Page 72 of Winter Longing
“I would...live it. Embrace it,” he said, knowing the priest was right, already beginning to feel much less paralyzed by fear.
“There is your answer, lad. To do any less is a disservice to both yourself and Ailsa. And to any child that might be born of your union.”
“You’re right,” Cole agreed. “I know you’re right.” He exhaled at length and faced the priest, grinning a bit now. “I’d like to think I’d have realized that, that I’d have come to the same conclusion myself eventually.”
“I’d like to think that myself, but it’s probably best you came to me,” Father Gilbert deadpanned.
Cole stared at him, the normally stoic, reserved priest, and burst out laughing, so surprised by this show of humor.
“Fair enough,” he allowed. He stood and extended his hand to the priest, still smiling. “Thank you, Father.”
The priest clasped his hand and laid his other over the top of them. “Be well, lad. Be at peace here and now.”
Nodding once more, Cole took his leave. Somewhat calmed, he made his way to the keep to wash up for supper, oblivious to the person ducking around the side of the chapel, into the shadows.
Chapter Nineteen
Ailsa moved quietly through the corridors of the keep, her steps soft against the stone floors as she searched for Tavis. The further she walked from the bustling kitchen and the hall, where preparations for supper were in full swing, the more the silence of the keep settled around her. This part of the castle, far from the noise and activity, felt distant, almost detached, as she made her way toward the steward’s chamber.
She respected Tavis’s authority—always had—but in this matter, she knew he was wrong. He had been for some time. Ailsa had caught Ceitidh, one of the kitchen servants, leaving the plate room months ago, with no reason to be there. She’d voiced her concerns to Tavis then, but he'd dismissed her suspicions as mere paranoia. Today, though, Ailsa had found Ceitidh near the treasury once more. While she hadn't searched the servant’s person, she’d grown more certain of her suspicions since that first encounter.
Since then, Ailsa had kept a closer eye on the household’s inventory—silver goblets, plates, utensils—and had recently noticed a troubling discrepancy. At least half a dozen goblets and plates had gone missing since her last count over a month ago. The theft was no longer a suspicion; it was fact. Now, Ailsa had to confront Tavis again, knowing that he might dismiss her once more, at which time she vowed she would take matters into her own hands.
Ailsa had always suspected that Tavis had dismissed her allegations about Ceitidh simply because he fancied her. While it was common knowledge that Tavis didn’t usually involve himself with the servants, it was also no secret that he had an ongoing relationship with Lias, a widow from the village. Ailsa couldn’t help but think that perhaps Tavis kept Ceitidh aroundas a backup, in case his relationship with the widow soured. After all, everyone also knew that Lias expected to marry the laird, but Tavis had resisted, unable to bring himself to wed someone he considered beneath his station.
But now, as she neared the steward’s office, she hesitated.
She could hear Tavis’s voice—low, controlled, but edged with something sharper, something darker—coming from the open door. He was in the middle of a conversation, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. Ailsa knew better than to barge in when his tone was like that, when his mood was already foul.
She lingered in the hallway, fingers tracing the stone of the wall as she debated. A small, quiet part of her urged her to turn back—to handle the matter with Ceitidh herself. As mistress of Torr Cinnteag, she had every right to do so. But the rest of her wanted to present her case, to advise Tavis that he was wrong about Ceitidh—the woman was not innocent.
Stick with the widow, she wanted to tell him.
A moment later, as she stood waiting, Domhnall came sprinting down the corridor toward her, flushed and out of breath, his expression tense with urgency.
"Domhnall," she gasped, an instinctive fear gripping her as she took in his agitated appearance. "What is amiss?"
He shot her a quick, dark look—one that struck her as unusually impolite—and, without missing a beat, said with a sharp edge to his voice, "I need to speak to the laird, nae ye."
The tone in his words hit her hard, especially after she'd always imagined him to be someone who held her in high regard, was mayhap even smitten with her. But there was no mistaking the condescension in his manner now, and it left her momentarily stunned.
Tavis, possibly having heard the small commotion, whipped the door open just as Domhnall went to open it.
“What’s this?” Tavis barked, his fuse short today apparently.
In the face of the laird’s displeasure, Domhnall shuffled his feet and stammered, “It’s...,” he paused and glanced at Ailsa and then said through lips that barely moved, “it’s about Cole Carter, Laird. I need to speak with ye—privately.” Another pointed look was thrown at Ailsa.
But Ailsa’s heart flipped, suddenly unconcerned with Domhnall’s odd manner. “Good heavens, Domhnall, is Cole all right? Has he been injured?”
Tavis’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Out with it, lad. I’ve nae time for games—”
Stubbornly, Domhnall thinned his lips and shook his head. “I’ll nae say it in front of the lass—”
“My sister’s ears,” Tavis growled impatiently, “are as guid as mine. Speak, lad,” he commanded.
Still, Domhnall hesitated. Ailsa thought Tavis was about to go through the roof. The steward had come to the door as well, stood peeking over the laird’s shoulder—even he seemed annoyed with Domhnall’s tentativeness.
“I’m about three seconds away from relieving yer body of what seems to be a worthless head,” Tavis warned.
