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“This is na way to treat yer guest, ye ken,” Nimue said as she took a swig of the whisky.
“Are ye me guest noo?”
“Would ye rather I called meself yer prisoner?” Nimue asked. “I’m the daughter of a Laird. Even if I’m yer prisoner, ye should still treat me with respect.”
“I have nothin’ but the utmost respect for ye, me lady,” Chrisdean assured her. “And if our camp isna what ye’re used to, then I’m sure ye’ll find the castle satisfactory, at least.”
“Kennin’ that ye’re the Laird, I expect to see axes and hanged men around every corner,” Nimue snapped, but there was a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She passed the flask back to Chrisdean, and he took a sip from it, relishing the burn on his throat.
“What do ye think we are, me lady?” Chrisdean asked. “I can assure ye that there are na hanged men or axes decoratin’ me walls. I’ll have ye ken that I havena changed a single thing ever since me maither died.”
At the mention of his mother, Nimue seemed to soften, but a small frown crossed her face. “I’m sorry about yer maither,” she told him, and she sounded so sincere that it took Chrisdean by surprise, to the point that he didn’t know what to say, other than a mumbled, “Thank you.”
The two of them sat in silence for a long time, Chrisdean watching the flames of the fire as they danced over the logs. Every now and then, he would hazard a glance at Nimue, but he never caught her looking at him. Instead, her gaze seemed to be drifting back to the rest of his men. They were rowdy after all the alcohol they had drunk, and Brock was trying to control them.
“I thought ye said ye’re na savages,” Nimue quipped, her lips stretched into a sarcastic smile that only served to annoy Chrisdean even more.
“If ye think they’re savages, then ye havena met real ones,” Chrisdean said, but he stood from his seat, nevertheless, and made his way to his men, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded them with a frown. “Lads!” he shouted at them, bringing their shouting matches to a halt. “Stop yer blabberin’, ye fools. Ye’ve had yer feast; it’s time to get some rest.”
There was a chorus of agreement around him, and Chrisdean’s men quieted down, the crowd dispersing as they all found a place to sleep. Chrisdean turned to look at Nimue, who was finally looking at him, though he could not possibly decipher her gaze.
She was a difficult woman to read, and Chrisdean had no doubt that it would take him a long time to get to know her, if he could even know her at all.
“Is this more to yer likin’?” Chrisdean asked with a small, teasing smile.
“Aye, me Laird, it is,” Nimue said. “If only ye’d stop talkin’, too.”
There was no bite in her tone, not more than usual, at least, and Chrisdean couldn’t help but laugh. “Do ye despise me company that much?”
Nimue gave Chrisdean a look that he couldn’t read. He watched as her gaze fell from his eyes to his lips but only for a brief moment before she met his eyes again. “I’m afraid I do,” she said, but once again, her tone was gentle. “I think I might be more inclined to like ye if ye tell me the truth.”
Chrisdean considered it for a moment before he leaned closer to Nimue. From up close, he could feel her warmth and the soft puffs of air coming from her lips as she breathed. “Ye want the truth, me lady?” he whispered in her ear. “Ye’ll find out soon enough, I promise.”
For what seemed like an eon to Chrisdean, Nimue didn’t move. He could hear her breath quickening, and when he looked at her, her eyes were dark and glazed over, staring right at him. Then, as though a spell had been broken, she pulled back, her brow pleated in frustration.
Without another word, Nimue turned her back to him and promptly lay down next to the fire. Chrisdean decided to do the same since it was late and he needed to get some rest, but he soon discovered that he could not sleep, his mind racing with thoughts of Nimue and his future with her.
He didn’t know how long he lay like that, staring at the fire as everyone around him slept. Eventually, his own eyes began to drift shut, but just as he was about to fall asleep, he heard a series of agonized gasps, along with the rustling of fabric. The sound brought a frown to his face, and he stood, searching for its source until his gaze fell on Nimue. She was writhing on the ground, her brow wet with perspiration, her face a mask of agony. Small sounds escaped her lips as she tossed and turned, her hands clenching into fists and her nails digging violently into her skin. Chrisdean rushed to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“It’s only a dream, lass,” he said softly, whispering in her ear. “There’s nothin’ to worry about. It’s but a dream.”
Nimue’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she seemed confused, as though she didn’t know where she was. Then, she seemed to register her surroundings, and Chrisdean’s hand fell off her shoulder as she sat up.
“Ye were havin’ a nightmare,” Chrisdean said, keeping his voice low so that he wouldn’t wake his men. “I thought it best to wake ye.”
“I’m fine,” Nimue assured him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was only being polite, Chrisdean knew, but he would much rather she didn’t smile at him at all if she didn’t truly mean it. “Thank ye, but I think I can handle a nightmare.”
“Och, I dinna ken about that,” Chrisdean said with a small smile of his own. “Ye seemed to be quite scared.”
“It was a nightmare. Of course, I was scared,” Nimue said. “Thank ye for yer concern, but I truly am just fine. Ye can go back to sleep if ye so wish.”
“And ye?”
“What about me?”
“Will ye go to sleep, too?”
Nimue frowned at him, as she tended to do, and Chrisdean could almost see the cogs in her brain as they turned. “What does it matter to ye? I think I’ll do as I please.”
