Page 41 of Winter Longing
“Up and down, rolling your hips,” she instructed. “That’s nice. Move with me.”
He tried to ignore the way her words seemed to echo deeper than the lesson at hand, or how her movements—smooth and synchronized with the mare and now Cole—seemed to blur the line between instruction and something far more intimate. He exhaled slowly, fighting to steady himself.
This was just about learning to ride, he reminded himself. That was all. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, his body wasn’t listening.
Cole wasn’t sure he learned anything except that he and Ailsa moved well together, but they did this for almost ten minutes before Ailsa brought the horse to a stop and dismounted. He edged forward in the saddle, gripping the reins she handed back to him with a little too much force, keeping his hands low, between his legs. All the while, he prayed she hadn’t noticed the undeniable evidence of just how fiercely he desired her.
Blissfully unaware—or so he desperately hoped—Ailsa tilted her head up to him, a radiant smile playing on her lips.
Or maybe shewasaware? Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant red, her gaze skittering past his eyes and landing, unmistakably, on his mouth. His heart stumbled. And the growing evidence of his attraction was not at all subdued.
“Ye can manage it for yerself now?” she asked, her voice light, though she still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.
He smothered a groan.I’ll have to, if I want to survive being in your presence without losing my mind.Aloud, he lied smoothly, “I think I got it.”
And, surprisingly, maybe he did. When he nudged the mare into a light trot at Ailsa’s prompting, circling the clearing in a wide arc, he realized he was finally beginning to move with the horse instead of against her. The rhythm Ailsa had tried so patiently to teach him felt less elusive now, as though his bodyhad finally begun to understand what his brain couldn’t grasp before. Surprising, indeed, since he hadn’t been thinking much about the horse—orthatrhythm—for the past ten minutes. No, his thoughts had been consumed by something, or rathersomeone, far more enticing.
***
And so the days passed, one after another, Cole falling into a routine in the fourteenth century. Each morning, he dragged himself out of bed, groaning and stiff from the accumulated strain of medieval sword training and horseback riding lessons. The aches and pains were relentless, a constant reminder that this was no quick session at the gym or a rough lacrosse practice. However, as he’d mentioned to Tank, Cole was certain that years of those modern-day routines were what made this grueling warrior regimen endurable. He might have been battered, but he wasn’t broken. For now, he counted small victories: fewer missteps, stronger strikes, and longer stretches in the saddle without feeling like he was about to be unseated.
In the meantime, it did not escape Cole’s attention that Ailsa never again offered to get in the saddle with him, and he had to wonder if that first day of riding, of talking about the rhythm of the horse while their bodies matched pace had affected her in the same way it had him. Whatever the reason, he was only glad that she hadn’t repeated that method of instruction.
On the third day of riding lessons, Ailsa asked, “Is nae yer friend in need of instruction as well?”
“I don’t know what Tank is doing,” Cole said, and there was plenty of truth to that statement.Embracing medieval life,was one answer. Despite their similar circumstances, he’d spent little time with Tank the last few days. His friend was enamored with this age and its people and was constantly out and about,wanting to learn and see and know, immersing himself in the culture.
That was Tank in a nutshell. He made friends everywhere he went. Kids gravitated toward him. Adults welcomed him. He could just as easily strike up a conversation with a homeless person as he could politicians back home. And it was no different here, Tank seen talking for more than an hour with the old blacksmith in his smoky forge, charming servants in the kitchen, and making friends with several of the soldiers. Tank could find common ground with just about anyone.
Cole, on the other hand, didn’t have the same ease with people. He was fine one-on-one or in familiar settings—comfortable at the firehouse, confident on the lacrosse field with his Bandits’ teammates—but in unfamiliar situations or around new people, he didn’t put himself out there. Crowds and small talk weren’t his forte, and he’d never enjoyed being in the spotlight. He struggled with the press requirements of the Bandits, as the players were required to give interviews regularly during the season as part of their contract and according to league rules.
Now, here he was in a world where fitting in wasn’t exactly optional. Tank seemed ready to adapt and thrive, but Cole wasn’t sure where he stood or how much he wanted to integrate himself. If this place became his reality—if henevergot back home—he’d have to adapt whether he liked it or not. And unless he decided to learn a trade, which wasn’t entirely out of the question, he had little choice but to keep working at the skills Ailsa and others were teaching him: riding, fighting, and surviving as if he were actually a warrior from this time.
After about an hour of lessons, and by now, Cole felt he had a firm handle on the extreme basics, Ailsa advised she was needed back at the castle.
“It’s candle making day,” she explained when he stopped the horse near her.
She had a habit of approaching whenever he brought the horse to a halt, and laying her hand on the horse’s neck, idly stroking, usually while she mentioned something he was doing wrong or could improve, or often some helpful tip. For some reason, Cole liked these moments, when she stood close, her face tipped up at him. As ever, her eyes were a startling blue outdoors in natural light. Today, as there was scarcely any wind, her hood had been lowered and her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. He wondered if the small distance created by him being mounted, or if the presence of the horse itself calmed her, but in these moments she never appeared shy or hesitant, always open and at ease.
“Isn’t that what servants are for?” He asked, his mouth curving a bit.
“Aye, of course, but my hands are nae broken,” she answered before shrugging and offering a saucy smile. “Alas, someone has to direct them.”
“I would think Anwen would be better suited for that job,” he ventured.
“And dinna doubt she is,” was Ailsa’s grinning reply. “But she takes pride in her elevated role as my maid. Supervising the servants is beneath her—or so she says—and she makes nae secret of her disdain for the more tedious work.”
“As in, she wouldn’t be caught dead getting her hands dirty?”
Another shrug preceded her response. “Aye, ye might say that.”
“I’m curious, because she’s usually hot on your trail,” Cole commented. “So where does she think you are everyday when you’re here with me?” Though he had no proof, he suspected that their daily lessons were not something Ailsa wanted widely known.
“'Tis nae my absence I explain,” Ailsa confessed, utterly unrepentant. “Instead, I give her wee tasks to keep her occupied. Yesterday, I sent her hunting for my favorite pair of riding gloves—which, as ye ken, I was wearing when we met here.” Her grin turned impish. “And today, I suggested that there might be some grand trouble brewing between Aimil, the dairymaid, and the lad she fancies, Eachann. I sighed, lamenting how I wished I could smooth things over but admitted, with great reluctance, that ’tis hardly my place to meddle.” She lifted her hand dramatically to her forehead, palm out, and let out an exaggerated sigh. “If only there were someone whocouldintervene.”
Cole let out a startled laugh, shaking his head. “Ailsa Sinclair! You’re a troublemaker—a schemer!”
Her smile didn’t falter in the slightest, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Nae, I’m a woman who treasures the occasional moment of peace, free of her maid’s ceaseless harping.”
