Page 31 of Winter Longing
But then Cole recalled what he’d been doing at the moment Tank had ridden through the gates.
“Oh, shit,” Cole said suddenly. “I forgot—I was helping some guys repair the castle wall. You good here? I might guess a maid will come with food—they did when I first came, or rather when I woke up.” He glanced toward the slim window, which showedthat it was still light outside, but graying a bit. “Actually, it might almost be time for dinner, which they have inside the castle.”
“I’m weak as shit,” Tank admitted, “but I can’t just sit around. He harrumphed a short but amused chuckle. “Castle repairs, huh? Who’d have thunk?”
“Kept my mind occupied,” Cole advised, justifying his own actions.
“That’ll do,” Tank reasoned. “Let’s go.”
The two men returned to the castle wall as the late afternoon light began to fade. Half the stones for the repairs were already in place, stacked and mortared inside the crevice that had been dug out. Tank, imbued with natural authority and not one to watch idly if he thought something could or should be done better, questioned the use of mortar, wondering if it would freeze rather than dry properly. Otherwise, still weak from days without proper food, Tank only casually directed the effort, leaving the heavy lifting to Cole, Davey, and the others.
“Good placement, but that gap’s going to need more mortar,” Tank instructed, pacing along the higher ground. He gestured toward a spot where two stones didn’t quite meet.
Cole nodded and stretched out his hand for the wooden bucket filled with mortar, and got to work on the area.
The entire job was completed less than thirty minutes later, and Tank offered his hand to pull Cole from the ditch while two of the Sinclair men filled and packed what remained of the ground they’d removed.
A young maid approached, her brown skirts brushing the ground before she stopped a few paces away, drawing Cole and Tank’s attention. She gave a polite curtsy before speaking, her hesitant English very thickly accented.
“Sirs,” she began, her gaze flicking nervously between the two strangers, “the laird requests your company at the head table for tonight’s meal.”
While Cole and Tank exchanged a silent communication that seemed to question the reason behind this, the maid added, “He awaits ye now.”
Cole quickly recovered, nodding at her. “Thanks. We’ll, uh, clean up and head that way.”
The girl gave another quick curtsy before turning and retreating back toward the castle.
“Probably wants to keep us where he can see us,” Tank said.
“Yep,” Cole agreed.
They returned to the room at the back of the rectory and set about making themselves presentable. A ewer of water sat beside the basin on a low wooden stand, delivered earlier that morning by a servant, same as yesterday. The water was cold by now, but neither man was in a position to complain. Cole splashed the frigid liquid onto his face, shaking off the chill as he used a rough cloth to scrub away the grime of the day’s labor. “Medieval luxury at its best,” he muttered, running damp fingers through his hair to smooth it down.
Tank chuckled faintly, but his movements were sluggish as he took the basin next. “Beats freezing in a cave,” he admitted.
Cole glanced down and swiped at a bit of mud and dirt on his jacket. “I’d rather not go to dinner looking like I was just dragged through a sewer.”
From behind the cloth as he washed his face, Tank said, “I just spent twenty-four hours with an army on horseback and I can assure you, there was little evidence of high grooming standards.”
Cole grinned, accepting this was probably true, and the two men made their way to the hall. From the chapel to the door to the castle was seventy-five steps, Cole counted, just long enough—and cold enough—that he wished he’d had a towel to dry his face. The dampness on his cheeks seemed to amplify the cold, making it feel as though shards of ice were pricking his skin.
Once more, the hall was dimly lit by flickering torches along the walls and a few braziers that struggled to push back the growing shadows of the evening.
But it was not exactly dinnertime, Cole realized, as only Tavis and three of his soldiers occupied the hall presently.
“Shit,” Cole cursed quietly without moving his lips.
Tank had the same ominous feeling. “Hmph. Interrogation first, it seems, and then supper.”
“Might be,” Cole agreed as they moved cautiously forward.
At the dais, Tavis Sinclair sat flanked by three of his officers, their painted liberally with curiosity and mistrust as they observed the newcomers. The laird’s sharp gaze followed Tank and Cole as they crossed the hall.
“Come,” Tavis called, his voice firm and commanding. When they reached the dais, Tavis leaned back in his chair, his piercing eyes narrowing as he studied them. “Strange men,” he said finally, his voice low but laced with suspicion. “Ye arrive, both of ye, with nae clear explanation. Ye dress, speak, and carry yourselves like nae men I’ve ever kent.”
Neither Cole nor Tank moved. Cole spoke first. “As I’ve said, and as it seems Tank has proven, we mean no harm. We were simply...lost.”
“And we appreciate your hospitality, Sinclair,” Tank added. “As soon as we’re able, or as the weather permits, we’ll be on our way.”
