Page 55 of Winter Longing
Rory shrugged a bit, burrowing into his breacan, possibly to escape the censure Cole leveled at him. “Nae close enough. 'Tis too dangerous. Torr Dubh land is harsh. Rocky. Laird willna risk the horses, nae in the snow—nae his men.”
Cole was as angry at this weak explanation as he was stunned.Not even for his sister?
At his side, Tank tried to make him see reason. “Dude, he’s right. It’s a good call. We’ve been out all day—the guys and the horses need a rest.”
Cole clenched his fists, his breath coming in quick bursts as he fought the urge to shout. “I can’t just stop. Not when she’s out there.” Desperately, he suggested, “We don’t need them. We can keep going.”
Tank’s mien softened slightly as he met Cole’s gaze. His beard was completely white and his nose and cheeks were noticeably red. “I get it, Cole. But it’s gonna be dark soon, and we don’t know these lands. We’d be lost within an hour.”
“Christ, Tank,” he implored, hardly able to comprehend the fear that gripped him. “Would you be able to stop now, if someone you...?”
Tank lifted a brow, but Cole did not finish. Tank filled in the blanks. “If someone I cared about was out there, possibly in danger? It’d be tough, yeah. But there’s no way we can move forward without them. And we’re no good to her if we wind up dead.”
The words hit home, though they did nothing to ease the frustration roiling in Cole’s chest. He turned away, biting down on the urge to argue further.
As the group rode toward the castle, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world around them in ominous silence. Cole’s heart ached, fear clawing at him while he felt that he was abandoning Ailsa.
***
The toasty hall of Torr Dubh was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The fire in the massive hearth roared, sending waves of heat through the space, but even with the physical warmth, an undeniable chill hung in the air. Cole noticed it almost immediately, in the way the Sinclair soldiers sat together, huddled with each other in their dark tartans, speaking low among themselves but sparing little more than curt nods for their hosts.
The MacLaes seemed no more welcoming. They sat clustered at different tables, their expressions guarded, except for what glares they aimed at the Sinclairs. Even the servants, darting between the tables to deliver plates and refill cups, seemed a bit more thin-lipped as they approached the Sinclairs. Certainly, they delivered less food and drink to the visitors than they did to the home team.
Cole took it all in as he sat among the Sinclair men, chewing absently on a piece of cheese. He’d heard enough during his few weeks at Torr Cinnteag to understand that relations between the Sinclairs and MacLaes were as cold as the weather outside. The feuding, apparently, had been infrequent but long-standing—small slights and border disputes festering into grudges over the years. Ailsa’s marriage to Alastair MacLae was supposed towarm those relations, to serve as a bridge between the clans. But looking around, Cole had his doubts.
The MacLaes on one side of the hall were an unremarkable group, at least in Cole’s eyes. The men were clean and well-dressed, their tartans crisp and their tunics embroidered with subtle but deliberate details, but it wasn’t their appearance that set his teeth on edge. It was the way they acted.
They leaned close to one another, speaking in low tones, their murmurs punctuated by the occasional smirk or quiet chuckle. After each burst of laughter, their gazes would flick toward the Sinclair tables, lingering just long enough to make their target feel the scrutiny before turning back to their own group.
One of the MacLaes—a broad man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw—caught Cole’s eye and didn’t look away. His expression wasn’t hostile, but there was a cool detachment in the way he stared, as if weighing Cole and finding him lacking.
Cole tore his gaze away and glanced at the others. They, too, carried themselves with a sense of ease, leaning back in their seats and gesturing languidly as they spoke. They weren’t careless, exactly, but their casual air felt deliberate, as though they wanted it known that they were entirely unimpressed by the presence of their Sinclair guests.
It reminded Cole of opposing teams in the lacrosse arena. Yeah, there were teams—and certain players—who exuded that arrogant indifference. Though he’d been conditioned to ignore posturing from other teams, it rubbed Cole the wrong way now. It felt dismissive. Superior. And he didn’t like it.
Tank, seated beside Cole, leaned in slightly. “Damn, I feel like we’re sitting on a powder keg,” he muttered, obviously having noticed the strained tension as well.
Cole’s gaze drifted back to Alastair MacLae, whom Rory had pointed out earlier. Alastair sat at the high table near his brother William, the laird of Torr Dubh, and despite his finely tailoredtunic—its rich fabric catching the firelight—he looked every bit a man who’d long stopped caring about appearances.
Looking like he was nearly fifty, Alastair carried his weight poorly, his belly straining the fit of his clothing while his broad shoulders were rounded and drooped. His thinning hair had been combed in a desperate attempt to cover the bare crown of his head, but the sorry comb-over only highlighted the effort’s futility.
Still, it wasn’t his looks that made Cole’s jaw tighten. It was the way Alastair’s eyes roamed the hall, showing interest in only the female servants, and lingering far too long on one of them—a young woman balancing a tray of empty tankards, her full bosom straining against the fabric of her dress. Alastair’s gaze followed her with a lewd intensity that made Cole grimace with disgust.
There was nothing subtle about it. Alastair didn’t bother to hide his interest, his lips curling into a smug half-smile as the girl passed close to the high table. Cole watched with disdain the casual way Alastair tilted his head, leaning slightly to get a better view of her figure.
Cole exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away before his expression betrayed him. He’d seen men like Alastair before—men who thought wealth or power gave them the right to take whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter the century; that kind of arrogance was timeless, and it infuriated him.
“Shit, he’s a piece of work,” Tank commented, his attention seemingly on Alastair as well.
Cole murmured an angry assent.
He kind of understood the necessity of the match, but knowing didn’t make it easier to accept.
How could Ailsa stand it? How could she possibly resign herself to spending the rest of her life with a man like that? Alastair wasn’t just older; he was smug, crude, and entirelyunworthy of her. Cole tried to imagine what it would feel like, to know your future had been decided for you, to see it coming like a slow-moving train you couldn’t stop. His twenty-first century brain couldn’t wrap around it.
For more than an hour they remained inside the hall. Cole’s attention again and again on the high table, where Tavis and William MacLae were locked in quiet conversation. Whatever they were saying, it hardly seemed like any friendly conversation. Tavis wasn’t known for his humor, but Cole had seen him smile here and there—certainly he liked to poke fun at Cole during drills. But not tonight. His jaw was set and each nod he gave to William MacLae appeared stiff.
“Tavis looks like he wants to haul off and punch him,” Cole remarked to Tank.
