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She didn’t want him. She didn’t want that man anywhere near her, or any other man apart from Chrisdean, for that matter. But how could she avoid sleeping with him? Perhaps if she got him drunk enough, she thought, he would forget about it for a night, maybe two. But then she would have no other way of keeping him away from herself. Sooner or later, the time would come when he would want to make her his, and the thought brought tears to her eyes.
Tears that Wentworth seemed to notice.
“What are you crying about?” he asked, sounding inconvenienced by Nimue’s sadness. “It’s all crying and complaining with you. If you can’t be happy about this, then at least stop your crying.”
Nimue did as she was told, quickly wiping her tears away from her cheeks with the back of her hands. She didn’t want to anger Wentworth, as there was no telling what he would do in a fit of anger.
And so Nimue sat there, with her father on one side and Wentworth on the other, staring at the flames and wishing for the life that she had had only a few days prior. She imagined returning home to Chrisdean; she imagined that everything with Wentworth was nothing more than a nightmare and that with a blink of her eyes, she would wake up and find herself in Chrisdean’s bed, with him beside her.
I only need to believe in him. I must have hope.
When her father offered her a flask, Nimue took it in her hands and studied it for a moment. There was nothing peculiar about it, nothing that could have grabbed her attention, but looking at the flask was better, easier, than looking at her now-husband.
She took a big sip of what turned out to be whisky and then another and another before passing it back to her father. She wiped the drops that lingered on her lips with her sleeve, something that was so unlike her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. Besides, her dress was already torn and soiled at the hem, and there was no saving it. A stain or two would make little difference.
And me new husband will buy me all the dresses I want. He’ll dress me up like a wee doll, and he’ll lock me in a room, and he’ll only take me out when he wants us to play family.
Nimue laughed bitterly at the thought, shaking her head to herself. What good were dresses and riches? What good was her own safety when she didn’t even want her life?
“Why are ye laughin’, lass?” her father asked, a concerned frown on his face.
Nimue shrugged a shoulder. “Why wouldna I laugh? All this is ridiculous. I was happily married only two days ago and look at me noo. Married, again! And me husband isna even dead.”
“You seem to forget that I am your husband,” Wentworth said, his voice sharp and full of malice. “And the man you love so dearly will be dead very soon.”
Nimue turned to glare at him. She wanted to tell him that he would never be as good a fighter, as good a leader, as good a man as Chrisdean. She wanted to tell him that if Chrisdean had the chance to fight him, Wentworth would stand no chance against him. But of course, Wentworth wouldn’t give Chrisdean the chance to fight him because he was afraid. He already knew that he couldn’t beat him on his own, but the English army could easily destroy the Highlands with the help of the Lowlands. It was that on which he betted.
Nimue told him none of that, as she didn’t want to start an argument. Instead, she grabbed the flask back from her father, draining its contents, and then threw it onto the ground before she stood, making her way to Wentworth’s tent.
She wasn’t going to sit there and listen to him any longer. Perhaps if she could finally get some sleep, she would get a break from all the thoughts that raged in her head.
Wentworth didn’t try to stop her that time, and Nimue made it to the tent without anyone trying to hold her back. Wentworth’s tent was similar to the one she and her father had shared, but there were also lush furs that Nimue could only imagine were very warm at night.
Grabbing one, she lay down and wrapped herself in it, relishing its warmth. Her eyes began to close almost immediately, exhausted as she was from the sleepless nights that she had spent in that camp, and not even the soldiers and their rowdy talking outside the tent were enough to disturb her sleep.
When Nimue opened her eyes again, it was to see Wentworth standing over her, shaking her awake. The celebration seemed to still be going on outside the tent, and so Nimue couldn’t tell just how much time had passed, but she was no less tired than when she had first fallen asleep.
“Wake up,” Wentworth barked, an order that Nimue didn’t take well.
“What do ye want noo?” she demanded. “I havena slept for two days. I’m tired.”
“Too bad.”
Wentworth seemed to be in no mood to argue, but neither was Nimue. All she wanted was a few hours of sleep, but it seemed that he wouldn’t even give her that.
“I want you awake for this,” Wentworth added as he climbed over Nimue, grabbing her wrists and pinning them over her head before she had any time to react. Frozen, Nimue looked at him, eyes wide with fear, and after a moment of hesitation, she began to thrash under him, trying to throw him off her.
“Stop it,” Wentworth hissed, his grip tightening around her wrists. Nimue refused to stop, though. She fought him with everything that she had, legs kicking out, hips trying to push him far enough that she could hopefully escape.
And then what? What happens after I escape?
Wentworth would kill her father, or he would torture him, and Nimue didn’t know which one was worse. Even with that knowledge, though, she couldn’t get her body to stop fighting. Every reaction was subconscious, her body trying to protect her from that man, and she struggled against his grip, trying to kick him where it would hurt.
Even if she didn’t manage to push him away, she would make sure that he ended up with some marks of his own.
“I said stop it,” Wentworth repeated, struggling to hold her down. Nimue could see the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead, and his breath was coming out in pants against her face, warm and smelling of liquor. “You’re my wife now. This is your duty, isn’t it? I’ll have you any way I want. Besides, you have to have my children.”
Nimue didn’t want to bring a child of that man into the world. Children could have been her solace in such a marriage. She could have poured all her attention and love there, and they could have been the only thing to bring her joy, but she didn’t want anyone to have the Earl as their father.
“I will never have yer bairns,” Nimue said, her voice coming out ragged as she, too, began to tire. “Never!”
Wentworth let out a low, guttural growl. He seemed so frustrated with Nimue that he could hardly form words anymore, which pleased her. She was not going to make it easy for him, she decided. She would fight him to the very end.
Even as her body struggled, her mind was far away, still clinging to one small sliver of hope.
The hope that Chrisdean would come for her.
