Page 86 of Winter Longing
Tavis snorted, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “His fight needs work—Jesu,does his fight need work—but he’s a guid man.”
Ailsa laughed lightly, the sound breaking through the somber mood.
Her brother’s expression grew serious again, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Do ye believe it, Ailsa? That he comes from some other century?”
She drew in a deep breath, considering her answer carefully. “It’s nearly impossible to believe, is it nae? But...hebelieves it. And who am I to say what is possible or nae? I ken his heart, Tavis, and that is all that matters to me.”
Tavis leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly, his gaze returning to the fire. “Trial by combat, he just survived,” he murmured. “Made himself a Sinclair out there in the field.”
Ailsa’s chest swelled with warmth and pride. She bent down and kissed her brother’s cheek, wrapping her arms around him in a rare embrace. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, patting her arm awkwardly.
“All is well, brother,” she said softly. “Torr Cinnteag is safe in your hands.”
He didn’t respond, but as she straightened and turned to leave, she thought she caught the faintest flicker of a contented smile on his lips.
Epilogue
The following winter
Torr Cinnteag
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Winter draped Torr Cinnteag in a shroud of frost, though thankfully much less snow had fallen as of yet. Still, the sharp chill of the season brought with it a slower pace, one that allowed the people of the keep to savor the rare peace. Cole stood atop the battlements, the wind whipping at his Sinclair plaid, having come to appreciate the rhythm of medieval life—hard work rewarded with small but profound satisfactions. A wolf pelt was draped across his shoulders, the fur provided by a kill he’d made himself. He was no archer and likely never would be, but he’d mastered the skill enough to hunt and to be of some use—if every other assigned Sinclair archer was somehow unavailable. The sword at his side—custom-made at Tavis’s request—bore the Sinclair crest, its hilt well-worn from months of combat, from which the Sinclairs had only just returned a few weeks ago. He appreciated greatly the medieval practice of laying low over the winter, war mostly set aside in favor of warm beds, daily hot meals, and a few months to catch your breath. He’d learned well after the fact that his first battle last year, near some little burgh called Roslin, had been a rarity, fought in the midst of winter.
The echoes of men laughing and shouting drew his attention to the distant training field, where lacrosse had quickly become a favorite pastime. It had started as a way for him to share a piece of his former life with the men, but it had become much more. To his amazement, even Tavis had joined in, though with the gruff insistence that it was for the sake of conditioning his men. Cole smirked, squinting across the distance, watching nowas the laird deftly intercepted a pass and slung the ball into the makeshift net. He high-fived Tank, another modern practice Tank had introduced to the Sinclairs and medieval Scotland, and which only yesterday Cole had caught two maids doing.
Cole and Tavis had come a long way. The laird had become more than a brother-in-law; he was a comrade, an ally, and perhaps even a friend. Cole thought that maybe his brave—if clumsy—fighting in that battle at Roslin had been what turned around Tavis’s suspicions about him. Shortly after their return to Torr Cinnteag last winter, both injured but recovered pretty quickly, Tavis had summoned Cole to his study, where he’d proceeded to question him extensively about the still incomprehensible phenomena of time-travel. He’d wanted to know all about modern life, which had stretched their conversation into hours. But never on that day or since, had he expressed any more disbelief. For whatever reason, Tavis had become open to the possibility, hadn’t again insisted that Cole was simply mad. It was revisited often, with Tank being included as well. They’d taken to drawing pictures for the laird. Neither one being an artist of any competence, Cole and Tank’s charcoal sketches of airplanes, modern homes, thruway systems, and armored tanks among other things looked more like a collection of kid’s scribblings. Tavis had saved them all, at which Cole raised a brow.
“Some archaeologist is going to find those one day,” Cole had suggested wryly, “and the entire working theory of when things were invented will be thrown into turmoil.”
One day, Tavis had point-blank asked Cole, “But if given the chance, to stay here or to return to your time, which would ye choose?”
“I want to be here,” Cole had answered without hesitation. This was his life now, happier and far more fulfilling than he ever could have imagined. He struggled enough leaving TorrCinnteag to go to war, leaving Ailsa, but fought like hell each time to return to her. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to imagine a life without her.
Rosie crossed his mind often. He worried for her, picturing her easy smile dimmed by his absence. He hoped she’d found comfort among her friends and his, and that the firehouse family had embraced her in his absence. Sometimes he’d send silent thoughts into the void, hoping they’d find her. If entire people could cross centuries, maybe thoughts could bridge that distance too.I’m all right, Rosie. Be happy as I am.
Cole and Tank had made the decision together, a private agreement decided after long and heated debates, that they would not reveal what they knew about the immediate future of Scotland. The stakes were simply too high. Not the outcome of the war, not the fates of its great leaders—none of it. Tank had argued passionately for intervention, his voice thick with frustration.
“We could save lives now,” Tank insisted, pacing in front of the hearth. “Good lives, important lives. You can’t tell me we should just sit back and let it happen.”
Cole, seated with one arm draped over the chair in Ailsa’s solar, watched Tank’s fervor with a quiet resolve. “And what if saving one life today means losing a hundred tomorrow?” he replied. “Christ, Tank, we’ve got no business playing God with history.”
Tank stopped mid-step and fixed Cole with a sharp look. “That’s bullshit, Cole. If we have this knowledge, we’ve got a duty—”
“Our duty,” Cole interrupted firmly, “is to Torr Cinnteag. To Ailsa, Tavis, and the people here. The future—this immediate future—has to play out as it’s meant to. If we start tampering with what we know, there’s no telling what we could ruin.”
Tank had finally relented, muttering, “Fine. But I’m writing stuff down. Not about this war, maybe, but about other things—Hitler, Stalin, all the people who’ll cause hell later. I’ll write a book, something someone could find in the future.”
Cole arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to write a book about the 20th century in medieval Scotland? That’ll go over well.”
Tank’s expression shifted into a sly grin. “Maybe they’ll think I’m a prophet.”
The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes made Cole laugh in spite of himself. “Tank the Prophet. God help us all.”
As the day waned, Cole retreated to the chamber he shared with Ailsa. The hearth crackled warmly, its glow casting golden light over the chamber. She was already in bed, her hair spread like silk over the pillows. His heart clenched at the sight of her, more beautiful every day, more loved.
He undressed quickly and slid beneath the covers, resting his hand gently on her rounded belly, awed as always by the life growing within her. She stirred, her blue eyes fluttering open to meet his.
