Page 13 of Winter Longing
Hours passed and though he wore only his underwear, the fur blanket was surprisingly warm, which kept him in bed for much of his wakeful time. Strengthened by the little bit of food offered and the bitter ale, Cole stood and checked the door, finding it unlocked. Because he had no clothes, he only cracked it open, but did not leave the room. Outside the door revealed only a narrow corridor swallowed in blackness. He investigated the bed, curious about how it seemed to sag so much, and found that it was constructed only of ropes strung taut across sturdy rails. There was no boxspring, and the mattress, such as it was, seemed to be nothing but a giant pillowcase filled with feathers and straw. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Cole imagined it would be if one spent more than one night on it.
Though he had no precise idea of time, the darkness and the stillness outside the window suggested sometime after midnight. With little else to do, he tried to sleep.
He was woken up next to the door banging open, which roused him instantly, same as the alarm inside the firehouse would when a call came in.
Cole shot up to a sitting position, heart hammering, as a towering figure filled the doorway, a wild, fur-clad character straight out ofGame of Thrones, or an ancient Highland warrior as depicted in more than one statue encountered in his travels across Scotland over the last week.
The man was built like a bear, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a heavy, weather-beaten face partially hidden beneath a dark, unruly beard. Layers of furs draped across his shoulders and chest, looking as if they'd been skinned and stitched together by hand, the pelts still rough, the edges ragged. His boots, massive and rough-hewn, laced up over thick calves, and looked decidedly homemade, crisscrossed with leather ties that seemed almost primitive. A thick belt at his waist held a long, vicious-looking dagger, and incredibly, a long sword was attached to his hip. There was an air of absolute command in his stance, as if he had authority over everyone and everything in the room. Even as the man’s piercing blue eyes suggested he might be Ailsa’s brother, everything about him spoke of another time.
Cole couldn’t shake the feeling—one he’d steadfastly resisted for the last twenty-four hours—that he was living inside some medieval fantasy, and the longer he traded stares with this imposing stranger, the more he started to fear that wasn’t far from the truth.
Visited by this impressive man and feeling particularly vulnerable—essentially tucked in bed and wearing only hisunderwear—Cole’s most pressing concern was,what the hell was going on?
While the man continued to study him studiously, Cole heard himself blurt out, “Christ, what year are you living in?”
The man’s response, delivered in a thick voice and accent, was a scathing, “English, are ye?”
Believing that the animosity against England was mostly a thing of the past to a great part of the population, Cole resisted rolling his eyes. But he did correct the man. “American. I’m a Yankee,” he added sarcastically, wondering if the label would be as distasteful to this guy as "English" seemed to be. After all, he’d come across places in the world whereYankeewasn’t exactly a compliment.
“How did ye come to be at Torr Cinnteag?” The man asked, coming to stand at the foot of the bed, his thick, caterpillar brows lowering to a glower.
“I was lost, separated from my friend,” Cole answered, confused by the sense he got—from Ailsa as well—that his trespassing was a huge crime.
The man fired more questions at him, one after another. Knowing he’d done nothing wrong, that he’d truly been lost and nearly desperate for the cold, Cole kept his answers short.
“Yer name?”
“Cole Carter.”
“Do ye spy or scout for an army or lord?”
“What? No.”
“To whom do ye owe yer allegiance?”
“My allegiance?”
The scowl deepened. “Do ye bear allegiance to either an enemy clan or to the English king?”
“No,” Cole answered, bewildered by what seemed evidence of a medieval mindset.
“Why do ye travel with nae weapon? And lacking proper attire?”
“I don’t...generally carry weapons—”
“Ye are a man of God?”
“I’m a Catholic, if that’s what you mean. What’s with the inquisition?”
Ignoring Cole’s curiosity, the man pressed on. “Do ye bring illness? Disease?”
“I do not,” Cole ground out, annoyed now, but not in much of a position to do anything about it—he was nearly naked, and this guy had a sword, and Cole had a crazy suspicion it was not only decorative.
“Do ye fight?”
“What do ye mean?”
“Do ye fight?” The man repeated, a larger hint of irritation darkening his tone. “Ye’re a braw man. Do ye use the sword? The bow? A hammer? Or do ye rely on yer fists?”
