Page 80 of Winter Longing
“Yep.”
***
Tavis lingered in the shadows, his breath shallow as he strained to catch every fantastic word spoken in low murmurs between Reid Nicholson, Cole Carter, and Tank Morrison as they stood round a small wind-whipped fire. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but something about Reid Nicholson’s tone had stopped him in his tracks. Now, he stood frozen, hidden in the creeping darkness behind a sturdy birch, his mind racing.
...my wife—she’s nae from here either.
Have ye been here long? In this time?
The words hit Tavis like a blow to the chest. He gripped the rough bark of a tree for balance, his pulse thundering in his ears. He must have misheard. Surely, Reid—Reid Nicholson—had not just admitted to believing the same outrageous tale thatCole Carter and Tank Morrison had spun. Time travel? Tavis had dismissed it as lunacy, the ramblings of men driven mad by the strain of war or some strange ailment.
But Reid Nicholson wasn’t mad. He was the steadiest man Tavis had ever known—grounded, deliberate, and sensible to a fault. If Reid said his wife was from another time... Tavis felt a tremor run through him.
He didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t quite bring himself to, and yet... there it was.
He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if trying to physically push away the revelation.
Ailsa. He’d allowed his sister to wed this man. Aye, he’d abhorred the idea, but had felt he’d little choice, knowing the damned kiss would indeed have ruined her.Jesu.
A new wave of unease crept over him. If Cole and Tank weren’t lying, if their claims of coming from the future were true, then everything Tavis thought he understood about the world, about time itself, had just been upended.
He peered through the tangle of branches and brush, watching as Reid departed, leaving Cole and Tank by the fire. He, himself, shrank further into the shadows. He wasn’t ready to confront them yet, wasn’t sure he could trust himself to speak without betraying the storm raging in his brain.
Tavis let out a slow, shaky breath. He needed time to process this, to think. One thing was certain—he could no longer dismiss Cole as a madman. If Reid Nicholson believed him—not only believed but reinforced the fantastic tale by admitting his wife had suffered the same fate—then there was more to their story than Tavis had been willing to see.
***
Ailsa tightened her grip on the coarse cloth, her hands red and raw from scrubbing the stone floor of the keep’s main hall. The air was sharp with the scent of lye soap, overcoming even the bone-deep chill of February. Beside her, Anwen knelt with equal determination, her sturdy arms moving with surprising efficiency as she wrung out a rag and attacked a stubborn stain. More shocking, this chore had been Anwen’s idea—Anwen, who preferred quiet embroidery by the fire in Ailsa’s solar, regularly suggested small tasks and even larger chores such as this, as if hard manual labor had suddenly become her life’s mission.
“This would’ve been done twice over by the servants already,” Ailsa muttered, brushing away a loose strand of hair that dangled in front of her eyes, glancing at the slow progress made.
“Aye,” Anwen replied, not looking up, “but they’re busy enough, what with keeping fires lit and the bread made, and three of them down with fevers.”
Ailsa cast her a sideways glance. “I ken ye do this simply to keep me from worrying.”
Anwen sat back on her heels, sighing wearily as she stared at Ailsa. “Is it working?” She asked simply, her dark eyes meeting Ailsa’s with a clarity that spoke of her usual unflinching practicality. “Dinna tell me having the flesh worn from my fingers and my back broke by the end of every day isnae helping.”
Ailsa grinned at her maid, a deep sense of affection engulfing her. She nodded. “Aye, it helps.”
Both women returned to all-fours and continued their scouring.
It did help, but it could not completely keep her thoughts from turning—as they did nearly every hour of every day—to Cole. The silence between the women stretched, broken onlyby the rhythmic sound of cloth and occasionally a wire brush against stone.
The winter had not been kind to Torr Cinnteag. With Tavis and his men gone, the keep was quieter than ever, the usual hum of activity dampened by the harsh season and the strain of rationing. Supplies were thin, and though Ailsa knew they could manage until spring, the weight of survival bore down on her. It wasn’t just the food—though every meal of porridge stretched thinner than the last—but the waiting.
Weeks had passed since they’d received Tavis’s letter, reassuring them that the army was in good health and had yet to meet the enemy. Weeks of silence since then. No news of Cole. No way to know if he was safe, if he was hurt—or worse.
Ailsa sighed and sat back on her heels again, tossing the rag into the bucket of lukewarm water. She stared blindly up at the tall windows, where white winter light poured in.
Worry gnawed at her as she imagined Cole out on the battlefield, wondering if he had the instincts and resilience to handle the brutality of medieval warfare. She thought of the warriors she’s known all her life—her brother, Dersey, any Sinclair, men who’d been molded by years of training and born into a society that prepared men for such harsh realities. For Tavis and men like him, war was second nature, not just a skill but a mindset that required shutting out fear and focusing on survival, even at the cost of compassion.
But Cole was different. Despite his physical prowess, by his own admission, he came from a time where violence was tempered by rules and largely left to controlled arenas, like sports, rather than mortal combat. She can’t shake the fear that he might lack the cold determination needed in battle—a determination that came not just from strength but from a mental hardness, the ability to silence any empathy or hesitation and do what’s necessary to survive.
While she prayed religiously and fervently for his return, Ailsa wrestled with the thought of what he might be or have become, forever changed or perhaps hardened beyond recognition, his spirit dulled by the violence and bloodshed that has scarred so many of her people.
“Ye ken it’s impossible nae to worry,” she ventured quietly to Anwen.
Anwen paused her scrubbing and turned to Ailsa, her expression softening. “About Cole.”
