Chapter Ten

Frost clung to the ground in delicate white patterns as Cole and Tank exited the rectory the next morning, and their breath fogged the air as they scanned their surroundings. It was busier than Cole had expected at this early hour, the enclosed yard crowded with several dozen men and just as many horses.

Tank stretched, letting out a low groan. “Felt good to sleep in a real bed,” he said, rubbing his neck. “But damn, I wonder if I’ll ever be warm again.”

“The no-heat, no-plumbing thing is a definite strike against the fourteenth century,” Cole agreed.

“You got that right,” Tank said, giving a good shudder as he burrowed into the collar and hood of his coat.

Cole smirked. “At least Father Gilbert had another room to share, or you and I’d have been sharing one of those too-small beds.”

Tank chuckled. “I was profuse in my thanks to the good priest for just that reason. He’s intense, right? But a good guy overall.”

They hadn’t gone far when Ailsa stepped outside at the door to the castle, a woven, cloth-covered basket hanging from her arm. Her hood was down, and the morning light caught the loose strands of her dark hair. With her was Anwen, the plump, smiling maid with the bad temper. Cole thought Ailsa might just now be trying to make Anwen laugh or promote a good mood. Ailsa wore a mischievous grin, saying something to Anwen as she playfully nudged her shoulder into Anwen’s arm. Her eyes twinkled with playful warmth even as Anwen huffed in mock annoyance as Ailsa whispered something and lightly bumped her arm again.

Cole couldn’t hear what Ailsa was saying, but the animated way her lips moved and the teasing tilt of her head suggested she was fully committed to her task. Anwen finally gave in, a short, sharp laugh escaping her, though she quickly masked it with a roll of her eyes and a muttered comment that made Ailsa grin even wider.

Then Ailsa looked up as she crossed the yard and caught sight of Cole and her smile faded.

For that he was deeply sorry.

Rather than only waving across the short distance, Cole stepped in her path.

“Good morning,” Cole said, forcing a casual tone.

Tank, having followed, echoed him with an easy grin, asking, “And where are you two fine ladies off to today?”

“We go to Mallaig’s cottage,” she said, gesturing to the basket. “He’s infirm and depends on our generosity.”

Anwen scoffed at this, but said nothing, busy as she was once again studying Tank, her gaze sharp and critical, as if silently measuring him against some unreachable standard. Her expression clearly conveyed that he didn’t quite measure up to whatever ideal she had in mind.

Cole ignored the maid and addressed Ailsa. “Need an escort?” The words came out more eagerly than he’d intended, but he covered it with a casual smile.

Ailsa’s grip tightened on the basket but she did not hesitate to refuse him. “Nae, thank ye.” Her voice was polite but clipped. “I believe ye’re expected elsewhere this morning.”

Cole frowned. “Elsewhere?”

She gave a nod over his shoulder. “At the training field. Tavis will be expecting ye.”

Training? Cole turned and spotted Tavis among the crowd of soldiers and horses. The laird of Torr Cinnteag was a commanding figure, towering over his men with the kind of presence that made him impossible to ignore. He stood like a natural leader—broad-shouldered, powerful, and every inch the embodiment of a medieval ruler. Tavis wore his "crown" in the form of layers of fur-lined garments and heavy, jeweled embellishments that accentuated both his physical and his authoritative stature. While the other soldiers around him were dressed simply, in rough wool and leather—looking every inch the medieval grunts that they undoubtedly were— Tavis’s attire seemed to have been designed not just for protection against the cold but to project an image of grandeur and authority. His movements were deliberate and controlled, the way he carried himself—a man used to being obeyed—adding to the almost regal aura he exuded. Even without a literal crown, Tavis Sinclair looked every bit a king.

When Cole turned back to Ailsa, she and Anwen were already gone, her hand tucked into the maid’s elbow as the two walked out through the gate.

He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I think she’s mad at me.”

Tank didn’t hold back his snort of laughter. “Ya think? What’d ya do?”

A tinge of embarrassment colored his words as he repeated to Tank what he’d said, what he’d asked her last night at supper.

Now Tank laughed outright, loud and long, causing Cole to roll his eyes.

“Good news for me, though,” Tank said when he reined in his mirth. “Here I thought that between the two of us, I would be the idiot.” He clapped Cole on the shoulder in good humor and turned him around toward the gathering army. “At least we’ve got something to do today.”

Cole grunted in agreement, but his thoughts lingered on Ailsa. Something about her coolness toward him stung more than it should have. Purposefully, he shook it off as they looked at Tavis and his men preparing to head out to train.

“Might as well get to it,” Tank said.

Cole’s brow knitted. “Get to what?”

“The training,” Tank answered.

“Us? Training?” Cole asked, his tone sharper than he intended.

Tank shrugged.

“You can’t think that either they seriously want us to join them or that we have any business doing so,” Cole remarked, partly as a question.

Tank turned to him, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Why not? What? Are we just supposed to sit around and wait for some magic portal to take us home? I think we should embrace this,” Tank said with conviction. “This is exceptional. What’s happened to us—it’s like something out of a fantasy novel. Why would we waste the chance to live it up?”

Cole raised an eyebrow, wary of where this was headed. “Live it up? Tank, we’re stuck in the fourteenth century. There’s nothing to live up to except disease, war, and maybe dying young.” He thought they should focus their efforts on something of greater importance. “What about getting back home? To our time?”

“And how do you expect to do that?”

Frustrated by his own lack of ideas, Cole returned gruffly. “I don’t know, but I think we should be thinking about it. There must be someone we can talk to, someone who—” he stopped, super annoyed when Tank began to laugh. “What?”

Tank waved his hand, as if to downplay the humor he’d somehow found in their circumstance. “All right. Say it happened in the reverse, that someone was brought to our time from now, or from any other time. And they want to talk to someone about getting home.” He pointed at Cole and raised his brows. “They ask you specifically, who should I talk to about this? Who you gonna send them to? Who should they talk to?”

“Well, hell, I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Who is there to discuss this with? Are their time-traveling gods or wizards around? No, I’m guessing not. Listen, dude, just go with it. There’s nothing to do about it. We have to live with it.”

Unable to comprehend Tank’s attitude, Cole tried another approach. “Don’t you care about the people back home? They’re probably worried sick about us—Rosie especially, your brother,” he added, knowing that like Cole, Tank’s parents were deceased already, something they’d bonded over years ago. “They must be frantic.”

Tank’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Yeah, I feel bad for them. You know I love your aunt. And the longer we’re gone, the worse it’ll be for them, not knowing. Even the guys at the firehouse—shit, some of them are going to miss us,” he said, his attempt at lightness. “But Cole, what can we do about it? Nothing. So why wallow? This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Cole shook his head. “I’m not wallowing. I’m simply suggesting that we need a plan, that we should underline what our priorities are. You’re acting like it’s a vacation.”

Tank stepped closer, his grin giving way to earnestness. “Think about it. Before now, time travel was just a story, right? Something in movies or books. But we’re living it, Cole. We’re living in history. I’m not wasting that.”

Even though part of him almost envied Tank’s excitement, Cole couldn’t let go of his frustration.

Tank sighed, possibly understanding how deep Cole’s exasperation went. “This didn’t happen for no reason. It’s too big for that. Maybe it’s fate or some cosmic accident, but it’s real. I say we make it count.”

Cole snorted. “And what’s your grand purpose in all this?”

Tank’s grin returned, devilish and unrepentant, and waved his hand toward the soldiers as they began to march through the gate. “Shit, I’m gonna be a bloody warrior, man. I’m going to fight the good fight—help these people, stand up to the oppressors. It’s every guy’s dream. Back home, yeah, we’re sometimes small-time local heroes, sure. But here? We can really make a difference.”

“Tank, they fight to the death, you know” Cole said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. “This isn’t a game. You heard them last night—thousands die in these wars. You really think you’re ready for that?”

Tank’s grin dimmed, but his resolve didn’t falter. “I’ve always thought dying in a fire would be a good way to go. Heroic. Selfless. Maybe I’d get a street in Buffalo named after me.” He shrugged. “But these people—what they’re facing—it’s worse than any fire. And I can do something about it. We can do something about it.”

Cole wanted to argue, to point out the absurdity of Tank’s optimism. But his mind drifted to Ailsa. To the stories she’d shared about English raids, the burned villages and stolen families. He couldn’t deny the truth in Tank’s words.

Tank clapped him on the shoulder, his voice gentler now. “Look, man. You don’t have to agree with me. But don’t waste this. Whatever you decide, just don’t waste it.”

Cole stared at him, Tank’s enthusiasm both inspiring and maddening. Maybe this was Tank’s way of coping, of finding purpose in the impossible. Or maybe, Cole thought, Tank was onto something.

“This is nuts,” he pronounced, even as he began to consider his friend’s arguments.

“Might be,” Tank drawled. “Still—c’mon, dude—this is the opportunity of a lifetime.” He lifted his brows and surprised Cole by bringing Ailsa into his argument. “Nice and cozy, you and Sinclair’s sister last night at dinner,” he remarked. “You gonna shoot your shot there? Or is that nuts, too? Ten bucks says you get back home and regret forever the chance you didn’t take with her.” And in typical Tank fashion, he irreverently pushed further. “And by the way, if you’re not going to do anything about that, I wouldn’t mind taking a stab at her.”

Cole growled internally and clenched his teeth. He didn’t particularly care for Tank’s phrasing. But then he also had to contend with his instinctive response to Tank’s proposition, making something out of whatever lived and breathed between him and Ailsa, what had bloomed and blossomed with a nearly frightening speed over what was only a few days, but that soared to life whenever she was near. He scoffed at any idea that Tank had a chance with Ailsa. It wasn’t necessarily arrogance, not anything that said he thought himself better than Tank; it was simply facts, how Ailsa responded to him, how she blushed and how she smiled, but more so with him than he’d noticed with Tank. Aside from her coolness this morning—brought on by his own idiocy—Ailsa’s behavior around him wasn’t so much different from his around hers. Apparently, awareness and infatuation with someone of the opposite sex hadn’t changed much over the centuries. She was at times shy and nervous, and he felt like a teenager again, not exactly confident, a little out of his element, as if he’d never dated, kissed, and so much more with another woman before.

Responding to the severe reaction in Cole’s countenance, Tank laughed again and held up his hands, palms forward, as if to impart that he was no threat. “?Nough said—or supposed by that face. So then let’s go see what this training’s about. Maybe you’ll be able to rescue a damsel in distress or something, win the lady’s favor, or whatever they call it.”

“How hard can it be?” Cole wondered, finally relenting, even as the idea of picking up a sword and fighting in a medieval war—possibly having to kill another or be killed—felt like madness.

Still, watching the rest of the motley crew exit the yard through the gate, a wry grin tugged at his lips. They appeared more like seasoned farmers than any proficient military unit. He imagined their techniques would be primitive and unrefined, their movements surely lacking a modern-day fighter’s finesse. Between Cole’s athleticism and modern mind and Tank’s military experience, Cole was certain these provincials had nothing on modern men.

Tavis rode his huge horse behind the last of the men and paused in front of Cole and Tank. Cole was certain he wore a smirk in his gaze if not in his expression.

“The field is open, sirs, and to there we go,” Tavis said. The smirk increased a bit. “We’re always in need of bodies to beat on.”

“We’re coming, Sinclair,” Tank said, happily picking up the figurative gauntlet thrown by the laird. “I’m ready to show you a thing or two about what a Marine can do.”

Tavis was amused by Tank’s swagger even as he couldn’t possibly understand Tank’s reference. “We are always delighted to be entertained.”

Tank chuckled good-naturedly, thrilled with the challenge, and he and Cole fell into step behind Tavis.

“We’ll show ?em a thing or two,” Tank said to Cole. “Maybe that’s the big ‘why’—why we were brought or sent here, to give these guys a leg up in the fighting.”

Willing to adopt Tank’s mindset—somewhat—wondering if his reasoning might have some merit, Cole knew a bit of—well, not enthusiasm, but he was game for the moment. “Let’s do this.”

***

“In truth, it is their staggering ineptness that makes me distrust them so much less.”

Ailsa’s brother’s words reached her, but her attention remained fixed on the scene unfolding down the hill. Cole was sparring against one of Tavis's soldiers, a strong, wiry lad who moved with practiced precision.

Cole was failing miserably.

He swung wide with a clumsy thrust, his movements lacking any real coordination or understanding of the fight. She winced as the soldier ducked, rolled, and came up behind Cole in one smooth motion. With a swift strike, the lad knocked Cole’s legs out from under him with his wooden sword, which was all that was allowed on the practice field.

Cole went down hard onto his knees, his hands landing in the cold mud, and for a moment, she thought he might not get up. The soldier pulled back, waiting for him to recover.

"If spies they be," Tavis continued mildly, "or if their intent was to bring harm to the Sinclairs, they are indeed the most hopeless pair of villains I’ve ever seen."

Ailsa’s eyes remained on Cole, watching him stagger to his knees, and she grimaced for him.

Her brother’s words about spies and villains were a mockery, but there was truth in the observation. Despite her displeasure with the stunning—offensive, actually—fear that Cole had voiced at supper the previous night, she hadn’t been able to dissuade herself from her want to appease her curiosity over how he performed on the training field. To that end, she’d dragged Anwen along with her from Mallaig’s cottage, both of them traipsing across the half-mile path to the glen filled with two hundred brave and capable Sinclair soldiers.

And Cole Carter and Hank Morrison.

In truth, she had expected Cole to be more than he was. Broad and strong he was, yes, taller and larger than any Sinclair man including the laird, and possessing a natural grace that suggested he might make a formidable fighter. But it was clear now that whatever potential she’d seen in him was buried beneath an utter lack of training.

Cole’s swing was wild, his stance too open. He had no concept of footwork or defense. The soldier, Domhnall, by contrast, was in control, fluid and quick. And yet, each time Cole was knocked down, he struggled to his feet again, his face twisted in frustration, but never staying down for long. Hank was similar, though he seemed to be learning at a quicker pace than Cole. Each time they fell, they rose, dusted themselves off, and went at it again, determined but, for the moment, hopelessly out of their depth.

However, she felt a reluctant admiration for their perseverance, even if their lack of skill made it hard to see any real promise in their abilities.

From behind her, Anwen’s voice rang out drolly, cutting through Ailsa’s thoughts. “If hitting the mud is the goal, the man’s a prodigy.”

Ignoring her maid, Ailsa looked over at her brother, whose ponderous scowl was gone now, replaced with a look of amusement. He leaned slightly toward her, his thumbs still tucked into his belt.

“I’ll advise they might remain as they are,” he mused, “naught but laborers who apparently have never met a fight in all their lives.”

Ailsa shifted slightly, wincing once more at the sight of Cole yet again hitting the ground. She had to admit it: he wasn’t what she had expected. Still, though he wasn’t skilled, there was something in the way he kept rising, unwilling to admit defeat. She wondered if he might have more potential in him than was immediately apparent out there sparring with a now crowing Domhnall.

She was pleased in the next moment when a laughing Dersey intervened, pausing the mock fight to make recommendations to Cole, who listened carefully and watched Dersey’s strong hands as he gestured accordingly. At least Dersey’s intervention allowed Cole a moment to catch his breath.

Shortly after, Cole finally landed a strike with his wooden sword, a wild, uncoordinated hit that somehow connected with Domhnall’s side. A small victory, but her stomach fluttered in spite of herself. She resisted the urge to cheer, schooling her face into calm neutrality when Tavis cast a curious glance her way.

A moment later, Cole was knocked down once more.

Behind her, Anwen’s voice was tinged with morose pleasure. “Sure, and he’s got the falling down part all sewn up.”

Her curiosity satisfied and hardly able to stomach much more of the beating Cole Carter was receiving, Ailsa bid a curt farewell to her brother before she turned and began the trek back toward the keep, her skirts brushing against the frosty grass.

Anwen, of course, wasn’t far behind.

“Dinna look so decadent now, does he?” her maid quipped, her voice tinged with smugness.

“He and his friend look like men willing to try and to learn,” Ailsa said pertly, marching purposefully several paces in front of Anwen. “He looks like someone who dinna give up or give in.” She said no more than that, unwilling to advise Anwen fully of her fascination with Cole Carter by defending him further.

Ailsa didn’t see Cole Carter again until supper. When he arrived in the hall, his previously athletic stride was tempered by a stiffness that betrayed his soreness. He moved carefully, easing into the chair next to Ailsa at the Sinclair family’s table, his jaw tightening briefly as he sat. Despite a lingering hurt from last night, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. The brutal training session earlier had left its mark, and perhaps now she understood why he’d been so vocal about his fear of being killed. With his lack of proficiency, an ambush would have been a death sentence.

She liked him, though, she couldn’t help herself. When he wasn’t being an eejit, he was charming, undeniably so, with a lopsided grin that seemed to pull her out of her own head whenever he directed it her way. And handsome—impossibly handsome, really. His smile had the power to make her heart skip, though she cursed herself for being so affected by something as simple as the curve of his lips.

Trust, however, was another matter entirely. His story still seemed too fantastical, too implausible. Her heart and body clamored for her to believe him, to trust him, but her head whispered caution.

Their conversation during the meal was subdued at first, but when he caught her watching him as he winced while cutting his meat, he gave her a sheepish grin.

“Ye look dreadful,” she remarked lightly, her tone carrying more concern than judgment.

“Thanks,” he quipped, his smile softening into something self-deprecating. “The training was...humbling.”

Ailsa grimaced and dared to mention, “I understand ye are expected to return tomorrow.”

Cole groaned quietly, but then chuckled briefly. “Oh, I know,” he said, plopping a piece of lamb into his mouth.

Ailsa watched him chew, noting the way his jaw shifted as he worked the bite of lamb, a strength visible even in such a mundane act. A faint shadow of stubble lined his jaw, the darker flecks catching the light of the hall’s fire. His brow furrowed slightly, as though even the effort of eating required his concentration after such a grueling day.

It struck her as peculiar—how so simple and necessary a thing could seem so compelling. Every detail was sharper now, her focus narrowed so acutely on him. She couldn’t look away, her gaze lingering on the strong lines of his face, softened by fatigue that couldn’t quite dim the rich blue of his eyes.

“You’re staring,” Cole murmured suddenly as he met her gaze, his voice low, though it held no accusation—only teasing curiosity.

Ailsa startled slightly, heat rushing to her cheeks. “I was nae” she protested, far too quickly.

He smiled again, this time with a knowing slant, his brow arching just so. “Is the bruising that bad?”

As he didn’t have even one bruise on his face, she thought he’d only asked that to give her an out, a way to excuse her blatant staring. As if to suggest there was, perhaps, a perfectly reasonable explanation for her attention. It was unexpectedly kind of him, in a disarming sort of way.

Flustered, she shook her head and turned her attention back to her plate, though her cheeks burned and her pulse buzzed with the memory of his grin. That unguarded expression was dangerous, she decided, more potent than his words, his charm, or even his laugh.

“Tomorrow’s training is actually the least of my problems right now,” he said after a moment. “I’m fully prepared to embarrass myself for the rest of the week, learning as I go, but your brother—sadist that he is—said earlier that next week, Tank and I should progress to learning to fight on horseback. I’m not sure how I can fight while I’m busy trying not to fall off the horse.”

Fairly certain that the “sadist” remark was meant in jest, Ailsa found herself both amused and sympathetic. She remembered his earlier admission that he didn’t know how to ride and grimaced inwardly at the thought of how poorly that training might go.

She had no words of encouragement to offer—there was little point in pretending optimism where none existed—so she opted for levity instead. Her lips twitched into a faint smile. “Possibly, if you fall with enough frequency, no aggressor will be able to land any strike against you.”

To Ailsa’s surprise, Cole laughed outright, the rich sound drawing curious glances from those seated nearby. If he noticed—or cared—about the attention, it didn’t show. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth, and the broad smile lighting his face made him seem, for a fleeting moment, much more carefree. The sound of his laughter did glorious things to her insides, being silken and warm, a balm she hadn’t known she needed.

Ailsa was transfixed, her earlier misgivings momentarily forgotten. The unguarded happiness on his face as he laughed struck something deep within her. It was absurd, really, how handsome he was, and charming he could be when he allowed himself to relax.

Before she thought better of it, Ailsa heard herself say to him, “I could teach ye. To ride, that is.”

Her offer lingered in the air between them, his smile softening into something quieter, almost thoughtful. His gaze settled on her face, studying her in a way that made her breath catch. Then, slowly, his eyes flickered to her lips, with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

“You would do that?”

She nodded and suggested in a whisper, “Meet me in the stables tomorrow. After training.”

Cole grinned, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes. “If I haven’t succumbed to my injuries by then.”

She was fairly certain she could feel her brother’s suspicious regard on her back, but Ailsa ignored it, focusing instead on the strange, undeniable pull she felt toward Cole Carter—despite all the warnings her mind continued to give her.