Page 75 of Winter Longing
Cole shifted beside her, his hand pressing gently over her clenched fist. “Ailsa, it’s fine,” he said, his tone steady and calming, though his jaw tightened slightly. He met her gaze briefly, a silent reassurance, before turning his focus back to Tavis. “Listen,” Cole began, his voice firm but measured, carrying no trace of hostility despite the tension in the room. “I don’t know how this happened. We didn’t ask for it, didn’t seek it out, but we’re not part of—or engaged in—some black magic or whatever you’re imagining. We’ve done nothing to harm you or anyone at Torr Cinnteag.” He paused briefly, gauging Tavis’s unreadable expression before continuing. “You want the whole story?” he asked, his voice sharpening slightly, though still controlled. “Fine. Tank and I were living in the year 2024. Life looks a lot different in some ways—technology, the way people live day to day—but in other ways, it’s not so different, especially when it comes to how people treat each other. We can talk about that sometime if you’re interested,” he added curtly, a flicker of dry humor in his tone. “Anyway, we were hiking on a mountain trail. Just walking, nothing unusual, when the air...changed. I can’t even describe it, what happened. Then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was lying in snow—snow that hadn’t been there when we started climbing—and Tank was nowhere in sight. I didn’t know what had happened, where I was, or why—and I still don’t. That’s the same story I told Ailsa, the same one I told Father Gilbert—because it’s the truth. I don’t know what brought us here, but I searched for Tank for nearly a day before I stumbled into your domain. The first person I saw was Ailsa.I had to ask her what year it was because the reality of what seemed to have happened—it was too impossible to believe.” Cole leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You think you’re struggling to believe? You think I’m crazy?” he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, more intense tone. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I’mstillthere,” he added, his words deliberate now, his frustration finally breaking through. “Because I don’t know what happened or why.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence, all eyes on Tavis as he weighed Cole’s words. Finally, he turned to Father Gilbert. “And what say ye, priest? What counsel do ye give me on this madness?”
Father Gilbert folded his hands again. “I say that Cole Carter’s origins matter less than his actions. And his actions, thus far, have shown him to be a man true to his word.”
A knock sounded at the door, which Domhnall opened, revealing not any house servants possibly wondering if supper should be delayed, but a young man Ailsa had never seen before, wringing a silent gasp from her.
He stood tall and lean, with light brown hair falling just to his collar. His eyes darted around the room with a mixture of caution and curiosity, eventually settling on Tavis. He wore a practical tunic of deep green, well-fitted and free of excessive adornment, paired with a sturdy belt and boots scuffed from long travel. In his hand, he clutched a rolled parchment sealed with crimson wax, its edges slightly frayed from handling. The sight of it immediately dispelled Ailsa’s fleeting and fanciful notion that he might have also stumbled through time—his attire and demeanor rooted him firmly in their current reality.
The young man stepped forward hesitantly, the scroll held out in offering. “A message for the laird,” he announced, his voice steady but carrying the faint rasp of someone who had likely spent days on the road.
Tavis shouted, “For feck’s sake, what now?”
Domhnall received the scroll and passed it to Tavis, who seized it with such force that the vellum crinkled under his grip. He snapped the wax seal without hesitation and unrolled the message. The furrow in his brow deepened as his eyes scanned the lines, and a vein throbbed faintly at his temple.
For a long moment, Tavis remained rigid, as though the words had gutted him. Then, with a sharp exhale, his shoulders sagged, and the tension in his jaw slackened into something more raw—weariness, perhaps even fear. His hand trembled slightly as he placed the scroll on the table, smoothing it flat as though the act might lessen the burden of what it contained.
Finally, he lowered himself into his chair, the motion deliberate but heavy, as if his legs could no longer bear the strain. He rested his forearms on the edge of the desk, his fingers lacing tightly together, and stared at the message for a heartbeat longer. The room remained silent, the gravity of his reaction more unsettling than any outburst could have been.
At length, Father Gilbert prompted, “Laird?”
Seeming only then to recall that he was not alone, Tavis startled briefly and glanced up, moving his gaze over all the watchful faces.
“Tavis, what is it?”
A sigh preceded his answer, but he seemed to recover himself. He straightened in the chair and announced, “The truce expired weeks ago. I’d received word then that Edward would hunker down for the winter, that nae campaign would be instigated until spring. Now this, saying John Segrave, on Edward’s orders, is assembling at Berwick on Tweed. Heading toward Edinburgh, meaning to carry out a large-scale reconnaissance as far as Kirkintilloch. Reconnaissance...mayhap more than that.” He lifted his gaze, passed it over the priest and Dersey, and even included Cole and Tank in his sweeping glanceonce again. “Essentially paving the way, if ye will, for Edward to follow when he’s ready again to make war on us.” He shook his head, a fleeting grimness overcoming his fury. “Jesu, it willna end.”
“Laird,” Father Gilbert said, stepping forward, “is this...only news being passed, or are you expected—”
“Aye, Simon Fraser summons the Sinclairs to Biggar, to assemble against Segrave.” He perused the missive briefly. “Possibly against Minton, mayhap Robert Neville as well,” he said, his gaze straying toward Dersey. “Christ, they’ll have twenty thousand men.”
Ailsa’s breath caught.
Father Gilbert clasped his hands together, his palms and fingers rigid and straight.
“When?” Dersey wanted to know.
“Now,” Tavis answered, and then chewed the inside of his cheek. “Simon Fraser wants to shadow them, see what they’re about. He needs troops now.”
Murchadh advised, “Laird, we dinna have the means to send ye off well-supplied, nae if we want to feed Torr Cinnteag o’er the winter.”
“Damn,” Dersey mused, “I kent we’d be home for Yule this year.”
Tavis stared blankly for a moment, his mind likely whirring in chaos.
Tank fisted his hand. “Let’s do it,” he said fiercely. “Let’s put all this training to work.”
The laird reacted angrily to this, snapping a hard glare at Tank, as if to say he was the last person Tavis wanted fighting beside him.
“You need us,” Tank reminded him. “You said yourself you didn’t have the numbers for this war.”
“Aye,” Tavis reluctantly agreed through clenched lips, “and I’m sure as hell nae leaving ye two here while I’m gone,” he barked, as if the very idea was preposterous. With greater good humor than he’d shown in the last hour, he supposed, “Mayhap ye’ll meet yer fate upon a battlefield and thus dissolve the need for me to ken what to make of ye.”
Ailsa’s heart lurched at the thought of Cole fighting alongside her brother and all the Sinclairs—fighting at all.
“Go on then,” Tavis grumbled, waving his hand, shooing them all toward the door. “Supper awaits, the last one at home. We leave with the morning light.” He picked up the quill he’d been fiddling with earlier and reached for an unused sheet of vellum, preparing his response for the waiting messenger, dismissing them from his mind.
Cole took Ailsa’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on,” he prompted.
