Page 48 of Winter Longing
Her heart fluttered at the recollection, and though she tried to steady herself, the delicate thrum of excitement would not settle. None of her imaginings had come close to reality. The way his lips had moved against hers, so commanding yet tender, was a sensation she’d never expected.
At length Ailsa moved aside the curtain and looked out the carriage window at the passing landscape, her thoughts drifting as her heartbeat quickened.
What if she never knew another kiss from him?
How would she feel if he actuallywasspirited away while she was gone?
Ailsa dropped the curtain into place and sank further into the upholstered seat, pressing her fingers to her temples as the answer surfaced with startling clarity. She would feel as if something extraordinary had been stolen from her—a fleeting, beautiful opportunity to connect with someone who intrigued her in a way no one else ever had.
***
“Three days, Ailsa. Three days you've been here, and I’ve yet to see ye trulyhere.”
Orla’s voice carried its usual sharpness as she adjusted the lace cuff on her sleeve with a disapproving tug.
“Ye might as well be a ghost, haunting this solar. What have ye? Has Torr Cinnteag suddenly become irresistible that ye dinna want to be here?”
Despite the cold winds howling through the narrow windows of the stone house, Orla’s solar was pleasantly warm. Ailsa sat near the hearth, the fire crackling brightly in the corner, sending warm orange light dancing over the tapestries that adorned the walls. Her niece, Bébhinn, played quietly with a doll beside her, while her older sister Mairead hummed softly, as she worked on her embroidery. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and herbs, and was a comfortable space, though one in which she had never truly felt at ease in. The furniture was old, heavy oak, worn with years of use, not softened by any cushion, and the low ceiling made the room feel more enclosed than she preferred.
It had been quiet, wonderfully so.
Ailsa blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her fingers went still, abandoning their task of attempting to untangle several knots in the skeins of yarn. She swallowed and her eyes flicked to her youngest niece, a round-faced cherub of four winters, who was blissfully unaware of the sudden tension in the room. The child giggled as she stripped her linen doll of her wool dress, playfully tossing the miniature garment up into Ailsa’s lap, oblivious to her aunt’s sudden unease.
“Apologies, Orla, for my inattention,” Ailsa replied too quickly, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her tone. Her gaze fell to her hands as they folded over the yarn in her lap, suddenly aware of the heat blooming in her cheeks beneath Orla’s sharp scrutiny. “I had said to Tavis that I was nae feeling well and that perhaps I—"
“Ha!” Orla snorted, her laughter grating against the quiet atmosphere. She nudged her sewing basket aside, sitting up straighter, preparing to pry deeper. “Rubbish. I dinna believe that for a moment. Ye’ve barely spoken a word to anyone, and dinna ken I haven’t noticed that ye stare...at naught. It’s like watching Mairead,” she said, gesturing with distaste toward her eldest daughter, who was in fact not so earnestly working on her embroidery but only staring at it. “What has ye in such a state, then? And pray dinna tell me this unsettling cloud is only anxiety about Alastair MacLae.”
Ailsa flinched at the mention of her betrothed. Her sister’s words hit too close to the truth, the weight of the betrothal hanging over her like a heavy shroud. “I dinna ken what you want me to say,” Ailsa murmured evasively, folding her hands tightly in her lap. She avoided Orla’s gaze as the sudden pressure of the conversation threatened to suffocate her. “Perhaps I just... miss the familiarity of home,” Ailsa finished, though the half-lie sat uncomfortably on her tongue. Itwaspartly true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.
Anwen’s disdainful snort from the corner of the chamber turned both sisters’ heads around.
Ailsa’s lips pressed together as she glared at her maid.
Orla eyed the smirking maid with speculation. “Ye might as well tell me, Anwen. We both ken I’ll find out eventually.”
“Nae for me to say, m’lady,” Anwen pronounced.
Ailsa snarled silently at her maid’s sudden reticence, after she’d purposefully revealed so much with only one scathing sound.
At that moment, Bébhinn climbed into Ailsa’s lap, wanting help with dressing the doll she’d made naked. Pleased with the distraction, Ailsa turned the little girl around in her lap and with her arms around her, proceeded to dress the figure in the discarded clothing.
“A man is my guess,” Orla said suddenly, startling Ailsa. “That’s what ails ye.”
Just as Ailsa raised her gaze, wondering how Orla had arrived at that conclusion, Anwen snidely provided, “Aye, Cole Carter, he is—a more unworthy soul I’m sure ye’ve never met, m’lady.”
Ailsa closed her eyes, willing calm upon herself, even as she fleetingly fantasized about slow torture methods she might inflict upon the loose-lipped Anwen.
Ailsa sighed heavily, lifting her niece off her lap as she’d been scrambling to get down. The child toddled away, giggling as she noticed that she inadvertently dragged the unraveled yarn along with her.
Ignoring her daughter and the mess she’d made of Ailsa’s tedious efforts, Orla’s eyes glinted with a knowing spark. “Ah, now that makes sense. And who is he who’s got ye all twisted up like a fisher’s net—Cole Carter, ye say?” She smirked, clearly relishing the moment of revelation. When Ailsa said nothing, Orla turned her attention to Anwen. “Mooning, is she?”
Ailsa’s chest tightened. The room seemed to shrink around her, and a rush of heat flooded her cheeks. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I am nae mooning over Cole Carter.”
The lie was spat out with indignation she had no right to feel, since it was in fact the truth.
Orla’s loud laugh startled both Ailsa and the girls. Mairead looked up from her embroidery in mild surprise, and Bébhinn paused in her play, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere.
“You’re nae a guid liar, Ailsa,” Orla chuckled, completely unbothered by her sister’s discomfort. “Ye never were.”
