Page 60 of Winter Longing
“Come, lass,” she said gently, her voice low and soothing. “Still weak ye are, and that dinna help. Rest ye need, and let’s see to it.”
The simple kindness nearly undid Ailsa. Her chin trembled, and though she wanted to brush the offer aside, to steel herself with the same stubbornness that had carried her this far, she couldn’t. The weight of it all, her own helplessness, pressed too heavily on her.
She let herself lean into Anwen’s support, just for a moment. “I don’t need rest,” she said weakly, her voice lacking the conviction to make the lie believable. “I need—” She stopped herself, uncertain what to say.
“I ken what ye need,” Anwen replied softly, leading her down the corridor with gentle insistence. “Sure and we’ll figure it out, how to help the Spaniards. But that willna come tonight. Come now—rest your bones, and let your mind settle. The battle will wait for the morn.”
***
The next morning, unable to stand the weight of guilt any longer, scarcely able to entertain a thought that was not about Cole locked up in Torr Cinnteag’s dungeon, Ailsa went in search of Father Gilbert.
Cole was in the dungeon because he’d kissed her.
The memory of it flared to life in her mind, as vivid now as it had been in the moment. The warmth of his hands at her cheeks, the brush of his lips against hers, and the unrestrained relief in his eyes—it all surged back with a force that made her stop in her tracks, pressing a hand to her chest. That kiss hadn’t been some calculated move, some selfish whim. Cole had simply been overcome with relief that she was alive and well—it was clear as day to her.
Thus, beneath the guilt, another feeling stirred. What did his joy at her safety say about his feelings for her? She wanted to believe it meant something, that it reflected more than just relief or gratitude. Could it mean he cared for her, truly cared for her? The possibility was... exhilarating.
Still, what good was hope in the face of her reality? She was expected to marry another, had only yesterday verified her pledge of duty to Tavis. To entertain even the smallest flicker of joy at the idea that Cole might feel something for her was folly. Worse, it was cruel—to herself and to him. No amount of hope could change what was required of her.
But hope was stubborn, and it nestled itself in the quiet corners of her heart despite everything. She tried to bury it, to smother it beneath the weight of her guilt, but it refused to die. And so, guilt and hope warred within her, each one sharpening her urgency to act. She owed Cole more than rueful longing. She owed him his freedom, his life.
Squaring her shoulders, Ailsa quickened her pace toward the chapel. Whatever it took, she would convince Father Gilbert to help. She couldn’t change what had happened, nor could she alter the path she was bound to walk, but she would not let Cole suffer for merely expressing joy.
Ailsa pushed open the chapel door where the early morning light cast a pale glow through the high windows, passed throughto the offices in the back. Inside, Father Gilbert sat at his desk, engrossed in his daily readings. He glanced up at her entrance, his expression softening briefly before tightening with concern.
“Ailsa,” he greeted warmly but then frowned. “Lass, you should be abed, recovering still from—"”
“I need ye to talk some sense into Tavis,” she blurted out. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to continue. “He’s locked Cole in the dungeon, Father—and Tank as well. It’s absurd. It’s criminal what he’s doing—Cole did nothing wrong.”
The priest’s wince gave her pause.
“Did he not, upon finding you safe from the tragedy, kiss you?”
Some of the things that had come to her after she’d met with Tavis—things she’d wished she said—came to her now. “Father, Cole believed me lost to the avalanche, perhaps even dead. His kiss was nae born of any improper intent but of relief so overwhelming it overtook him in the moment. Surely, ye understand how emotions can spill over in such dire circumstances.”
Father Gilbert frowned, setting his book aside. “Lass, I am not in any position to—”
“It was a fleeting gesture, Father,” she argued further, “nae some calculated or licentious act. If Cole had realized how it might be perceived, I’m certain he would have restrained himself.”
The priest rose to his feet, his face a mixture of shock and unease. “And you believe I can and should speak with your brother?”
“Ye must,” Ailsa urged, her voice trembling but resolute. “Cole dinna deserve this, Father. He risked his life for me. Whatever ye may think of him, he’s a good man.”
Father Gilbert hesitated, his gaze searching hers. “And what of his claims? This... other time he speaks of?”
“Whether it’s true or nae dinna matter, nae in this moment,” Ailsa replied, stepping closer. “He’s nae threat. You ken him—ye must see that.”
The priest sighed, rubbing his temples. “Tavis is not easily swayed, especially when it comes to the importance and necessity of this contract with the MacLaes.”
She refused to go down that path with the priest—he certainly didn’t deserve her censure, her thoughts on Tavis’s poor handling of the feud with the MacLaes. “But if anyone can speak sense to him, it’s ye. Please, Father. I’m asking ye to help Cole—if nae for him or nae for me, then simply because ye ken it’s right. What Tavis is doing—God only kens what he plans to do!—is wrong.”
Before Father Gilbert could respond, heavy footsteps echoed outside the doorway. Ailsa turned sharply as Tavis entered, his broad frame blocking the light.
“Hmph,” Tavis grumbled, his tone cold as his gaze settled on her. “Here ye are.”
Ailsa stiffened, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came to speak with Father Gilbert.”
“Och, I dinna suppose I need to inquire about the content of yer discussion,” he snarled, his voice laced with accusation. “It seems ye are nae all that’s been ruined by Cole Carter.”
