Page 73 of Winter Longing
Domhnall cast a nervous glance at Ailsa, who gave him a steady look. “Whatever it is, say it plainly, Domhnall,” she urged, her voice firm but not unkind.
The soldier took a deep breath. “I overheard him speakin’ with Father Gilbert, Laird,” he said, addressing Tavis and not Ailsa. “He said—he said he’s nae from this time. That he comes from... the future.”
The words hung in the air. Ailsa froze, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to process what she’d just heard.
Tavis, however, was less restrained.
“Have ye lost yer bluidy wits?” Tavis growled, stepping toward the young man, who shrank back under his glare. “The future? What nonsense is this?”
“It’s the truth, Laird,” Domhnall insisted, though his voice trembled. “I heard it with my own ears.” He flicked his thumb toward Ailsa. “Her husband said he was born—I dinna recall the year but it’s...in the future, hundreds of years. Father dinna seem so surprised, ye ken, so I figured he already kent this. And he said he dinna ken how he got here, and how he fears he might be er, taken back.” Color crept up into his cheeks and his hands clenched and unclenched as he briefly stared at the ground. “He said he was worried about...about getting the lass with child and then being ripped away.”
Alarmed by this, that anyone such as Domhnall knew Cole’s truth—Domhnall with his loose tongue—Ailsa forced a laugh and placed her hand to her chest, trying to stave off disaster. “God’s teeth, lad. Ye had me worried something terrible had befallen Cole. Quite obviously, ye misheard the conversation ye eavesdropped on.”
From behind Tavis, the steward harrumphed, a sound of disapproval that seemed to echo her stance. Spying on a private conversation was an egregious breach of conduct, after all.
Domhnall, however, squared his shoulders, his earlier hesitation evaporating as he fixed Ailsa with a look that was startlingly self-assured—and contemptuous. “I ken what I heard, mistress,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of any attempt at appeasement. “Ask him yerself if ye doubt me, Laird. But I’m telling ye, he’s nae from here—he’s fae, or immortal, or some such thing.”
Tavis’s jaw tightened, his irritation plain as his eyes flickered between Domhnall and Ailsa. Clearly, he was no more inclined to entertain such claims than she was, but the soldier’s conviction demanded some response.
Ailsa again attempted to dismiss Domhnall’s claims as nonsense. “Tavis, surely ye dinna believe that—
He held up his hand for silence. “All the more reason to put such rubbish to rest here and now. Go on then, soldier. Fetch Father Gilbert,” he snapped. “And bring Carter here. Now.” As an afterthought, he shouted down the corridor, “And bring the other one, Tank!”
***
As it was nearly the dinner hour, Tavis chose to have the meeting in his private office abovestairs. He signaled to the steward, Murchadh, to follow, knowing the man would dutifully record notes on any discussions concerning the happenings inside Torr Cinnteag. Tavis swept through the hall with a purposeful stride, his voice ringing out as he ordered Dersey to be summoned and brought to him at once.
Filled with dread, wishing she could somehow warn Cole of the impending inquisition, Ailsa trailed reluctantly behind her brother, her steps heavy with dread. Her brother had made it clear she was to accompany him and attend the conference as well.
“See what kind of man ye’ve wed,” he grumbled over his shoulder, as if Cole might not merely deny that Domhnall had heard correctly, and the matter would be put to rest, Tavis having learned nothing.
Inside his private office, Ailsa again appealed to her brother. “Tavis, ye dinna really believe any of what Domhnall said. Please tell me ye dinna.”
“Nae, I dinna believe in his fae folk nonsense—a man passing through the centuries. But something was said, I’m sure, something damning, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”
A bitter scowl twisted her lips, dismayed by her his words. “When will ye trust him? What has Cole ever—”
“I’ll trust him when I ken the truth,” Tavis snapped. “Do ye take me for a fool, sister? He’s hiding something—come from Spain, he says—bah! He’s nae more a Spaniard than I. Dinna ken how to ride, how to fight—dinna ken anything at all—”
“But ye allowed me to wed him?” Ailsa challenged.
“Necessary evil, that,” Tavis declared hotly. “There was nae escaping the truth—the consequences—that there’d be nae match for ye with another clan. But I liked the idea of having him right here under my nose.”
Ailsa harrumphed, her own wrath increasing. “And what have ye learned? That he’s willing to learn, that he’s able, that he will devote himself to Torr Cinnteag, to the Sinclairs. Tavis, I swear to God, I dinna ken who ye are anymore. I dinna ken—” She stopped when she realized that Murchadh had arrived, being so much slower to climb several flights of stairs than Tavis and Ailsa.
Dersey entered the chamber next, his brow furrowed in confusion, followed almost immediately by Father Gilbert, whose expression mirrored the captain’s. The unusual timing of the summons—just before the supper hour—and the presence of Ailsa seemed to have caught them both off guard.
“Laird?” Father Gilbert asked cautiously.
“Wait,” Tavis said sharply, raising a hand as he settled behind his desk. The table before him was cluttered with vellum sheets, a stack of ledgers, ink pots, quills, and the stubs of candles, though he paid them no mind. His gaze fixed on the window, his brooding silence casting a shadow over the room.
The door opened again, and Domhnall strode in, flushed from his errand. “Here they come, laird,” he announced, his chest heaving slightly. He stationed himself beside the door,hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his stance resolute as though prepared to defend both his claim and his laird.
Tavis thought to issue a warning to the young man. “Yer first closed-door conference, lad, and I’ll warn ye now—what is said here dinna leave this chamber. If I hear any more talk of this madness, I’ll assume it came from ye and the punishment will be severe, as befitting the crime, ignoring a direct order.”
Domhnall gulped but nodded smartly.
Moments later, Cole appeared in the doorway, his steps measured as he entered. His brow lifted slightly, clearly surprised by the assembly awaiting him. His eyes flicked to Ailsa, who stood to the left of her brother’s desk, and though she tried to convey a silent warning in her expression, their exchange was fleeting—too brief for him to glean much, especially under Tavis’s watchful gaze.
