Page 18 of Winter Longing
“Come to the courtyard when ye are ready,” she called through the door.
With that done, she set off to find Anwen and Dersey and make further arrangements for the day.
Fifteen minutes later, Ailsa arrived in the courtyard, accompanied by a protesting Anwen.
“Enough to be done indoors where it’s warm,” Anwen was squawking in Ailsa’s ear, “and here ye are, wanting to traipse around the countryside looking for a man ye dinna ken—as if the cap’n could nae manage the search hisself.”
Ailsa did not respond to Anwen’s grousing, knowing that the maid would complain also in the middle of summer, arguing that the sun was too strong, or that flowers attracted bees, orthat no sane person would be traipsing about in such heat. To Anwen, any weather was an inconvenience, and any task outside her usual routines was cause for concern.
“And what’s more, it’s nae just that we’re wastin’ the day, but a full party we need to keep after ye, makin’ sure ye’re safe! And for what? A stranger—"
“A person who might be in danger,” Ailsa interrupted gently. “A person in need is one worth helping. Is it nae our duty, as decent folk, to see to those who may be lost or in danger?”
Anwen harrumphed and asked, “Aye, ye’re nae one to let one in need go wanting, but would this have anythin’ to do with currying favor with thedecadentman?”
It didn’t, not really. But God, how Ailsa wished she’d never described her feelings about the look of Cole Carter to her maid. Ignoring Anwen’s question, she asked instead, “Were it one of our own, would we nae be pleased for any kind stranger who helped them?”
Anwen sighed dramatically but fell silent, though Ailsa could feel her maid’s disapproving gaze at her back as they continued through the courtyard.
Dersey hadn’t been any easier to convince, the old captain grumbling in much the same manner as Anwen—what a pair! Ailsa’s argument that it was the decent thing to do hadn’t carried so much weight as when she’d said she would simply arrange the effort herself and go without him.
But Dersey was among those gathering in the courtyard, he and half a dozen men as she’d requested. Horses were ushered out from the stables, their hooves kicking up small clouds of dirt and snow as they were led to waiting soldiers.
Ailsa weaved her way through the throng of men and horses, moving toward the chapel at the south side on the courtyard, and the rectory behind it. She donned her gloves as she went, having grabbed those along with her heavier, hooded mantleand her sturdier, warmer boots. She didn’t get very far before she spied Cole Carter emerging from the small door of the rectory that opened into the bailey.
He did not see her immediately. He’d just stepped outside and stood in profile, dressed now as he had been when first she’d seen him yesterday, just before he collapsed. Ailsa stared with some bewilderment at his clothing. The material of his close-fitting cloak was bright and unlike any fabric she’d ever known, seeming too thin to be of any protection against the cold. Because she’d seen the items hanging in the larder, she knew there were several tunics, having delivered three items with sleeves. She’d judged the several thin layers odd, and utterly inappropriate for the harsh Highland climate, where layers were thicker and more functional. And yet, he did not now appear to be cold. Compared to the footwear she was accustomed to seeing, Cole Carter’s boots, tied with multi-colored laces and having unusual smooth and shiny soles, wrought a curious frown from Ailsa, who wondered if they were made by artisans rather than craftsmen, or invented entirely by magic. Being both intrigued and perplexed by the unfamiliar shapes, textures, and the questionable functionality of his clothing, Ailsa interpreted his appearance as something mysterious, which naturally compelled her to consider his own implausible explanation, that he’d come from another time.
Though she continued toward the chapel, her steps had slowed considerably at the sight of him.
Cole Carter took in the courtyard scene with slow, sweeping glances, his expression shifting as the scene unfolded before him. Ailsa noted the subtle creasing of his brow, the way his gaze lingered on the fur-clad and helmeted men and restless horses as though he were trying to comprehend their presence in front of him. His mouth opened slightly, suggesting the needto question what he saw, but it closed again, and he remained silent.
But then he spotted her, and Ailsa’s heart flipped quietly as his expression lightened immediately, showing what she gauged as relief as he began to walk toward her with a purposeful stride as he closed the gap.
Ailsa recognized straightaway the almost mesmerizing contrast in his movement compared to those around him. Hale and hearty now, he moved with a confident, unhurried stride, his frame loose and ready. She noted the powerful build of his shoulders and his thighs in his strange, snug breeches, and at the same time saw that he lacked the stiff, burdened posture of men used to bearing the weight of armor. He walked with a casualness that was as foreign as it was captivating, his stride easy and fluid, yet perfectly controlled.
As Cole approached Ailsa, the relief she thought she’d noticed seemed to evaporate. He cast swift glances around the courtyard again and then over Ailsa’s shoulder, where Anwen followed. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He did not stop at a polite distance but came very close to her, causing Ailsa’s pulse to race.
He leaned close and kept his voice low. “This really is...1302?” he asked, with just enough caution to imply he was aware of the strangeness of the question. Taking a step back, he met her gaze. His eyes held hers, full of uncertainty but also a faint flicker of hope that she’d understand what he was grappling with.
Caught off-guard by what seemed a genuine bewilderment, Ailsa nodded wordlessly, and glanced around the courtyard, wondering what might seem strange to him. What did his world—some unimaginablefuture—look like? Born in 1995, he'd told her, which seemed as distant and mysterious to her as anything on the edge of a dream. Just as he gazed at the familiar sights ofthe bailey with an air of disbelief, she felt her own curiosity spark at the thought of this strange, far-off century, where all she knew and trusted would likely not be found.
As quickly as these thoughts came, she shook them off, silently chiding herself for even allowing the smallest flicker of belief in his wildly improbable tale. The idea of a man from another time—born nearly seven hundred years into some distant, unthinkable future—was nothing but an absurd fancy, she reminded herself sternly. In all likelihood, his recent illness, wrought by exposure to the harsh elements, had left him muddled, susceptible to fevered imaginings.
“But all will be well,” she assured him with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Dersey and the lads have assembled now and the search for yer friend will commence.”
Dersey had wrangled half a dozen lads, among them a few who were hopelessly enthralled with Ailsa. Rory, Colin, and Cian regularly vied for her attention with transparent eagerness. She did not encourage their interest, but she wasn’t above making good use of it if it suited her purposes.
The lad, Somerled, was present as well in the bailey, seated atop a borrowed palfrey. He showed no particular interest in Ailsa, the stranger in their midst, or the mission, but hummed a low tune, swishing his blade through the air above his head, more amused by his clever slashes than anything else.
"This beats drills, at least," he said to no one in particular.
Anwen snorted. "Aye, if ye’re looking to avoid useful work," she said tartly, her sharp tongue cutting through the morning’s chill. Unlike Ailsa, she didn’t spare Cole even a flicker of admiration. If anything, her narrow eyes seemed to weigh him as one might a three-legged goat, considering him more troublesome than he might be worth.
Another soldier, Domhnall, kept his gaze fixed on Cole, the watchful suspicion in his dark eyes an unmistakable contrastto the others. While he said nothing, his posture betrayed an unwarranted dislike of Cole Carter, as though waiting for the stranger to confirm his opinion. Domhnall could be troublesome, and she hoped he would cause her no grief today.
Ailsa moved toward the chestnut mare that had been brought for her. She placed her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle with ease, the spirited horse tossing her head as if she, like Anwen, protested the idea of a long winter ride. Ailsa arranged the long folds of her mantle to cover her hose-clad legs, exposed by her position astride. Beside her, Anwen mounted a gentle, sturdy palfrey, her grip on the reins firm, her expression tight with displeasure.
Cole remained afoot, studying the lively horse brought to him by the stable lad. He looked at it skeptically, his attention divided between the saddle and the animal's shifting hooves. He hesitated, glancing up at Ailsa. “I can’t ride a horse—or rather, I never have.”
