Page 83 of Winter Longing
Cole managed a weary smile, though the weight of what he’d done—and survived—pressed heavily on him as well. He turned to find Tavis, twenty yards away, already being tended by the Sinclair surgeon, who sliced the fabric of Tavis’s breeches to assess the damage done to his bloody thigh. The laird grimaced and lifted his gaze from his wound. His blue eyes met Cole’s. He wore the look of a man in desperate pain but clenched his teeth, making appoint to nod solemnly at Cole.
Respect, Cole assumed, or at the very least, reluctant admiration that Cole was still standing.
Cole returned the nod across the distance.
The battlefield stretched all around him, a grim tableau of bodies and broken weapons. Cole swallowed hard, forcing himself to look, to take it in. His nose wrinkled as heat gathered behind it. He swallowed thickly and his mouth twisted against the rising tide of emotions. Tears welled in his eyes.
This was war, something he’d never thought he’d know, not in his wildest dreams. Or nightmares.
And he had, somehow—by the grace of God, he assumed—survived it.
***
A shout from the battlements pierced the stillness of the late afternoon, a sharp cry that sent Ailsa bolting from the storeroom where she’d been sorting linens. Gathering her skirts in her fist, she dashed through the keep and out into the bailey, just in time to hear the order given for the gate to be opened.
A familiar figure on horseback, the Sinclair scout, a lad named Anndra, galloped toward the gate, his plaid flaring behind him in the brisk wind.
Ailsa’s breath came fast, not from exertion but from the tightening knot of worry in her chest.
The scout pulled his horse to a halt just inside the gates, the animal’s flanks heaving with exertion. Dirt streaked his face and clothes, and the grim set of his mouth made her stomach churn.
“Speak!” Ailsa demanded as she stepped forward, barely waiting for the gate to close behind him. Her hand clenched over her chest. “What news?”
“The laird comes, lass, along with the wounded of our force,” confirmed Anndra. “Many stayed behind with the Nicholsons, under Fraser and Comyn’s banner, but the wounded Sinclairs come home, lass, battered but victorious.”
“And my husband?” She asked desperately, her voice edged with panic. “Cole? Is he—”
“Aye, lass,” the scout said quickly, eager to appease her distress. “He comes as well, injured but nae gravely.”
Relief struck as if she’d been wobbled by a fierce gust of wind, so sudden and forceful that Ailsa staggered. Her knees knocked, but she steadied herself, reaching out to the horse’s shoulder to remain on her feet. The burn of tears stung her eyes, and she knew no shame when they fell.
“Thank ye,” she whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Praise God.” A hand touched her arm. She turned to find Anwen there. Ailsa’s lips quivered as she tried to smile.
Anwen, always practical, attempted to steer Ailsa toward the keep, her voice calm and grounding. “Come now, lass.Wounded, but nae gravely, he said. We’ve plenty to do before they arrive.”
Ailsa nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Though her heart raced with relief and hope, she forced herself into action.
Straightening, she squared her shoulders and walked with strength into the hall, giving orders to the milling servants, those who’d come to see who the gate had been opened for. “Margaret,send a lad to fetch the healer from the Todrick keep, and then summon Father Gilbert. We must ready the hall to receive the wounded. Mary, we’ll need boiled water, linens, salves. Bearnas, fetch the small tools, the pliers and scalpels, the irons for heating. Anwen, we’ll need needle and thread, plenty of it, and pallets and blankets—move quickly, all of ye!”
As the women and girls scattered, Ailsa moved to the hearth and crouched, feeding the low flames until they leapt higher, casting warm light over the long tables. She lit candles around the room, illuminating every shadowed corner. The faint scent of tallow mingled with the rich aroma of the crackling fire.
She busied her hands with tasks, but her mind wandered, unbidden, to Cole—wounded, on his way home. Relief mingled with trepidation. He was alive. That alone was an answered prayer.
By the time the sound of hoofbeats echoed through Torr Cinnteag, rhythmic and steady, the hall was prepared. The gates were flung wide once more, and Ailsa gathered her skirts, striding outside.
She stood at the courtyard's edge, her heart hammering as the first figures came into view. It was not the triumphant return of a victorious army but the weary march of wounded survivors. Two dozen men, bloodied and battered, rode at a slow pace, some leaning heavily against their saddles.
Her eyes scanned the group frantically, searching, happily taking note of her brother’s presence before she noticed Cole, a few paces behind the laird, coming into view as they drew closer.
Both men rode their horses, both upright despite the visible strain it cost them. Tavis would never allow himself the indignity of a litter, and it seemed Cole shared the same stubborn pride.
But Cole looked... changed. His skin was pale, his face leaner than when he’d left, his shoulders weighed down by exhaustion. To Ailsa’s mind, it seemed a miracle that he hadn’t slid out of thesaddle altogether. His usual fire—his energy—was dimmed. Her chest tightened painfully.
Still, as his gaze met hers, something flickered in his eyes. He straightened in the saddle with visible effort, a faint smile pulling at his lips. It was for her. She knew it. Just as she would not falter in front of him, he would not allow himself to look weak before her.
The moment their eyes met, the weight of her worry lifted just slightly. The battered soldiers who trailed him seemed to blur at the edges of her vision as she stepped forward, her focus narrowing to the man she loved.
"Welcome home," she whispered, the words catching in her throat, though she knew he couldn’t hear her over the shuffle of hooves and murmurs around them.
