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Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Stop it!”
Nimue was panting, her breath ragged and forced, her lungs desperate for air. Wrestling her father had been no easy feat, but she couldn’t stand by and watch when Chrisdean was so close to dying. He was hurt, he was in pain, and Nimue knew that he couldn’t fight as well as he normally would.
There was nothing fair about that fight.
“Ye canna kill him!” Nimue shouted at Wentworth. “How is this a fair fight? How is this fair for Chrisdean?”
“Nimue, step aside,” said Chrisdean, his words coming out between huffs of air. When Nimue turned to look at him, he was hunched over, hands braced against his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Nimue could see blood on his shirt, just below his ribs where his wound was, seeping through the fabric and staining it red. His hair was plastered onto his forehead, sweat dripping off his skin, and his eyes were wild, murderous.
She had never seen him like that before, and it scared her, not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of what he could do to himself in that state. He wasn’t thinking clearly, she knew. He was so focused on killing Wentworth that his own life didn’t matter to him at all.
“I will na,” Nimue said. “If ye want to kill each other, then ye’ll have to go through me first.”
Chrisdean hesitated, but Wentworth didn’t. Before Wentworth could attack, though, Chrisdean’s blade whizzed right by her head, the tip pointed at Wentworth. Nimue could feel her heartbeat through her entire body, the blood rushing through her veins, her body stiff as a board, frozen in that spot. Her hands shook, and when she regained her wits, she took a tentative step to the side, just enough to put some distance between her head and the two swords right next to it.
“I said step aside, Nimue,” Chrisdean repeated, but his gaze never left Wentworth as he spoke. “Ye’re in danger here. Go back to yer faither.”
“I willna leave yer side,” Nimue insisted. Two of them could be headstrong, after all. “I canna lose ye, Chrisdean. I canna let that man kill ye. How will I live with meself? I’d rather die than lose ye.”
“How sweet,” Wentworth said, his voice dripping with sarcasm and with the kind of hatred that made Nimue recoil . “Nimue, you seem to be forgetting that you’re my wife now.”
“A wife that ye were ready to kill,” Chrisdean spat. “Dinna pretend she means anythin’ more to ye than a military opportunity. All ye want her for is to make her faither and his clan support ye.”
Wentworth laughed, a deep, amused laugh that gave Nimue shivers. “What else is a wife good for?” he asked. “That and giving you an heir. Nimue should be happy that I promised her father I wouldn’t hurt her and her siblings. She should be happy that I even chose her in the first place.”
“If ye have so many other options, please choose someone else,” Nimue said, her tone pleading. “Let me go, please! I dinna wish to be with you, and ye can have anyone ye want.”
That seemed to give Wentworth pause for a moment before he turned to look at Nimue, a saccharine smile on his lips. “Well, I want you now,” he told her. “And I always get what I want. Besides, didn’t I rescue you from this brute? I believe that you should be much more thankful to me, Nimue. You’re being very ungrateful.”
“Did ye ask the lass if she wanted to be rescued?” Chrisdean asked. “I think that she was verra happy where she was.”
“Where will all this arguin’ get ye?” Nimue asked. She was tired of listening to the two of them, and she didn’t want to hear another word from Wentworth. All she wanted was for all of it to stop. Turning to Wentworth, she clenched her fists by her sides, biting back a frown. “Please,” she said, and the word was bitter in her mouth. Having to beg him for anything made Nimue sick to her stomach, but she would beg for something important if she was going to beg. “Please leave. Take yer men and return to England, I beg ye. Stop this battle. Enough men have died here today.”
Nimue watched as Wentworth blinked in what seemed to be surprise before he roared with laughter. Just that was enough to catch the attention of some of the men, she noticed, and the sounds of the battle began to die down, though not entirely. Those immediately around them had stopped to stare, as confused as she was, but at the edges of the camp, the battle still raged.
“Forgive me, but not enough men have died here until every last Scottish soldier has been killed; perhaps you’ll wish to change your tactic,” Wentworth said. “You are a beautiful woman, Nimue, but not beautiful enough to stop a war.”
“I’ve heard enough of ye,” Chrisdean said, and Nimue saw him as he raised his blade once more, ready to attack. Before she could move out of the way, though, she felt a rough hand on her arm, yanking her back, followed by the cold press of metal against the skin of her throat.
Wentworth had grabbed her, and now he was holding her arm in a vice grip. Nimue didn’t dare move, not when Wentworth could kill her so easily. He wouldn’t hesitate, she knew. He had no regard for her, and now that she had proved to be more trouble than she was worth, killing her may even seem like the better option to him, she thought.
The first thing she saw was Chrisdean’s face, his expression open and broken, hiding none of the pain that he felt. She wanted to tell him to be strong and not give Wentworth the satisfaction, but she knew that even speaking would put her at risk.
Not so long ago, she had been prepared to die if it would help put an end to it all. She had even pressed that blade against her own neck, ready to take her own life. Now that Chrisdean was there, though, she couldn’t lose hope. Besides, she knew that if Chrisdean saw her die, killed by Wentworth’s blade, he would never recover. She couldn’t do that to him; she couldn’t scar him in such a terrible way.
“Let her go,” Chrisdean demanded, his face contorted by fury, his lips curled back into a snarl. He looked so fierce, so terrifying that Nimue wondered how Wentworth didn’t recoil in fear. “If ye hurt her, I swear to the Lord, I’ll—”
“Kill me?” Wentworth asked, cocking a curious eyebrow. “Yes, yes, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. My men will kill you before you get to me.”
Nimue looked around her, noticing that the two sides had resumed their fighting. Men from both sides were falling dead, the clangs of their swords deafening in her ears. The ground was covered in pools of blood, so thick and plentiful that the stench permeated the air around them. All Nimue could see was death, and it broke her heart to know that many of the people that Chrisdean cared for were now lying on the ground, taking their last breaths.
“What will it take for ye to stop the fightin’?” Nimue asked, her body struggling against Wentworth despite her will. She only stopped trying to push him back when he pressed the blade harder against her throat, nicking her skin and drawing a few drops of blood. “I dinna want to see anyone else die because of me.”
“I am afraid that it’s a little too late for that,” Wentworth said before turning his attention back to Chrisdean. “Put your sword down, or she dies.”
“Ye wouldna dare,” Chrisdean hissed through gritted teeth. “Ye wouldna dare risk losin’ her faither’s support.”
