Page 7 of Winter Longing
As they reached the peat stacks, Anwen dug in with practiced hands, loading thick, dense clods into the basket Ailsa held, each heavy enough to burn long and steady. “There’s enough to see him through the night and more. And if the old goat complains, I’ll be bringing him barn cats next time, nae peat, though they’d probably bring him more warmth than he deserves.”
Ailsa hid another smile, trying to keep her voice neutral. “I’ve said, Anwen, many times, have I nae, that you dinna need to accompany me to Mallaig’s cottage? I ken the chore annoys ye.”
Anwen laughed outright. “And leave ye to be taken advantage of? Nae. He’d have ye spoon-feeding him and supplying him with the bluidy wine and next ye ken, ye’d be ploughing his runrig and keeping house with him. Och, and yer brother should set him straight. Hear it from the laird and aye, Mallaig’d be singing a different tune...”
On and on she went, grousing now about Ailsa’s brother, Tavis, who in Anwen’s mind, contributed also to Mallaig’s laziness by not putting his foot down.
“I dinna get it,” Anwen went on. “Hard as stone is the laird, suspicious by nature of everyone and everything, and yet he’s nae better than ye, coddling Mallaig as ye do.”
As Ailsa and Anwen made their way back toward Mallaig’s cottage, the familiar path wound quietly through the snowy landscape, edged by the sparse trees of the Little Forest, a stand of pines and bare, knotted oaks flanking the trail. The snow fell thicker here, muting sound and casting a haze across the view ahead. Ailsa pulled her cloak tightly against the chill, only half listening as Anwen droned on.
A slow flash of movement caught Ailsa’s attention, lifting her gaze from the ground.
There, where the trees met the path, a figure materialized out of the soft white haze of snow. At first, she thought it must be one of the Sinclair soldiers, but as he stepped onto the lane, Ailsa’s breath caught in her throat, realizing this was a person unknown to her. She’d lived her entire life at Torr Cinnteag, had never stepped foot off Sinclair land, and she knew every person of the demesne. But not this man.
This man was taller than any man she’d ever known, her own brother included, was broad-shouldered, his clothes dark against the snow, and he moved with a heaviness, a deliberate stride that spoke of either exhaustion or wariness. He was no Sinclair—that much was clear by the unfamiliar cut of his garments and the odd footwear worn. His face was shadowed but there was something about his movement, his very singular presence against the wintery backdrop, that seized her attention so profoundly.
Snow swirled around him, and the sudden cawing of a crow split the silence, the bird's dark shape swooping low near the man. The man’s face came into focus as he pushed back the hood of his unusual cloak, revealing a strong jaw, square and unshaven. Dark and tousled hair clung to his forehead, thefront of it dampened by the snow, giving him an untamed aura, heightening a rawness in his appearance that was neither refined nor delicate, but arresting all the same. His gaze seemed to settle with some decisiveness on Ailsa, the blue of his eyes glaring against the muted winter landscape. Though his features were unfamiliar, the weariness and the depth in his gaze struck her as curiously intimate, as if she were not just seeing this stranger for the first time.
No sword hung at his hip. He carried no weapon, not so far as Ailsa could see, carried nothing at all though his hands were fisted with what seemed like urgency at his side.
Anwen, belatedly realizing the man’s presence, drew up beside her, clutching Ailsa’s arm with a gasp. “Who... who do ye think that is?” she whispered, her usual bluster softened to a murmur.
Ailsa didn’t answer, her gaze locked with the stranger’s. She felt her heartbeat quicken with an inexplicable thrill while at the same time a very reasonable apprehension gripped her. This man looked as though he’d walked through hell itself, his expression harsh and yet desperate, and in stark contrast with the softness of fresh snow collecting on his broad shoulders.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Even as she grasped the danger of his presence and the vulnerability of their position, removed yet from the core of the village and quite a distance from the keep and the house guards, Ailsa’s lips parted in wonder, and she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
“Why does he stare so at ye?” Anwen asked. “Do ye ken him?”
Ailsa shook her head, unblinking, but did not answer Anwen. She had no answer, or rather couldn’t think, not with his gaze devouring her so. She was aware only of him, and of the powerful pull that kept her frozen in place.
The blue of his eyes was startling, his gaze unyielding, as though he were trying to reconcile what he saw with what he’dknown—or expected. She knew nothing of this man, nothing but the way he looked at her, oddly as if she were both his salvation and his undoing. The weight of it left her breathless, and her hand unconsciously rose to her collar, her fingers grazing the soft fur lining of her cloak.
“To the right,” Anwen said urgently, nudging Ailsa in that direction. “We’ll cut through the barley fields. Straight to the keep. Sound the alarm.Jesu, but he’s 'bout to slay ye with that gaze.”
And then the man spoke.
Anwen stiffened and yipped a squeak of fright.
“Hello,” called the man, holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner.
“Mother Mary save us,” breathed Anwen, her grip tightening on Ailsa’s arm. “What manner of speech is that?” She nearly spat, her voice hushed but sharp, each word laced with accusation.
A foreigner, Ailsa concluded with less hostility than Anwen. Neither his deep voice nor the unfamiliar word or language startled her. Though unusual in cadence and tone, the low pitch of his voice did not jar her but rather rolled through her, as would a warm current through icy water.
“Guid day, sir,” Ailsa said, finally finding her own voice. Recalling her role as the laird’s sister, she straightened her shoulders and called out, “Ye’ve come onto Sinclair land, sir. State yer purpose or turn yerself around.”
“Christ, you’re real,” was the man’s curious response in what was decidedly an English tongue. “Thank God. I’m...” He paused and shrugged his wide shoulders, lifting his hand helplessly.
“On yer way, is what ye are,” Anwen insisted. “Off with ye, ere the guards come.”
Ailsa shook her head. “Nae, he needs our help,” she said quietly to her maid, quite sure of her guess.
“Needs to make hisself scarce,” Anwen argued, “before yer brother finds him at Torr Cinnteag.”
The man sighed, holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner as he heard Anwen’s statement. “I’m not a threat to anyone. I just need some...direction.” He grimaced, as if in pain or just now coming to some realization. “Maybe a hospital.”
“We can offer ye victuals and point ye south,” Ailsa offered in a firm voice, “but nae more than that.”
