Page 14 of Winter Longing
Christ, had he stumbled into some kind of underground Scottish fight club? Did something like that even exist? His head swam with strange possibilities. Were people being “rescued” in the wilderness here only to be thrown into some archaic trial by combat? More and more, he began to wonder if he were only hallucinating from dehydration or the cold. None of this made any sense—why would anyone expect him to know how to wield a sword or a bow? He was barely hanging on to a vague thread of logic that this was some elaborate dream, but a voice at the back of his mind whispered that this was real.
“I’m not looking for a fight, man. I was lost and dangerously cold, and...and admittedly, I’m eerily confused—”
“Ye frighten easily?”
Cole snarled at the man. “I don’t. I’m pissed about what you’re doing here, obviously trying to intimidate me, but I’m not afraid. I haven’t done anything wrong, I have no bad intentions,so unless you’re some cult leader trying to test me or meaning to detain me, I’d appreciate it if I could have my clothes back, and I’ll be on my way.”
He needed to get out of here. Something was definitely wrong with everyone he’d met here at Torr Cinnteag. A bunch of freaks, taking his clothes and wanting him to fight—well, not everyone. He couldn’t bring himself to lump Ailsa in with the rest. Ailsa was no freak.
“Yer clothes will be returned, though they serve little purpose. Nae guid here o’er the winter,” said the man, with an arrogance that was starting to annoy Cole. “Yer boots remain, and I’ll want ye to speak with the tanner about their construction. Ye appear earnest,” he decided, and then qualified, “or mayhap a fool. Time will tell, aye?”
Cole scowled darkly at the man.What the hell did that mean?“Seriously, man. I just want to get going. If I could just have my—”
“Ye’ve seen, have ye nae? Ye canna survive the forest, nae the mountains, nae at this time of year.”
Cole huffed his annoyance. “Well, I can’t stay here until spring. Doesn’t anyone drive into...town? Or some bigger city? Where is Torr Cinnteag? We hadn’t gone that far from Fort William.”
“We, ye say?”
“Yes. I was with a friend. Hank Morrison.” He was unwilling to express any weakness, but his concern for Tank overrode his own pride. “I’m worried about him. He was out there with me when...when we got lost.”
The man eyed him suspiciously, almost as if he were trying to decide if Cole were making this up, or more broadly, if he should trust anything Cole said.
Cole returned his stare, fury rising for being suspected of...of anything. Jesus, was this how they treated Americans in this part of Scotland?
“More snow comes, and if there is a man out there,” he said, inclining his head toward the door, “he’s likely lost to the elements by now.”
More annoyed by the guy’s imperious manner, and his dismissive attitude toward Cole’s rights and the prospect of Tank’s survival, Cole tried to turn the tables and began to question him.
“And who are you?” He asked, a bit of arrogance infused in his tone, as if the man were beneath him. It was a tough sell—again, sitting in his underwear, unable to stand.
A slow and deliberate smirk materialized on the man’s weathered face, as if he were amused by Cole’s attempt to shift the tide of their exchange. Squaring his shoulders, which made him appear larger, more formidable, the man finally introduced himself. “Tavis Sinclair, I am. Mormaer of Torr Cinnteag, laird of all the Sinclairs, beholden to nae man but the king of Scotland, whoever shall wear the crown, and to God above. And ye,” he said pointedly, his seemingly natural frown easing, “are nae the first stray my tender-hearted sister has brought to us.”
Not sure what he should make of that statement, or the reason it might have been mentioned, Cole did not respond before the door opened, and another man, similarly dressed in fur-covered woolen garments, tall boots, and wearing a sword at his hip, entered the room.
The man eyed Cole suspiciously as he approached Tavis, whispering something in his ear, to which Tavis bent and listened. His features sharpened into hard lines as the man spoke at his ear. When the man finished speaking, Tavis gave a single, decisive nod before casting a brief, appraising look at Cole.
“Ye’ll stay here, under watch, until we’re certain what to make of ye and yer vague tale.”
My tale?Cole thought, his own displeasure matching Tavis Sinclair’s.
Before Cole could respond, Tavis gave a low command to the man who’d entered, and with one last enigmatic look, he strode toward the door. The second man threw a hard, silent glance in Cole’s direction, which Cole supposed was meant to scare him, before he followed Tavis from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
This place is insane,Cole thought as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. If he didn’t figure out what was happening soon, he was liable to lose his mind—or worse, end up as some pawn in whatever strange game these people seemed to be playing.
Cole considered again the strange change in the atmosphere, when everything changed, and how nothing was as it seemed, or as expected since then. Shit,hadhe traveled back in time? Had he somehow, miraculously, stumbled through a worm hole?
Christ, listen to yourself.
This was real life, not some sci-fi book or movie. This wasn’t some elaborate virtual reality experience, and he sure as hell wasn’t dreaming. Every moment here was too vivid, too jarringly real. But if this wasn’t the past, or a hallucination, or some kind of medieval cult...then what was it?
He shook his head, frustration gnawing at him as he tried to make sense of the endless, strange details that surrounded him. The clothes, the swords, the archaic way they spoke—everything seemed to be something that might have been found on a history channel special or in an epic Hollywood movie.
Cole took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rising panic.
What the hell was happening?
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