Page 42 of Winter Longing
Cole scratched his head as though perplexed, his lips twitching. “And here I was thinking you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart. You’re just using me to escape your warden.”
Ailsa tilted her chin, her smile widening. “Och, I’m verra glad to help ye, Cole Carter. Escaping Anwen is just an added bonus.”
Cole gave her a mockingly thoughtful nod. “Well then, I’m happy to be of service.”
When they parted company, both going in different directions, Cole believed he had a few more answers as to why Ailsa—stunning natural beauty aside—intrigued him so.
Ailsa’s straightforwardness and lack of pretension made her feel refreshingly genuine—Cole was convinced that Ailsa had no idea how ridiculously gorgeous she was. Her practical knowledge of so many things modern people had no experience in—herbal medicine, managing a castle, candle-making, andbeing skilled as a rider. Her hands-on competence was both captivating and admirable. Though he had the sense that she was treated as a much less qualified woman by her brother and possibly everyone in this time period, Ailsa was independent in so many ways that was so different than modern women.
Unlike the casual, often self-deprecating charm he’d come to expect in modern women, Ailsa’s demeanor was shaped by a world of formalities, lending her an air of timeless grace. She was elegant, poised, and almost regal in her movements and speech, yet her wit and playful mischief—like the wild goose chases she orchestrated for her maid—showed an entirely different, lively, relatable side of her.
As Cole turned these thoughts over in his mind, he began to believe that aside from the rather inconvenient fact that she lived seven hundred years in the past, Ailsa Sinclair was, to his way of thinking, damn near perfect.
Chapter Twelve
Cole ran the brush along the mare’s flank, following the instructions Ailsa had repeated over the past few days, the routine care of the horse. In a nearby stall, Tank brushed down a bay gelding, his broad frame moving with a practiced ease. He’d just returned from a ride with a few of the Sinclair soldiers, who had shown him a bit more of Torr Cinnteag, parts of the thousands of acres claimed by the Sinclairs.
“Where’d you learn to ride?” Cole called across the otherwise empty stalls.
Moments after Ailsa had left Cole in the stables, having been summoned by a young girl from the kitchen immediately upon their return, Cole had witnessed Tank and his new buddies riding in through the gates. Though Cole had never once heard Tank say anything about riding a horse, Cole hadn’t missed how at ease his friend was in the saddle.
“My aunt and uncle had a horse farm in East Aurora,” Tank answered, naming a mostly rural suburb of Buffalo. “I haven’t ridden in years, but I spent a lot of summers there when I was a kid. Kinda like riding a bike, apparently,” Tank said, chuckling a bit. “It does come back to you.” Tank’s head disappeared as he ducked, presumably to brush the horse’s legs. His voice, however, carried to Cole. “You’re catching on, though. I saw you in the valley from the ridge above it, you and Ailsa. She your riding instructor?”
“She is,” Cole replied, expecting to take some ribbing for having asked her and not one of the soldiers.
“She must be good,” Tank said instead. “You almost look like you know what you’re doing.”
Cole grinned. “It is getting easier,” he admitted, “or at least I’m getting more comfortable in the saddle.” Indeed, today, he’dgiven the mare her legs—Ailsa’s wording, and hadn’t once felt like he was in danger of falling off as the horse galloped up and down the glen. He actually felt as if he’d been in control for most of that ride, great progress in his mind.
“I hadn’t realized how much I missed it,” Tank continued. “Who would, with cars and trucks, right? But damn, I like the feeling of it: riding, open air, man and beast”—he deepened his voice comically, grunting a bit—“primal male shit. Argh. Argh.”
Cole’s grin widened. “That started out so poetic,” he remarked. “So you had a good ride?” Cole asked Tank without looking up.
“Not bad,” Tank replied. “These guys know their way around a saddle, that’s for sure. They’ve been teaching me a trick or two. I’ve still got lots to learn if I want to keep up.” He gave the gelding a final pat before setting the brush aside. “There’s a hunting party going out tomorrow. I think we’re expected to join them. Basically, I think they want to test our mettle—”
Before the conversation could continue, Father Gilbert appeared at the entrance, his steady gaze sweeping over the two men before landing on Cole. The priest approached, his hands clasped in front of him as if he’d been considering his words carefully before speaking.
“Cole,” he began, his tone gentle but firm, “a word, if I may?”
Tank stepped back, sensing the seriousness in the priest’s demeanor but staying within earshot. Cole straightened, setting the brush on the stable wall. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
Father Gilbert’s eyes flicked briefly around the stables. “I feel it is my duty to caution you. If what you’ve said about your origins is true, you may be...whisked away at a moment’s notice—returned to your own time. Or you may not, but the uncertainty remains. And in either case, you must be mindful not to grow too close to Ailsa Sinclair.”
Cole frowned. “Why’s that?” He felt a strange knot tighten in his chest, even as he figured he knew what the answer would be: he wasn’t acceptable.
Father Gilbert sighed. “There are practical reasons. Ailsa is to be promised in marriage to the MacLae son. Her brother, the laird, would never allow her to entertain the courtship of another. Their alliance is essential for peace.”
The words hit harder than Cole expected. He rubbed the back of his neck, grappling with the idea of Ailsa marrying someone else. “I don’t remember that I was courting Ailsa,” he said evasively.
Father Gilbert raised his brows at Cole. “Are you not?”
“She’s teaching me how to ride a damn horse,” he said, a little heated now under the priest’s critical stare. “This... MacLae son,” Cole said, his voice tight, “is he a decent guy?”
Father Gilbert tilted his head, considering—either Cole’s interest in the man or his answer. “I believe he will not be unkind. The laird would never allow his sister to be mistreated, though the marriage will be one of alliance, not love.”
Tank stepped forward, breaking the tension. “If it’s an alliance, it’s not exactly about whatshewants, huh? That’s some medieval shit we got rid of over the centuries,” he said lightly, though there was an edge to his tone.
Cole stared hard into the priest’s dark eyes. “So she’s...what? Off-limits? Can’t even engage in a simple helpful tutoring?”
