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Chapter Twenty-Nine
By the time Chrisdean killed the Earl, the fight between the English and his own men was almost over. He and Robert killed or captured the few Englishmen who were left, all of them uncertain of what to do now that they didn’t have a leader, and the fight soon reached its end.
Chrisdean couldn’t remember a single time when he had been as fatigued as he was at that moment. His body ached, and his wounds burned, causing him to double over as he walked, his hand coming up to clutch at the gash on his side. None of that mattered to him, though. All that mattered was that his men had just defeated the English in the first battle of the war that was to come.
He had no illusions. He knew it was a small victory and that they would have to fight many more battles to save their homes and their clans, but it was a first step towards defeating the enemy.
And Nimue . . . Nimue was safe and sound. He had been so worried about her, and the relief that washed over him when he first saw her was unlike anything he had felt before.
“Chrisdean!”
Chrisdean turned to see her running towards him, her arms already outstretched, until she reached him and pulled him into a tight embrace. As much as her grip hurt him, his bruised skin and ribs struggling under the pressure, he never wanted to let her go.
With a finger on her chin, Chrisdean tilted Nimue’s head and kissed her, putting all the love he felt for her into that kiss. He held her close, his arms tightening around her waist, and rested his forehead against her own.
When he felt a wetness on his cheek, he looked up to see Nimue with tears in her eyes. He had heard everything that Wentworth had said, and he knew that nothing he could say to her would console her. So, he simply gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly until she pulled back from him and carefully looked at his body.
“Look . . . ye’re bleedin’,” she said, as her hands touched his bloodied shirt. “Ye’re hurt. We should take ye back to the castle.”
“I’m fine, lass,” Chrisdean assured her. He could tell that his wound was already closing once more, as he couldn’t feel any blood trickling out of it, and he doubted that staying in her arms for a few more moments could cause any damage. “I truly am. But I was lucky yer faither was here.”
“I was lucky that ye were here,” a voice said behind him, and Chrisdean turned to see Laird MacLellan there. He was visibly exhausted, with a reddened face covered in mud and sweat, and he looked haggard, stricken with grief. “Had it na been for ye, I would be dead noo.”
The Laird gave Chrisdean a pat on the shoulder, and Chrisdean didn’t know how to react to any of it. Did it mean that he approved of the marriage between him and Nimue, he wondered? Did it mean that he would accept him as the husband of his daughter?
“What noo?” Nimue asked, pushing Chrisdean from his thoughts. “The Sassenachs willna rest until all of us are dead, surely. They’ll want to destroy all of Scotland for this.”
“Aye, Nimue is right,” Laird MacLellan said, and Chrisdean didn’t miss the surprised look that Nimue gave her father. It was obvious to him that she wasn’t used to her father speaking those words. “The Earl was vital to their plans for war. I dinna think that they’ll take his death verra kindly.”
“We’ll fight them,” Chrisdean said. It was simple to him, clear as day. All they had to do was be prepared for what was to come. Even if their forces couldn’t be compared to the English forces when it came to their numbers, their courage and bravery more than made up for the men they were missing. “We willna let them win, just like we didna let them win this fight. We’ll have to get as many clans as we can to support us, as many men as we can to fight with us, but it’ll be done. Laird MacLellan . . . if ye’re on our side, I ken that it can be done.”
The Laird stayed quiet for several moments, and Chrisdean began to fear that he would still refuse to offer them any help. Before he could explicitly ask him for his assistance, though, the Laird nodded, and there was no hesitation in his reply.
“Ye’ll have me full support, Laird MacIntosh,” he said. “And that of me men. This will be a war that we’ll all have to fight together. I’ll call for our best men at once. Once they’re here, we can discuss how we will proceed, and we can make the necessary preparations.” Nimue was so pleased and gratified to hear her father offer his support to her husband, that she threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.
“Nimue . . . I must ask ye somethin’,” Laird MacLellan said when she pulled back from him. “Is this where ye wish to stay? In the Highlands?”
Nimue didn’t miss a moment before she nodded fervently, her arm snaking around Chrisdean’s waist. “Aye, it is,” she said. “As much as I love our home, my home is here noo, with Chrisdean.”
“Then I’ll give ye me blessin’,” the Laird said, much to Chrisdean’s delight. “And dinna fash yerself about what the Earl said. I think that everyone in Scotland will respect yer marriage. Who needs the King’s permission? I dinna think he’d give it to ye noo if ye asked anyway.”
Chrisdean could hardly argue with that. The King would surely not appreciate what they had done to Wentworth and the rest of the Englishmen. Besides, Chrisdean knew in his heart that he and Nimue loved each other. The only permission he needed was God’s and her father’s, and he had both.
When Laird MacLellan walked away, summoned by Brock, who wanted to ensure that the man didn’t have any serious wounds, Chrisdean turned to look at Nimue once more. Despite the fatigue that was clear from the black circles under her eyes, despite her soiled dress, despite her hair that was wild around her face, she was the most beautiful woman Chrisdean had ever seen.
Does she ken what she does to me? Does she ken how much I love her?
“How are ye feelin’?” he asked her, taking her hands in his own and holding them tightly.
Nimue simply shook her head, no words coming out of her lips. Every time she tried to speak, a tear would roll down her face, and Chrisdean could hardly bear to watch.
Gathering her in his arms once more, he hushed her gently as she began to sob. “I canna believe he’s gone,” she said, clutching onto him with trembling hands. “Every time I remember him, I feel like I’m dyin’.”
“Ye should head back to the castle,” Chrisdean told Nimue then, as he looked around him, taking in all the bodies that were strewn around the battlefield. “This isna a place for ye, lass. We still have work to do here. Go grieve, and I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Nimue shook her head. “I willna leave,” she said, pulling back from him and wiping the tears from her eyes. Her mouth was set in a firm, determined line, and she swallowed the sob that threatened to spill out of it. “I’m na some sensitive damsel that ye need to shelter, Chrisdean, and I ken how to take care of wounds. I . . . there’ll be time later for me to grieve. I’ll stay and help. It’s ye who should head back. Ye’re wounded . . . I can tell that ye’re in pain. Ye’ll only make it worse for yerself if ye dinna take care.”
It was true. Chrisdean had been trying his best to avoid any grimaces or any sounds that could alert Nimue to the fact that his wounds were aching, but it seemed as though she had figured it out anyway.
