Page 81 of Winter Longing
Ailsa nodded and allowed her fears to spill out. “He’s nae like Tavis, Anwen. He wasnae raised to this life, to war. He’s strong, aye, but... I dinna ken if he has the kind of resolve it takes to survive out there.” She gestured vaguely, as though the battlefield were just beyond the stone walls.
“Ye underestimate him,” her maid testified without hesitation.
Ailsa’s brow furrowed. “Do I?”
“More resolve than ye ken, is my guess,” Anwen affirmed with a single, sharp nod.
Ailsa hoped so, but she simply wasn’t sure, certainly not when it came to war. “I only long for him to be safe. I canna help but worry that the very traits I admire in him—his kindness, his warmth, his eagerness to earn a place among the Sinclairs—are what could make him vulnerable.” She’d been impressed with his resilience, his ambition to prove himself, to conquer necessary skills, but for months she’d been anxious that same determination in him might bring him to his end.
She missed him terribly. There were days when the quiet loneliness that came with his absence was enough to hollow her out.
She ached to have his arms around her, the solid, reassuring strength of him pressing against her as if to ward off all these hardships and fears. She longed for the way his hands wouldcradle her face as though she were the most precious thing in his world. And she yearned for his laughter—the soft, unguarded chuckle that escaped when she said something that amused him, or the deep, booming laugh when she surprised him with her wit. That laugh could chase away even the darkest of days. She yearned for one more of those sweet, crooked grins he reserved just for her—those ones filled with joy, promise, and something deeper that made her breath catch every time. She’d convinced herself they meant something more, that their marriage was indeedrealto him, though he’d never spoken the words aloud. She clung to that hope, fragile as it was, like a lifeline in the storm of her worry.
But most of all, she missed the quiet moments between them, the times when words weren’t needed. She longed for him to be beside her in their bed, the weight of his body against hers, the feel of his skin under her fingertips, and the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. It was in those moments, when the world fell away, that she’d felt most at peace but now felt most vulnerable and afraid.
Anwen’s soft, knowing voice cut through her thoughts. “Ye love him.”
Ailsa blinked, startled by the bluntness of the statement. But as the truth of it had been known to her for some time, she found she couldn’t deny it. “I do,” she whispered.
“And that,” Anwen said with quiet confidence, “is why he’ll come back. For ye.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Cole Carter gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the leather-bound steel. The pre-dawn air was crisp, biting against his cheeks, but the warmth of his chainmail and gambeson smothered him. Around him, men moved into position, silent shadows against the gray light.
They’d been briefed on the layout of the enemy’s encampments and the decision to move now. The English force, far too large to settle in one area, had divided into three separate camps, a strategic necessity for both space and foraging. This division made it easier for the Scots to finally target smaller, isolated groups, rather than confronting the full might of Segrave’s army at once. The camp they meant to surprise now was the furthest out, distanced from Segrave’s other contingents. Though he understood the advantage this provided, the enormity of the task ahead still settled heavily on Cole. This was just one piece of the enemy, one camp of three, and they were vastly outnumbered overall.
They’d marched through the night to enact this surprise attack. From their position on the hill, the enemy's tents looked like small, pale dots against the frozen earth—and still too many for the heavily outnumbered Scots. Tavis and other lairds moved among their men, their voices low but steady as they gave orders. Cole stayed close to Tank, whose anxious humor kept them both from unraveling.
"Would’ve been nice if they’d invented gunsjust a littlesooner?" Tank murmured, hefting his axe onto his shoulder.
Cole forced a grin, though dread weighed him down. "You’d still find a way to miss."
“Not with my M4 Carbine,” Tank boasted. “And damn, what I wouldn’t give for a grenade launcher.”
Their quiet exchange was interrupted by Tavis’s sharp whisper. “Eyes forward. It’s time.”
It’s timemeant another fifteen minutes, waiting, worrying.
Without the customary horn blast to signal the advance, as Cole had been told would normally be expected, the Scots surged silently down the hill, a unified force intent on delivering a surprise attack on the sleeping enemy.
As they gathered speed, the sound of thousands of horses barreling down could neither hidden nor mistaken, and soon, war cries sounded out, ripping through the quiet valley, rousing the sleeping camp to life. With Tavis having advised that neither Cole nor Tank were ready to fight atop horses, they ran among the foot soldiers. Cole’s heart thundered in his chest, louder than the clash of steel that soon engulfed the camp, coming from the mounted cavalry forerunners.
Chaos erupted as the Scots descended upon the unsuspecting English soldiers.
Just as Cole reached the encampment, wondering if any Englishman would still be standing by the time he got there, if he’d need to fight at all, he came upon his first opponent, a man groggy and barely armored but still wielding a blade, which already dripped with blood, aiming it at Cole. They locked swords, the jarring force of the impact rattling through Cole’s arms. The Englishman swung again, but instinct took over; Cole sidestepped and slashed downward. The strike connected.
For a moment, everything froze. The man crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Cole stared, his mind blank with shock. He felt the sudden urge to vomit as he saw the man’s life extinguished at his feet and his own sword now red with blood.
The moment shattered as another enemy lunged at him. There was no time to process the horror of what he’d done. Cole blocked the coming blow, barely raising his shield in time todeflect the blow aimed at his head, saved by his lacrosse-honed reflexes kicking in. The force of it drove him to one knee, but he twisted and lashed out with his sword, catching the man’s leg. The enemy stumbled, and Cole surged up, grimacing as he delivered a clumsy but effective blow that ended the fight.
His heart pounded in his ears, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
Christ, it was madness. He’d just killed a man. And then another.
The battlefield was a frenzy of sound and fury. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced, yet he found himself having no choice but to adapt, his focus narrowing to the immediate threats around him.
Turning, Cole spotted an Englishman crouching over a Sinclair soldier who lay on his back. He was too late to save the young man—the enemy’s thin, lethal blade had already been driven into the boy’s chest, piercing his heart. A cold clarity overtook Cole as he watched the murder unfold. Without hesitation, he drove his own blade into the Englishman’s back. The man lurched forward, impaling his weapon further before he collapsed heavily onto the lifeless body beneath him.
