Page 33 of Winter Longing
This... connection with Ailsa, or whatever it was, meant nothing. It was a bad idea to let it grow. He had to keep his focus on finding a way home, not on the way Ailsa’s smile had stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time, or the quiet grace with which she moved, or the way her voice seemed to wrap around his name like she owned it. Those were dangerous distractions, and he couldn’t afford them.
Ailsa’s voice broke through the din of his puzzled reverie as servants began placing platters of food along the table. As she had the night before, Ailsa quietly identified each dish to Cole. “Roast venison,” she murmured, gesturing toward a platter garnished with chunks of meat covered in buttery herbs. “And there—spiced parsnips and onions,” she said, pointing toward another dish—unnecessarily, as Cole could easily identify the familiar vegetable. “They’re a favorite of the laird’s.” When another dish arrived, looking like a rich, golden-crusted pie, Ailsa’s face brightened with unmistakable delight. “Ah, bridies,” she said with some excitement. “Stuffed with minced meat and spices. These are my favorite.”
He smiled at her enthusiasm. Though he was hungry, and the savory scent of roasted meat made his mouth water, he found himself more intrigued by Ailsa than the food.
“You must try one,” she urged, pulling the platter forward after Tavis Sinclair had helped himself.
Ailsa served him, generously giving him a much larger portion than she spooned onto her plate.
“Thank you.”
She graciously continued to fill his plate, and he hadn’t the heart to tell her he didn’t particularly care for venison. He knew he’d eat every bite, so as not to cause her any embarrassment, but he definitely wished she’d not been so generous with that serving.
When his plate was filled, Ailsa slid her hand onto the table between them. With a subtle motion, she pulled her hand back, leaving behind a small silver knife. “An eating knife for yer own,” she said softly, and with her other hand, she revealed another knife—the one she’d used the previous night.
Cole blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. Overcome by her thoughtfulness, and still a bit surprised by the absence offorks or spoons, he managed a warm smile. “Thank you, Ailsa. That’s... really kind of you.”
It struck him then how rare it was for someone to do something so simple, yet so considerate. Aside from his Aunt Rosie, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had thought of what he might need and offered it freely.
Having a sense that Tank was well occupied with both Tavis and Dersey on his far side, Cole allowed himself to enjoy dinner with Ailsa once more. However, and possibly her brother’s presence had something to do with it or maybe the priest’s warning, but she made fewer overtures, fewer attempts at conversation, seeming to want to be a part of her brother’s conversation with Tank.
Though disappointing, it was fine with Cole, as it was not his intention at all to bring focus onto himself, or worse, to rile either Tavis’s suspicions or anger. He wasn’t sure if his presence and Tanks had warranted the additional guards in the hall tonight or if the half dozen armed soldiers standing directly in front of the table, their backs to those seated, were simply Tavis’s bodyguards, and only routinely stationed to protect the laird.
At one point Tank’s voice cut through the ambient noise, “So,” he said, “what exactly is going on with this war?”
A hush seemed to fall over the head table and all heads swiveled toward him.
Tavis arched a brow, Ailsa glanced sideways at Cole, and Father Gilbert paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
“The war,” Tavis repeated slowly, his voice laced with incredulity. “Are ye telling me ye dinna ken the state of the country? Of war? Or, God’s bluid, the price paid for it?”
Tank cleared his throat, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We...er, we come from a very small village. Hardly ever gets news.”
Dersey, seated next to Cole, leaned forward and sent a sharp gaze to Tank. “A village that kens naught of England’s invasion? Or of the decimation brought to us?”
“And before that,” Tank added quickly, “we were in Spain. That’s where we’re from.”
Cole resisted the urge to groan.Really? Okay, so he wasn’t meant for the stage, that was certain.
Tavis looked neither amused nor appeased. “Spain, is it? A curious path that led ye here.”
Tank shrugged, piling more bread onto his plate. “Long story.”
Dersey shook his head, muttering something under his breath before addressing Tank again. “Long story or nae, ye’re here now, and ye’d do well to listen.” With his eating knife held in a tight grip, his tone was both sharp and somber. “This war has torn the Highlands apart, this house against that house, thousands of ours killed or captured. Crops burned, villages razed. I’ve seen bairns left to die in the snow, their mothers hanged above them. The English march through the south like a plague.”
Tavis nodded grimly. “Dersey speaks true. The Sassenachs ken nae mercy. They’ve slaughtered families, destroyed homes. Those who resist are branded traitors. But Wallace and others fight on, rallying men, even after Stirling Bridge. He doesnae yield, and neither do we.”
Ailsa’s voice was quieter but carried no less weight. “The Sinclairs have suffered, too. We’ve given all we can to support the cause—men, food, coin. It’s never enough.” Her gaze seemed to drift, her expression softening.
Tank’s easy demeanor faltered, the weight of their words settling on him like a physical blow. “I didn’t realize...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically subdued.
Cole decided to jump in, hoping to redirect the focus. “What about your army?” he asked, looking at Tavis. “How do you keep fighting when everything’s been taken from you?”
Tavis took a long sip of his ale before answering. “With grit, lad. And with the knowledge that surrender is worse than death. Three hundred men we’ve given to the war. Three hundred, just me and mine. The truce could nae have come at a better time, but 'twill nae stay—they never do. We’ll be dying again come the spring.”
Father Gilbert nodded. “The English offer naught but chains to those who submit. Freedom is worth any price.”
The discussion continued, with the priest, Dersey, and occasionally Tavis and Ailsa contributing to paint a vivid picture of the relentless toll the war had taken over the years. They spoke of fields left fallow and villages emptied, the brutal losses at singular battles that took the lives of thousands of Scotsmen, and the constant specter of hunger during harsh winters. Stories of betrayal and shifting loyalties wove through their words, along with somber accounts of lives shattered by the conflict.
