Page 47 of Winter Longing
“Stop,” he hissed thickly. It was unclear from where the strength came to push her away—God knew he didn’t feel it in his body. “Christ, Ailsa, are youtryingto get me killed?”
Her lips were red, wet and glistening, and her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson. When her blue eyes fluttered open, they held a dazed, almost dreamy expression, as though she were still lost in the moment.
“Ailsa, Father Gilbert is right—and here is proof,” he barked out, prudently taking a step backward. “This is a bad idea—any time spent with you. Yeah, I might want more,” he said—damn, I do want more, “but it’s dangerous. To you, to me, to whatever Father Gilbert meant about needing peace between the Sinclairs and the MacLaes and your marriage managing that. I...Ailsa, I’m not even supposed to be here. I can’t be the reason that this time or your life, or even the safety of the Sinclairs gets all messed up.”
It was a moment before she responded at all. When she did, her voice was small, filled with as much hesitation as it was hope. “Mayhap yearehere for a reason.”
“And what reason would that be? To kiss you and get myself killed when your brother finds out? To ruin whatever peaceyour clan hopes to gain? To die in this century instead of my own?” He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. A thought struck him, sharp and unwelcome. “And what are you even saying, Ailsa? You don’t really believe I’m from the future. I know that. You’ve been polite, but deep down, you think I’m lying—or crazy.”
Her gaze fell, and she absently brushed a hand down the front of her gown. “I did,” she admitted softly, almost inaudibly. “At first, I thought ye mad—or mayhap jesting. But now...” She lifted her face, meeting his eyes, with what looked to be newfound determination. “Now I dinna ken what to believe. Only that, whatever the truth is, ye feel real. As if ye’re meant to be here. As ifwe’remeant to be.”
Her words struck him like a fist to the gut, the context, the very idea presented leaving him momentarily speechless. Because the worst part of it was—no. No! He didn’t want to believe it. It was nuts.Meant to be, my ass. This was simple, raw, maddening physical attraction. Nothing more than her soft lips, her wide, questioning eyes, and her damnable innocence baiting him into losing his head.
Logic would not allow him to hitch his wagon to some absurd star filled with BS about romantic destiny.
“Christ, Ailsa,” he muttered, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “You have no idea what fire you’re playing with.”
Her face fell, her expression crumpling like paper crinkling when thrown into the flames. For a moment, it looked as though she might retreat entirely. But then she squared her shoulders, the fire in her blue eyes sparking again.
Needing to leave before he did something even more stupid, Cole pivoted on his heel, forgetting about the horse he’d returned, and strode angrily toward the stable doors. Part of him, skeptical modern-day man that he was, felt a flicker of doubt. Was she using him to escape her 14th-century marriage?No. Ailsa wasn’t like that. She wasn’t devious, wouldn’t have planned such a manipulation. Would she?
“Cole, wait!” Ailsa’s voice caught up to him, cracking slightly, desperation threading through it.
It gave him pause, his hand stilling on the wooden doorframe. He didn’t turn, but he couldn’t force himself to leave either.
“I... I’m leaving on the morrow,” she said, her voice trembling, her accent softening. “I’ll be gone for nearly a week, visiting my sister at Kilbrae.”
Another punch to the gut, but he masked his reaction with a sharp inhale, letting the sting of cold air clear his thoughts. It was probably for the best. Still, his chest tightened at the thought of her leaving Torr Cinnteag.
He tapped his fingers on the hard wood of the door frame, considering the possibility that he might well be gone by the time she returned. He had no hint, nothing had happened to allow him to believe he would again be moved through time, back to the twenty-first century... but what if he was? And he never saw her again? The idea hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, but he swallowed it down, baring his teeth, refusing to look at her.
“Be safe, Ailsa,” he called over his shoulder, his voice quieter now, burdened with something he refused to name. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out into the biting wind.
***
This trip to her sister’s should have been a reprieve—a chance to escape the mounting tension of the upcoming meeting with Alastair MacLae and the expected betrothal announcement. It had been planned for this time for exactly that purpose. Normally, these visits brought her solace. She loved the sweetlaughter of her nieces, the easy flow of conversation with her sister—even though Orla sometimes proved even more annoyingly overbearing than Anwen and could occasionally be excessively critical of Ailsa. But she loved her sister and had never before dreaded journeying to visit her. Yet now, the thought of leaving filled her with an unfamiliar sense of dread.
What if Cole Carter wasn’t here when she returned?
The question gnawed at her, a persistent ache she couldn’t ignore. The thought struck her like a physical blow. Cole was a man out of time. What if the same strange force that had brought him to this age decided to whisk him away again? The notion was as terrifying as it was plausible. She could picture it all too vividly: returning to the castle, finding his room empty, and realizing he had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.
Ailsa had pleaded with Tavis last night, trying every argument she could think of to delay the journey.
“Surely it can wait a few more days,” she had insisted, only to meet the steady wall of her brother’s unyielding will.
This morning, she’d tried a different approach, claiming illness as her excuse. “I can’t manage a seven-hour carriage ride, Tavis,” she said, adopting the most pitiful tone she could muster. “I’m quite sure I’m feverish.”
He’d placed a warm, calloused hand against her forehead, his skeptical gaze pinning her. “You’re as cool as a Highland morning,” he said dryly.
“But Iwasfeverish! Overnight,” she protested, though even she heard how unconvincing she sounded.
Her attempts were futile. Tavis was immune to her feeble ploys and determined to send her on her way.
And so here she was, bundled into the carriage, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the uneven road doing little to distract her from her rising anxiety.
She’d had no opportunity to see Cole Carter this morning. Either he was a man unaccustomed to early rising or he’d gone out of his way to avoid the bailey, as she and her party of a dozen men had been seen off by Tavis and a few others.
Anwen, opposite her on the other bench, was blessedly silent for once, allowing Ailsa to revisit every glorious second of Cole’s kiss, which had lingered like a sweet echo, softly in the corners of her mind since yesterday afternoon. Even now, with only the memory to hold onto, she felt the warmth bloom inside her chest, spreading outward. She could almost feel the heat of him still, his hand firm at her waist, the intensity of his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.
