Page 74 of Winter Longing
Tank followed close behind, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. Over the weeks, Ailsa had come to realize that Tank rarely allowed solemnity to linger unchallenged. True to form, he surveyed the room with a wide grin, then clapped his hands together. “A seat at the big boys’ table. What’s the occasion, chief?”
Ignoring Tank’s flippant comment, Tavis motioned for Domhnall to close the door. Then, fixing Cole—not Tank—with an unrelenting stare, Tavis leaned back in his chair, deceptively at ease. Absently, he toyed with one of the quills on his desk, flipping it end over end, then tapping it on the wooden surface in a rhythm too slow to be casual.
“Domhnall claims ye’ve been tellin’ tales,” he began, his voice sharper than the edge of any blade, “about being from another time. Is it true?”
Cole’s gaze flicked to Ailsa, his expression softening for the briefest moment before he straightened his shoulders. “It’s true,” he said simply, his voice steady but low.
Ailsa gasped, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop it. Quickly, she recovered, stepping closer to Cole, though she was uncertain if it was to shield him from her brother’s ire or to steady herself.
“From another time, ye are,” Tavis repeated, twirling the quill between his fingers as if the conversation were of no more consequence than the coming of winter snow. The calculated indifference in his tone sent a chill down Ailsa’s spine.
Cole nodded grimly. “Yeah.”
Dersey, standing rigid near the wall, seethed quietly and crossed himself. “Mother Mary save us.”
Tavis’s hand paused mid-flip, the quill now pointing directly at Cole. “Are ye daft then?” he asked, his calm voice a dangerous contradiction to the undercurrent of fury in his eyes.
“No,” Cole answered, his breath controlled but his jaw tight.
“Are ye fae? A sorcerer?”
Cole shook his head, drawing in a large breath. “No,” he said on his exhale.
The quill flipped again, tapping lightly against the desk. Tavis shifted his focus to Father Gilbert, who stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. “Ye ken this?”
Ailsa’s heart clenched. Though she had been willing to lie for Cole, she doubted Father Gilbert would—or even could.
“Aye, laird,” the priest admitted, his tone measured. “I have been aware of Cole’s...story.”
“Ye dinna kenIneeded to be made aware as well?” Tavis asked, his voice still calm but the quill’s sharp point now aimed squarely at the priest.
Father Gilbert met his gaze evenly. “If I’m to bring to you each and every improbable tale, laird,” he replied, “I fear there would be little time for anything else in your day.”
Tavis did not like his answer, and waved an angry, dismissive hand at him before returning his attention to the two men standing directly before his desk.
“And ye?” he asked Tank, flicking the quill once more before stilling it in his grip. “Ye move through time as well?”
Her brother’s voice, calm and almost polite, was far more unsettling to Ailsa than his usual tirades. It was the clouds holding back the storm, and she could feel the thunder gathering beneath his controlled facade.
Tank, unshaken, crossed his arms. “Chief,wedidn’t move through time,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Someone—or something—moved us. We had nothing to do with it, had no idea it was going to happen, and...well, frankly, no idea ithadhappened until it became obvious we weren’t in the twenty-first century anymore.”
Tavis didn’t move, didn’t even blink as Tank spoke. Then, slowly, he chuckled, the sound low and devoid of humor. Ailsa’s breath hitched as the sound settled in her chest like a stone.
“The twenty-first century,” Tavis repeated, each syllable drawn out, as if tasting the words for the first time. He raised his familiar blue eyes to Ailsa. “Ye ken of this as well, I take it.”
She swallowed hard and nodded.
“And yet ye married him—a man evidently devoid of sanity.”
“I married a man who is warm and kind, who—”
“Rubbish that,” he spat, throwing down the quill. “and soft ye are, believing he’s nae up to nae guid.” He stood then, opening his mouth as if to unleash a tirade, wearing a suddenly thunderous glower.
Father Gilbert raised a calming hand. “Peace, Laird,” he urged. “This man has been nothing but forthright in his actions and his intentions since arriving here. Whatever brought him to us, it was no act of malice.”
“And why should we believe that?” Dersey cut in, his tone sharp. “For all we ken, he’s bringin’ trouble down on us just by bein’ here.”
Ailsa leaned into the table, speaking before he did. “Enough!” She cried and faced her brother. “Ye ken that he’s nae mad, ye ken that he—"
