Page 16 of Winter Longing
A knock at the door startled him, spinning him around. He turned, tightening the blanket around him. “Yeah,” he called, his voice raspier than he’d intended.
The door opened slowly, revealing Ailsa. Her gaze swept over him—barefoot, disheveled, and wrapped in the fur like a makeshift toga—and she arched a delicate brow.
“Good morning,” she said, a slight smile softening the wariness he thought he saw in her gaze.
“Morning,” he muttered, adjusting the blanket with a flicker of self-consciousness. Realizing that the fur draped over his shoulders left his legs—and far worse, his crotch—exposed, he decided it might be wiser to prioritize modesty. With a quick motion, he let the fur slide down, rewrapping it securely around his waist, much like a towel after a shower.
“I thought I might check on ye,” she continued, stepping farther into the room and letting the door close behind her. “Ye seemed...adrift, yesterday. Are ye feeling better?”
He hesitated, the weight of his bewilderment pressing against the fragile dam holding back his panic. Was he feeling better? Not even remotely. But he couldn’t bring himself to say that aloud, not yet. “Better,” he lied, forcing a faint smile.
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Good. And are ye warm enough?” She glanced around the small room. “Och, I said to Margaret to return your clothes. She has nae?”
“She has not.”
“Ye are hungry as well, nae doubt?” She asked and then bit her lip, awaiting his response, suddenly more shy.
“Yeah, I am, but Ailsa...” he paused, something of greater concern than his hunger itching at him. It would sound ridiculous, but he couldn’tnotask—he needed to know. “Ailsa,” he began again, his voice tighter than he intended, “I have to ask you something—and it’s going to sound ridiculous, but...”
She waited, her expression softening, arching a brow. “Aye.”
He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his face. His pulse hammered. He met her cautious blue-eyed gaze and simply spoke the words. “What year is it?”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Year? 'Tis thirteen hundred and two. Why would ye—?”
Cole didn’t hear the rest. Her words hit him like a blow, and his legs buckled. He staggered back over to the cot and sat, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Panic clawed at his chest, and he gripped the fur at his waist with one hand and the edge of the bed with the other, his fingers rigid and curled, trying to anchor himself.
“Sir?” Ailsa moved and was at his side in an instant. Her voice was tinged with concern. “Are ye unwell?”
He waved her off weakly, squeezing his eyes shut. “No—yes—I don’t know. Just...give me a second.”
The air in the small room felt impossibly thick, the walls pressing in. He fought to stave off the rising tide of panic, the sting of tears threatening to betray him. God, he hadn’t cried in years, and now—now of all times—he couldn’t lose it.
“Sir?” she probed gently, kneeling before him.
Cole lifted his gaze to her, wondering what his expression looked like that caused a small gasp from her.
“1302?” He repeated. “You’re not lying to me? You’re not joking?”
Ailsa shook her head, and a few strands of her hair slipped from beneath her hood, falling across the rich fabric of her cloak. Cole’s attention was riveted by her, specifically her cloak.
The fabric was heavy, coarse but well-woven, and faintly textured in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. It lacked the smooth perfection of modern textiles, seeming handmade, with small irregularities at close inspection. The stitching, too—rough, uneven, but clearly done with care—looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit, not around her body. The furlining the collar and possibly the interior, looked imperfect—real—not like the faux fur that was familiar to the twenty-first century.
Absently, he reached out, hesitated, then let his fingers brush lightly at the wool at her shoulder.
Ailsa’s brow furrowed in confusion and it seemed she held her breath, but she didn’t stop him. He dropped his hand, staring at the fur wrapped around his own waist. It was supple but raw, the kind of hide more likely to come from a pelt cured by hand than anything mass-produced.
The panic surged again, mingled with a reluctant, dawning realization. Nothing around him belonged to the world he knew.
His throat tightened. “What the hell?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
He scowled fiercely and rubbed both hands over his face, his fingers digging hard into his flesh and eyes.
He stayed like that for a long moment. Even when he stopped trying to rub disbelief from himself, he sat with his hands over his face, trying to make sense of it.
“What troubles ye?” Ailsa asked quietly after at least a full minute had passed. “Perhaps if ye speak of it, I can help.”
Despite himself, Cole barked out a laugh. He dropped his hands, one of them returning to the fur, meaning to keep that in place. He met Ailsa’s compassionate gaze.
