Page 44 of Winter Longing
Her brother had spent most of the meal discussing trade agreements, but her attention was elsewhere—specifically on the man at her side. Cole had been unusually quiet, the air of ease that had been built, tarnished, and then repaired over the past days absent tonight.
Her suspicions were confirmed when, after he’d emptied his plate, he turned to her, his expression oddly sheepish.
“Ailsa, I wanted to say...that is, I really appreciate your help with the riding,” he began, his voice low enough to keep their exchange private, “but I think I’m good now.” He cleared his throat and avoided meeting her gaze. “I don’t think I need any more instruction.”
Ailsa blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” Her smile wavered, and she quickly steadied it. “Well. That’s...that’s guid then. I’m glad to have been some help to ye.”
She meant to sound gracious, but even to her own ears, the words felt hollow. She didn’t mention what came first to mind, that Cole was far from ready to ride competently without further instruction; they hadn’t even begun to practice jumps, let alone navigating uneven terrain or handling a horse in more complex situations.
Cole shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away, out among the trestle tables, then back to her.
“You were a great help, very much so,” he added quickly, as if to soften the blow. “It’s just—uh, I think I can handle it from here.”
“Of course.” She inclined her head, her face a mask of polite composure. But inside, her thoughts churned.
Across the hall, a sudden commotion drew their attention. Two soldiers had risen from their seats, shoving each other amidst a clatter of spilled tankards and overturned plates. The larger of the two had his hand on the other’s tunic, his knuckles white as he hauled the man close, their faces inches apart.
The hall fell into a brief hush before erupting with laughter and cheers, a few people egging the pair on.
Tavis rose to his feet and slammed the side of his fist on the table. His voice boomed over the din. “Enough! Take it to the yard if ye must act like a pair of rutting stags. Nae here!”
The two soldiers hesitated, then grudgingly separated, muttering under their breaths as they righted the mess they’d made.
Ailsa barely paid them any mind. She glanced at Cole, who was watching the scene with mild interest. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense—not from the scuffle, she realized, but from something else entirely.
The hall’s noise swelled again as the scuffle was forgotten, but Ailsa couldn’t shake the unease curling in her chest.
Why did it feel as though Cole wasn’t just stepping away from the lessons—but from her?
For the rest of the meal, she made an effort to join in the conversation, to laugh at her brother’s occasional quips and nod along with the talk of trade, war, and an upcoming purchase of horses he planned. But her heart wasn’t in it, her thoughts circling back to the man beside her and the quiet, undeniable hurt his words had left behind.
***
Two days later, Ailsa was in the stables, her brow furrowed as she ran a soothing hand along her mare’s flank. The poor creature’s breathing was labored, her sides shuddering slightly with each inhale.
“Ah, my sweet girl, what ails ye?” she murmured, stroking the mare’s soft coat. Ailsa’s heart ached at the sight. The stablemaster’s absence due to illness hadn’t helped matters, and it seemed the care of the animals had suffered for it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices at the stable door. She didn’t need to look up to recognize one of them—deep, smooth, and unmistakable.
Cole.
He stepped into the dimly lit space, his presence commanding even in his disheveled state. His dark hair was windswept from his ride, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he laughed at something the lad beside him said.
And just like that, the hurt she’d been nursing for days resurfaced.
Ailsa busied herself with attention to her mare, though her thoughts became scattered. She had managed to avoid Cole all of yesterday, missing supper in the hall, having thrown herself into the distraction of the unfortunate incident at Harailt’s croft. The man, a wiry farmer known more for his quiet efficiency than any outward cheer, had taken a nasty fall just before the supper hour, snapping his arm in a way that made both Ailsa and Anwen wince. Ailsa and her maid had quickly joined Father Gilbert on the journey to his home, laden with supplies and some ambition to be of service.
The scene had been chaotic. The croft was cluttered with the practical chaos of a working man’s life—tools scattered across a rickety table, a half-mended fishing net in the corner, unwashed kitchen supplies littering the ground around the brazier in the middle of his cottage. While Ailsa assisted, whispering to the pale and sweating patient, Father Gilbert had set the bones with grim but efficient focus. When the worst of it was done, she and Anwen had set to tidying, rearranging furniture and making small adjustments to ensure the man could navigate his space more easily while his arm healed. They’d swept out the rushes, tidied the hearth, and before departing had made a promise to deliver a simmering pot of stew that evening.
That kind of purposeful labor had been rather timely, she’d thought later, allowing her to escape Cole’s company in the hall, where she feared she’d not have been able to keep her wounded heart hidden.
But now, with no such distractions, her pulse quickened at the thought of a confrontation. Tucked into the third stall behind her wheezing mare, Ailsa remained completely still.
“Remember to keep yer knees under ye, nae in front of ye,” the man with Cole said. “Sure and ye had guid progress today.”
A sudden frown wrinkled Ailsa’s brow and she stood up on her toes, peeking over the mare’s broad back. She recognized the man with Cole as Roibeart, the elderly groom responsible for training the war horses.
“Thanks, Roibeart,” Cole said, leading his horse into the stable.
