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Chapter Twenty-Five
The night came sooner than Nimue would have liked. The entire time that she stayed in that tent, she kept wishing that someone would come for her, but as sunset approached, it became more and more clear to her that no one was coming.
Still, she didn’t lose hope entirely. Even if Chrisdean found out days, weeks, months later, he would still come for her, she knew.
“It’s time,” said a voice from the opening of the tent, and Nimue turned to see one of the Earl’s men there, waiting for her to follow him. With a glance at her father, she stood and stepped outside, her father following her close behind.
There was nothing romantic about the camp, but then again, she had never expected anything like that. She must have been the only woman in history, she thought, to have two weddings within a few days of each other, and the thought drew a bitter laugh out of her despite herself.
There would be no candlelight, no beautiful dress, no feast after the ceremony to celebrate, and Nimue was grateful for all that. She didn’t know if she could handle anything more than a quick ceremony, anything more than a few words uttered to make it legal. She didn’t want anything else, thinking that it would feel too much like a betrayal of the marriage and the husband that she already had.
The only light in the camp was that of the fire, its flames dancing in the pit. Wentworth stood at the other side of it, and the sight gave Nimue pause. She stopped dead in her tracks, the reality of it all crashing down around her, and for a moment, she felt as though she couldn’t breathe, her sorrow punching all the air out of her lungs. Her knees and her hands began to tremble, and dizziness came over her that left her scrambling for something to hold onto.
It just so happened that the only thing within her grasp was the English soldier’s shoulder, and she leaned heavily on him, causing him to sway before he managed to catch her.
“Nimue!” her father exclaimed, but his voice sounded so far away that Nimue didn’t even turn to look at him. She gasped for air, the edges of her vision blurring and darkening as her panic took over, and the only things that held her up was the soldier.
She couldn’t break down, she told herself. She couldn’t afford to do so, not when she knew that Wentworth would do something to her family if he didn’t get what he wanted. She steadied herself, breathing in deeply to calm herself down, and slowly, her vision and hearing began to come into focus again, as though she were being pulled out of water.
“What is the delay?” Wentworth demanded. “Nimue, come. We don’t have all night for this.”
Nimue somehow doubted that, but she didn’t voice any complaints. Instead, she pushed herself off the soldier, and, under the worried gaze of her father, she made her way to where Wentworth was standing.
There was no denying that he looked handsome. He was tall and slim, almost wiry in his build, but Nimue had seen the strength his body. His jawline was sharp, and his eyes were bright under a pair of thick, dark eyebrows.
He must have taken after his mother, she thought.
Despite his appearance, though, Nimue hated the mere sight of him, and she could never find him anything but repulsive. Anyone who knew him was bound to be repelled by his personality, and any charm he had quickly disappeared.
“Finally,” the Earl said when Nimue reached him and then turned to the priest. “Shall we begin?”
Nimue nodded with a final look at her father, who stood behind her, looking like a guard dog. She knew, though, that there was nothing he could do. How could one man fight an entire army? Besides, her father may have been a great warrior once, but now he was older, more fragile, and Nimue didn’t think that he would easily survive a swordfight.
The priest’s words were noise in Nimue’s ears as the man began to speak, and she didn’t manage to listen to any of it. Just like her wedding ceremony with Chrisdean, this one was a blur, though for different reasons. There was the same tightness in her chest, the same nausea, the same trembling of her hands, but for opposite reasons, and by the time it was all done, there was a bad taste at the back of Nimue’s mouth.
She hadn’t been expecting Wentworth to grab her and kiss her. His hands were possessive on her waist, fingers digging deep into her flesh to the point that she feared there would soon be bruises on her skin. His lips were insistent, rough, just as demanding as the man himself, and he tasted of wine. It made her feel sick, the bile rising to the back of her throat, and she wanted nothing more than to get away from him.
Nimue fought against him, her hands coming up in fists to punch at his chest, trying to shove him away from her. Despite her efforts, Wentworth didn’t let go until he had taken what he wanted from her, and even then, he kept Nimue close.
“Time to celebrate, don’t you think?” Wentworth asked, and that took her by surprise.
“Celebrate?” she said. “How do ye plan on celebratin’?”
“How do you think?”
Letting go of her, Wentworth and his men began to bring out every flask of alcohol they had, greedily drinking it. Nimue watched them for a moment, wondering how long it would all last, and then she began to make her way back to the tent, but a hand stopped her. Wentworth pulled her back to his side, and Nimue could only huff in annoyance as he made her sit by the fire.
“You’re the bride!” he said, his tone dripping with fake, cloying sweetness. “Don’t you want to celebrate our wedding? I know for certain that the men want you to stay here.”
Nimue glanced at the men around her, who seemed more interested in the alcohol than they were at her. Still, she sat there, on the log, hands clasped in her lap, as Wentworth sat down next to her.
“Why are ye doin’ this?” she asked. “I understand why ye wanted to marry me, but why are ye doin’ this to me? I dinna wish to be here. Must I really stay? Canna I just go back to the tent?”
“Well, that’s not your tent anymore,” Wentworth said, as he pointed a finger at a big tent at the other side of the camp. “That is your tent now. Our tent.”
It hadn’t occurred to Nimue that she would be sleeping in the same tent as Wentworth, though, of course, it made sense. They were husband and wife now, she reminded herself.
And she doubted that Wentworth would be satisfied with simply sleeping. He would undoubtedly want to consummate their marriage, and Nimue felt another wave of panic rise inside her, crashing over her and pulling her under.
