Page 22 of Winter Longing
“I do not,” he assured her, with more bravado than certainty. Trying to be subtle, he shifted his weight and managed to swing one leg over, but the horse shifted slightly, throwing him off balance. With a half-stumble, he landed, somehow managing to save himself from face-planting, so much less gracefully than intended. He straightened quickly and cleared his throat, brusquely brushing off his jacket. “No, no. I’m good. Just...getting my sea legs.”
Ailsa raised a quizzical brow at him, while a hint of amusement curved her gorgeous lips.
Sea legs? Seriously? I’m an idiot.
He glanced around, his gaze straying toward the small chapel, where the room was that he’d been given.
“I, uh, I guess I’ll call it a day,” he said awkwardly, considering the darkening winter sky.
Ailsa removed her hood, lowering it down to her shoulders. Absently, she pulled the length of her hair forward over her breast, one hand smoothing down the length of it while she used her other hand to point behind her at the castle.
“'Tis nearly time for supper,” she said, while snow landed and melted on her hair. “Mayhap ye’d rather enjoy yer meal in the hall than alone in the rectory?”
An invitation to dinner? He wasn’t about to turn that down. “Sure, I’m starving.” He realized right away how that sounded—like he hadn’t been well-fed. The truth was, the portions so far had been pretty light compared to what he was used to, but still, he felt like a bit of a jerk for implying anything lacking in their hospitality. He added quickly, “I mean, I’m always hungry,” with a smile, hoping to brush off more awkwardness.
Ailsa seemed to make nothing of his remark, returning his smile before turning and walking toward the castle, saying, “This way.”
Cole followed, not at all reluctant to spend more time with her, and not only because the room in which he’d been staying was pretty dreary and depressing, and he feared the evening would drag on relentlessly with only his own company.
The main door of the castle opened directly into a dim, cavernous space where flickering torchlight danced along thick stone walls, revealing their coarse texture and faint patches of aged mortar. The vaulted ceiling was impressively high, and crisscrossed with wooden beams, reminding him of Aunt Rosie’schurch. He paused when something shifted and crunched beneath his feet. Glancing down, he saw that the stone floor was covered in what looked like straw and other dried plants, giving the grand room a very rustic, hayloft vibe. He guessed it might be used to add or hold warmth, and maybe to prevent slipperiness. This version of carpeting had a very earthy, kind of herbal scent, and he wondered if that served a purpose as well.
He continued forward but did not catch up with Ailsa, given pause by the sheer size and aesthetic of the room. Tall, narrow windows stood high on the interior wall, some of them covered with animal skins. Torches hung in regular intervals along the wall but still the huge room was dimly lit, the light shifting as did the flames. One windowless wall was covered in a hodge-podge of tapestries, flags, and weapons, adding color and what he supposed was meant to signify the Sinclair lineage and might. Being that the only heating source was a central hearth, a massive structure of stacked, rounded stones, he wondered if the animal hides and tapestries also lent a hand at insulating the room.
Rows of long wooden tables stretched across the hall, scarred by heavy use over many years, and lined with sturdy benches. The grand scale and arrangement of the tables reminded Cole of a college cafeteria, albeit far more solemn and charged with centuries of history, but the overall atmosphere of the nearly vacant room left him with an impression of both grandeur and simplicity.
A handful of maids moved through the space, one of whom he recognized as the same woman who had offered him bread and—strangely enough—beer first thing this morning. She gave him a brief glance as she passed, busying herself with setting the tables. The air smelled faintly of roasting meat and smoky firewood, with the underlying scent of something plant-like, perhaps from the straw and whatnot scattered on the floor.
Ailsa paused beside him, her eyes briefly following his as he took in the hall. “I’ll just be a moment to change,” she said. At his nod, she walked away, lifting the hem of her long cloak and her gown, possibly with a two-fold intent, to neither allow her clothes to drag in the straw and possibly get dirty, nor to disturb the floor covering itself.
With her departure, Cole suddenly became more aware of his surroundings and felt more conspicuously out of place. He shifted from foot to foot, and shoved his hands in his front pockets, trying to appear casual as he observed the room. Gradually, people began to trickle in: soldiers came in first, their boots echoing crisply across the stones near the doorway before being hushed by the scattering of straw, a strange but oddly practical rug beneath their feet. Then came others, bundled against the cold in worn but sturdy clothing, looking for all the world like the medieval peasants he’d only ever seen depicted in historical paintings and movies. Cole found himself watching with an odd sense of awe, seeing people from another world he couldn’t quite believe were real.
The awe he felt quickly morphed into another sense, one that nearly put him at ease, the ordinariness of their expressions. As the hall filled, he watched people wearing the same familiar emotions he’d see on any street corner in the 21st century. Some entered laughing together, others looking relieved to be indoors, brushing snow off their shoulders and stamping their feet to shake the cold. One boy, no older than four or five, tugged at his mother’s skirts, his small voice rising insistently for her attention as she juggled two younger children, trying her best to quiet him while casting an apologetic glance at the woman at her side. A wiry, middle-aged man entered, wearing the weary look of one who’d been working hard all day, his walk sluggish, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy, yet relieved to be somewhere warm and familiar. A few people glanced curiously at Cole,giving him sidelong looks as they entered, one woman nudging a friend and pointing him out. Others looked away quickly, trying not to stare, but unable to resist another look at the stranger in their midst. More children came, darting inside, racing ahead of their parents or bumping into others before casting glances that suggested they expected a reprimand.
Watching silently, Cole mused that despite the differences in clothes, lifestyle, and setting, human nature appeared unchanged by the vast gulf of centuries between them.
Ailsa appeared then, returning through a different door than which she’d left minutes ago. Her long cloak was gone, and her hair was no longer loose, but had been quickly braided and knotted at the back of her head, highlighting the shape of her jaw and neck.
Cole’s breath caught a bit as he took in her full appearance, unhidden by the heavy cloak. Ailsa wore a simple but elegant gown that fell in soft, natural folds to the floor, the dark wool fabric colored like rust really bringing out the blue of her eyes. Her sleeves were long and close-fitting, extending almost to her knuckles, but slit at the forearm to reveal a pale layer beneath, which matched the linen at her collar and cuffs, with a sewn-on design of leaves and flowers.
A wide belt cinched around her waist, adorned with a tone-on-tone embroidery that was detailed intricately enough to suggest it had been done by someone with great skill. It drew attention to the natural curves of her figure, and the way the gown skimmed down her body seemed designed to flow with each movement. She looked regal, but not in a way that felt forced or overdone—more like she belonged naturally in this setting, radiating a quiet elegance that set her above anyone else in the room. She looked both every bit the medieval woman and somehow timeless—like she could be just as captivating at a modern dinner party as she was in this ancient hall.
He told himself not to stare, and yet he couldn’tnotlook as Ailsa approached. Without the barrier of her loose hair or hood, her face was infinitely more striking. Her jawline was delicate but defined, her cheekbones high and smooth, adding a natural grace to her expression that seemed perfectly suited to the ancient stone around them. There was a touch of color on her cheeks that he recognized as a blush, and despite her clear confidence earlier today and here in her own world, Cole had a feeling that she was just as aware of him as he was of her.
Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, she looked almost self-conscious, though she quickly masked it, her lips lifting in the faintest, polite smile. His heartbeat sped up, and his return smile felt as natural as it did unexpected. His pulse thrummed, surprised by how easily her presence calmed him and captivated him. He wasn’t sure if she noticed, but it definitely felt as if he’d known her for longer than only a few hours or days.
Ailsa’s smile softened, and she gestured to the end of the hall where a long, solid table stood raised on a low platform. “Come and sit with me, Cole. A valiant search for yer friend deserves a proper seat.”
Cole felt a mix of gratitude and apprehension, even as he wasn’t sure his effort in the search could be construed as valiant. A spot at the head table seemed a little too formal, but the thought of sitting with Ailsa, close enough to watch the flicker of firelight across her face, compelled him to accept her invitation. As they reached the main table, however, the high-pitched voice of another echoed across the hall.
“Och, so thestrangersits at the head table now?” chirped that other woman often seen with Ailsa, her tone dripping with what seemed like playful yet pointed disapproval. She passed in front of the table, casting a dubious look Cole’s way and then fixing her gaze on Ailsa, one eyebrow lifted in unmistakable challenge.
“Pay Anwen nae mind,” Ailsa said, indicating the chair that Cole should occupy.
He made to sit but recalled his manners and shifted a bit, pulling out the chair in which Ailsa would sit.
“Merci,” Ailsa murmured as she sat.
“You speak French as well?” Cole questioned, having not even a smattering of a second language in his repertoire.
