Page 38 of Winter Longing
“You’re staring,” Cole murmured suddenly as he met her gaze, his voice low, though it held no accusation—only teasing curiosity.
Ailsa startled slightly, heat rushing to her cheeks. “I was nae” she protested, far too quickly.
He smiled again, this time with a knowing slant, his brow arching just so. “Is the bruising that bad?”
As he didn’t have even one bruise on his face, she thought he’d only asked that to give her an out, a way to excuse her blatant staring. As if to suggest there was, perhaps, a perfectly reasonable explanation for her attention. It was unexpectedly kind of him, in a disarming sort of way.
Flustered, she shook her head and turned her attention back to her plate, though her cheeks burned and her pulse buzzed with the memory of his grin. That unguarded expression was dangerous, she decided, more potent than his words, his charm, or even his laugh.
“Tomorrow’s training is actually the least of my problems right now,” he said after a moment. “I’m fully prepared to embarrass myself for the rest of the week, learning as I go, but your brother—sadist that he is—said earlier that next week, Tank and I should progress to learning to fight on horseback. I’m not sure how I can fight while I’m busy trying not to fall off the horse.”
Fairly certain that the “sadist” remark was meant in jest, Ailsa found herself both amused and sympathetic. She remembered his earlier admission that he didn’t know how toride and grimaced inwardly at the thought of how poorly that training might go.
She had no words of encouragement to offer—there was little point in pretending optimism where none existed—so she opted for levity instead. Her lips twitched into a faint smile. “Possibly, if you fall with enough frequency, no aggressor will be able to land any strike against you.”
To Ailsa’s surprise, Cole laughed outright, the rich sound drawing curious glances from those seated nearby. If he noticed—or cared—about the attention, it didn’t show. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and the broad smile lighting his face made him seem, for a fleeting moment, much more carefree. The sound of his laughter did glorious things to her insides, being silken and warm, a balm she hadn’t known she needed.
Ailsa was transfixed, her earlier misgivings momentarily forgotten. The unguarded happiness on his face as he laughed struck something deep within her. It was absurd, really, how handsome he was, and charming he could be when he allowed himself to relax.
Before she thought better of it, Ailsa heard herself say to him, “I could teach ye. To ride, that is.”
Her offer lingered in the air between them, his smile softening into something quieter, almost thoughtful. His gaze settled on her face, studying her in a way that made her breath catch. Then, slowly, his eyes flickered to her lips, with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“You would do that?”
She nodded and suggested in a whisper, “Meet me in the stables tomorrow. After training.”
Cole grinned, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes. “If I haven’t succumbed to my injuries by then.”
She was fairly certain she could feel her brother’s suspicious regard on her back, but Ailsa ignored it, focusing instead on thestrange, undeniable pull she felt toward Cole Carter—despite all the warnings her mind continued to give her.
Chapter Eleven
Humble pie was not very sweet.
He’d been so certain that the fourteenth-century Sinclairs, with their primitive looks and rudimentary gear, would be so far beneath him as far as finesse and skill went. He’d been ready to show off, to impress with slick movements, his athleticism honed on the Bandit’s playing field, his strength enhanced by years of fighting fires and regularly hitting the gym.
What the hell was wrong with him that he’d underestimated the soldiers so badly? He’d been so arrogant.
As he walked away from the training field today—or more aptly, limped, staggered, and shuffled—he felt like an ass for having judged the book by its cover. True, he’d been more prepared today, but damn, those guys were fierce. And strong. And merciless. How quickly he’d learned that the men of Torr Cinnteag had honed their craft over half a decade of bloody conflict and a lifetime of manual labor, their battle tactics as lethal as they were primitive. Cole had quickly learned that the brutal simplicity of medieval combat was more terrifying and effective than any modern mindset or workout could have prepared him for.
And yet, while he was indeed humbled, he wasn’t necessarily embarrassed by his own poor showing. He looked at it as a challenge. It needed some hard work and dedication, of which he was never afraid, and Cole was bound and determined to prove both his worth and his competence.
He needed not only to improve with the use of the sword, but he needed to understand how better to wield both sword and shield, as he was being trained. He wasn’t yet comfortable with his entire forearm being locked into the back of the shield, and thought too often that hefting the wooden piece on his armsometimes threw off his balance. It felt clumsy, like an unwieldy appendage, and more than once, he thought he might want, at times, to grip the sword with both hands for better control—but the shield made that impossible. This, then, was also still a work in progress.
Here’s hoping riding a horse is easier than wielding a sword, he thought wearily, heading back to the castle yard and the stables where he was looking forward to meeting Ailsa.
As he walked through the gate, with returning soldiers in front and behind him, he was struck not for the first time by how these people dealt with the cold—or rather, how they seemed so unbothered by it. He lived in Buffalo, NY, which was not exactly the frozen tundra but knew its share of frigid weather, but it couldn't hold a candle to the constant, biting, unrelenting chill of the Highlands. In Buffalo, the cold came with layers of modern convenience—thermal coats, insulated gloves, and the promise of indoor heating at the end of the day. Here, the wind seemed sharper, knifing through his winter layers and cutting straight to the bone, as if the mountains and wind themselves conspired to keep weak people away. The Highlanders, however, seemed immune. They didn’t just endure the cold; they wore it like a second skin, unflinching and indifferent to the kind of weather that would have grounded half of Buffalo under emergency conditions. For Cole, the icy air felt like a personal insult, as if the land itself was mocking him as fragile.
He washed his muddied hands in a trough near the stables as others did, the icy water stinging his scraped, bruised, and chapped hands. And while he dried his hands on the sweatshirt beneath his coat, he scanned the interior of the stables, looking for Ailsa. She wasn’t there but as he approached the opening, a young kid, about ten years old, bound to his feet from where he’d been sitting in a pile of hay, and came forward, looking as if he’d been waiting for Cole.
“I take ye to lady,” the boy said in very stilted English.
“Ailsa? Where is she?”
The young kid responded in the Scottish language so that Cole wondered if Ailsa had simply taught him that one sentence. Cole nodded to show that he understood, and the kid nodded as well and then turned and led the way from the stables, scurrying like a little sewer rat, forcing Cole into a jog to keep up with him.
The boy led Cole down a gentle slope outside the gates, where snow crunched softly beneath their feet. Beyond the bridge, they turned left, off the main path and headed into a stand of trees. The boy darted swiftly around firs and birch trees, his small feet hardly making any noise at all. The wooded vale was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind through bare branches. Up ahead a clearing presented itself and Cole spotted Ailsa waiting there. She sat astride a sleek, reddish-brown horse with a white blaze down its face. The horse’s ears flicked forward, its breath puffing in visible clouds. Ailsa’s cheeks were rosy from the cold, and her eyes widened slightly when she noticed the kid and Cole approaching. Her back was straight, her posture poised, and her lips parted slightly before curving into a polite smile.
