panic.
“Noo dinna fash yerself,” Brock said. “But it seems like the Sassenachs took Nimue, and…”
“Dinna fash meself?” Chrisdean all but growled, quickly losing his patience, as he had had very little to begin with. How could Brock tell him not to worry when Nimue was in the hands of the enemy? “And what am I supposed to do, then? Should I sit here and wait for them to bring her back?”
“That’s na what I said, Chrisdean.” Brock sighed, and he sounded exhausted, older almost, as though Nimue’s capture had affected him in ways that he didn’t want to show. But it was that worry behind his breath that reassured Chrisdean, if only a little. He wanted Brock to be worried. He wanted everyone to be worried so that they would join him in his quest to bring her back home.
“We need to find the camp,” Chrisdean said, as he rummaged through the pile of clothes on a nearby chair that had been stripped from him, his pain forgotten—or at least ignored—as he quickly dressed. “Do ye ken where they are?”
“Na, but I have someone who does.”
That gave Chrisdean pause. “Who?”
“A Sassenach soldier,” Brock said. “I found him outside the castle walls. He doesna want to tell me where the camp is, but that willna last for long. I can be verra . . . persuasive.”
Chrisdean knew just how persuasive Brock could be, but he didn’t have time to let him torture the Englishman endlessly until he gave them the location of the camp. With a grunt, he shoved his way past Brock, storming out of the room and down to the holding cells.
“Where do ye think ye’re goin’?” Brock asked as he rushed after him. Chrisdean didn’t reply. He didn’t need to give anyone an explanation as far as he was concerned.
“Chrisdean!” Brock shouted, and a heavy hand grabbed Chrisdean’s shoulder, stopping him. He turned around to look at Brock, jaw clenched and hands curled into fists, his breath ragged from the pain that had not yet faded. “Ye must calm yerself. Where are ye goin’? What will ye do? Will ye ride out in the woods, lookin’ for that camp? Ye’re hurt. How far do ye think that ye can go?”
“As far as I need to,” Chrisdean said. “It doesn’t matter, Brock. It doesn’t matter if I’m hurt or if I end up dying. I promised her that I’d protect her. I promised her that na harm would come to her.”
“And na harm will,” Brock said. “They are Sassenach soldiers, na brigands and thieves. They willna hurt her. They have na reason to.”
Chrisdean considered that for a moment, and, though he hated to admit it, he knew that Brock was right. Chrisdean could only think of one man who could have taken her, and that was the Earl, and the Earl wouldn’t risk hurting the woman he wanted to be his wife, nor would he let anyone else hurt her.
“Ye’re right,” Chrisdean said, releasing the breath that he had been holding onto in relief. “Ye’re right, but I still need to find her. I need to find her noo, Brock.”
“Ye canna find anyone, hurt as ye are,” Brock said. “I’ll go. I’ll take the lads, and we’ll bring her back.”
“Na . . . na, I’ll come with ye,” Chrisdean insisted. He could see that Brock was about to argue with him, but he didn’t want to spend his energy arguing, so he stopped him before he could speak. “I’ll be fine. I’ll stay out of yer way as much as I can. I just need to be there for her.”
Brock’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked at Chrisdean. He didn’t believe him, Chrisdean thought, but then again, he hardly believed himself. There was no telling what he would do once he would be in the heat of the battle. He could only assume that he wouldn’t be as careful as he had promised Brock.
“And dinna tell Mairi,” Chrisdean said.
With a snort, Brock shook his head. “I dinna have a death wish. If she kent that I’m lettin’ ye come with me, she would have me head.”
Chrisdean nodded, giving Brock a small, hesitant smile. He didn’t want to be too optimistic. He knew how vicious the Englishmen could be, and he had no doubt that they could lose some of their men once they found the camp, but he had no other choice. Not only did he need to take Nimue back to save her from the Earl, but he also had to show them that attacking Scotland would not give them what they wanted. He had to show them that his clan was strong, that any attacks against him and his people would be thwarted, that any war would mean bloodshed for their side.
