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Chapter Four
The way to the Highlands was paved with nothing but frustration for Chrisdean. He had never met a woman as stubborn and as hot-headed as Nimue, and though he had been perfectly certain about his decision to marry her, that was before he had met her. Now he was starting to doubt the wisdom of that decision.
Could he possibly spend the rest of his life with a woman who detested him? Before he had met her, he had thought that she would eventually get over the fact that he had taken her from her home, but now it seemed like Nimue knew how to hold a grudge forever. He wouldn’t be surprised if fifteen years into their marriage, she would still accuse him of kidnap.
I suppose I did kidnap her. But I only did what I did for the good of my people and the people of Scotland. Surely, she can understand that.
Chrisdean shook his head. He had been sitting at the edge of their camp for what seemed like hours to him, watching the horizon, thinking about their travels thus far and what awaited him once they finally made it to the castle. They were well within the Highlands now, and his clan’s territory were only a day or two away, depending on how fast they could travel. The thought gave him some comfort; he missed his home and was eager to return to his people.
When he glanced over his shoulder at his men, he saw Nimue sitting by the fire, smiling. He hadn’t seen her smile ever since that night when she had pressed his own sword against his neck, and he could hardly believe that she was smiling now. She was usually in such a bad mood, though he could hardly blame her for it.
Next to her sat Brock, his godfather and the man he trusted more than anyone in the world. Ever since the English had killed his entire family years ago, Brock and his wife had been the ones to support him. They had become his family.
Chrisdean couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about. So, he stood, making his way to the center of the camp with the hope that he would be able to eavesdrop on their conversation. He pretended to busy himself with his shoes, cleaning off the dirt caked around his soles and keeping his ears wide open for anything that he could catch.
“He used to follow me around the castle all the time when he was a wee laddie,” he heard Brock say. “And he had this wee, wooden sword that he trained with . . . if ye werena careful, yer calves would be black and bruised by the end of the day.”
Brock laughed, and so did Nimue, though she seemed to do so with restraint as if she thought that laughing about a story from Chrisdean’s childhood would lessen her anger toward him a little too much. Chrisdean frowned to himself, but he didn’t know how to tell Brock not to share such stories with Nimue without giving away the fact that he had been spying on them.
“That doesna change everythin’ that he has done,” Nimue said. “Why did he take me from me home, Brock? Why? What does he want with me?”
Chrisdean narrowed his eyes as he watched the two of them. Brock seemed to hesitate, struggling to come up with an answer, and it was no wonder; Chrisdean had explicitly forbidden everyone from telling Nimue the truth. He wanted to be in the castle first, and he wanted Nimue to come to terms with the fact that she had no other choice.
“If it’s gold that he’s after, then me faither will give it to him,” Nimue said before Brock could give her an answer. “All he has to do is return me to me home.”
“Ach, lass . . . I’m sorry to tell ye that he doesna have plans to return ye any time soon,” Brock said. “I canna tell ye what he wants from ye, but I’m sure that he’ll tell ye soon himself. Be patient. Ye may find that he isna as brutish as ye think he is.”
“Ach, na?” Nimue asked, raising her eyebrows in question. “I think everyone in this camp is a brute apart from ye, Brock. All they do is fight and shout and drink. It’s na way to live a life.”
Chrisdean couldn’t help but snort at that, amusement bubbling up inside of him. If Nimue thought that his men were brutes, then a big surprise awaited her at the castle. Though they came from the same country, Chrisdean knew very well that the Highlands were nothing like the Lowlands.
The thought gave him some pause, though. What if Nimue ended up hating her life in the Highlands? No matter how much Chrisdean wanted her to be his wife so that he could secure her father’s alliance, he didn’t know if he had it in him to condemn her to a life that she hated. He had always hoped that eventually, she would come to love him and his clan, but now he was having second thoughts.
I have to show her that I’m na the brute that she thinks I am. She must ken that I willna hurt her.
All he had to do was find a way to show her that, which sounded easier than it was. His mind raced with the different possibilities, but in the end, all he could think of doing was offering her some of his drink.
Ach, the alcohol will help the lass anyway.
He approached Nimue and Brock with a sigh, his hand reaching for the flask that he had tied around his belt. For a few moments, he stood in front of them, regarding them in silence as he waited for Brock to get the hint and leave them alone. When he didn’t, Chrisdean cocked an eyebrow, nodding towards the group of men who were sitting nearby, singing and drinking.
“Dinna ye think that ye should check on the lads, Brock?” Chrisdean asked. “We dinna want them to be pished noo, do we?”
Finally understanding, Brock nodded and stood from the log where he had been sitting. Before he left, he gave Nimue a small bow, and Chrisdean saw her bow her own head in return.
Canna have the old man be so charming; she’ll think there’s somethin’ wrong with the rest of us.
“Drink?” he asked Nimue when Brock was gone, his voice gruff. Chrisdean took his place, sitting next to her on the log, and offered her his flask.
Nimue didn’t reply, nor did she reach for the flask. Instead, she turned to look at him, her brow pleated in what Chrisdean assumed was concern or confusion. “Why am I here?” she asked. “And why willna ye tell me the truth? Dinna ye think that I deserve to ken?”
“Do ye want the drink or na?” Chrisdean asked instead of answering her question. “Ye willna find whisky this good in all of Scotland.”
“I dinna care about whisky,” Nimue said. “I care about yer plans for me. What is it that ye want? Me faither will give ye anythin’ ye desire if ye bring me back. I willna even tell him that ye were the one to take me from the castle. I can tell him that ye saved me from brigands.”
Chrisdean had to admire Nimue’s determination to convince him, but a part of him wanted her to simply accept that he was not going to take her back to her home. “We’re goin’ to the Highlands, lass. I told ye before, I willna take ye back, na matter how much ye ask me to.”
Chrisdean could see that Nimue wanted to insist, to keep pressing him for an answer, at least; but in the end, she said nothing. Instead, she stretched out her hand, silently asking for the flask, and Chrisdean was more than happy to give it to her.
