Page 37 of Winter Longing
Cole went down hard onto his knees, his hands landing in the cold mud, and for a moment, she thought he might not get up. The soldier pulled back, waiting for him to recover.
"If spies they be," Tavis continued mildly, "or if their intent was to bring harm to the Sinclairs, they are indeed the most hopeless pair of villains I’ve ever seen."
Ailsa’s eyes remained on Cole, watching him stagger to his knees, and she grimaced for him.
Her brother’s words about spies and villains were a mockery, but there was truth in the observation. Despite her displeasure with the stunning—offensive, actually—fear that Cole had voiced at supper the previous night, she hadn’t been able to dissuade herself from her want to appease her curiosity over how he performed on the training field. To that end, she’d dragged Anwen along with her from Mallaig’s cottage, both of them traipsing across the half-mile path to the glen filled with two hundred brave and capable Sinclair soldiers.
And Cole Carter and Hank Morrison.
In truth, she had expected Cole to be more than he was. Broad and strong he was, yes, taller and larger than any Sinclair man including the laird, and possessing a natural grace that suggested he might make a formidable fighter. But it was clear now that whatever potential she’d seen in him was buried beneath an utter lack of training.
Cole’s swing was wild, his stance too open. He had no concept of footwork or defense. The soldier, Domhnall, by contrast, was in control, fluid and quick. And yet, each time Cole was knocked down, he struggled to his feet again, his face twisted in frustration, but never staying down for long. Hank was similar, though he seemed to be learning at a quicker pace than Cole. Each time they fell, they rose, dusted themselves off, and went at it again, determined but, for the moment, hopelessly out of their depth.
However, she felt a reluctant admiration for their perseverance, even if their lack of skill made it hard to see any real promise in their abilities.
From behind her, Anwen’s voice rang out drolly, cutting through Ailsa’s thoughts. “If hitting the mud is the goal, the man’s a prodigy.”
Ignoring her maid, Ailsa looked over at her brother, whose ponderous scowl was gone now, replaced with a look of amusement. He leaned slightly toward her, his thumbs still tucked into his belt.
“I’ll advise they might remain as they are,” he mused, “naught but laborers who apparently have never met a fight in all their lives.”
Ailsa shifted slightly, wincing once more at the sight of Cole yet again hitting the ground. She had to admit it:he wasn’t what she had expected.Still, though he wasn’t skilled, there was something in the way he kept rising, unwilling to admit defeat. She wondered if he might have more potential in him than wasimmediately apparent out there sparring with a now crowing Domhnall.
She was pleased in the next moment when a laughing Dersey intervened, pausing the mock fight to make recommendations to Cole, who listened carefully and watched Dersey’s strong hands as he gestured accordingly. At least Dersey’s intervention allowed Cole a moment to catch his breath.
Shortly after, Cole finally landed a strike with his wooden sword, a wild, uncoordinated hit that somehow connected with Domhnall’s side. A small victory, but her stomach fluttered in spite of herself. She resisted the urge to cheer, schooling her face into calm neutrality when Tavis cast a curious glance her way.
A moment later, Cole was knocked down once more.
Behind her, Anwen’s voice was tinged with morose pleasure. “Sure, and he’s got the falling down part all sewn up.”
Her curiosity satisfied and hardly able to stomach much more of the beating Cole Carter was receiving, Ailsa bid a curt farewell to her brother before she turned and began the trek back toward the keep, her skirts brushing against the frosty grass.
Anwen, of course, wasn’t far behind.
“Dinna look so decadent now, does he?” her maid quipped, her voice tinged with smugness.
“He and his friend look like men willing to try and to learn,” Ailsa said pertly, marching purposefully several paces in front of Anwen. “He looks like someone who dinna give up or give in.” She said no more than that, unwilling to advise Anwen fully of her fascination with Cole Carter by defending him further.
Ailsa didn’t see Cole Carter again until supper. When he arrived in the hall, his previously athletic stride was tempered by a stiffness that betrayed his soreness. He moved carefully, easing into the chair next to Ailsa at the Sinclair family’s table, his jaw tightening briefly as he sat. Despite a lingering hurt from lastnight, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. The brutal training session earlier had left its mark, and perhaps now she understood why he’d been so vocal about his fear of being killed. With his lack of proficiency, an ambush would have been a death sentence.
She liked him, though, she couldn’t help herself. When he wasn’t being an eejit, he was charming, undeniably so, with a lopsided grin that seemed to pull her out of her own head whenever he directed it her way. And handsome—impossibly handsome, really. His smile had the power to make her heart skip, though she cursed herself for being so affected by something as simple as the curve of his lips.
Trust, however, was another matter entirely. His story still seemed too fantastical, too implausible. Her heart and body clamored for her to believe him, to trust him, but her head whispered caution.
Their conversation during the meal was subdued at first, but when he caught her watching him as he winced while cutting his meat, he gave her a sheepish grin.
“Ye look dreadful,” she remarked lightly, her tone carrying more concern than judgment.
“Thanks,” he quipped, his smile softening into something self-deprecating. “The training was...humbling.”
Ailsa grimaced and dared to mention, “I understand ye are expected to return tomorrow.”
Cole groaned quietly, but then chuckled briefly. “Oh, I know,” he said, plopping a piece of lamb into his mouth.
Ailsa watched him chew, noting the way his jaw shifted as he worked the bite of lamb, a strength visible even in such a mundane act. A faint shadow of stubble lined his jaw, the darker flecks catching the light of the hall’s fire. His brow furrowed slightly, as though even the effort of eating required his concentration after such a grueling day.
It struck her as peculiar—how so simple and necessary a thing could seem so compelling. Every detail was sharper now, her focus narrowed so acutely on him. She couldn’t look away, her gaze lingering on the strong lines of his face, softened by fatigue that couldn’t quite dim the rich blue of his eyes.
