Chapter Eleven

Humble pie was not very sweet.

He’d been so certain that the fourteenth-century Sinclairs, with their primitive looks and rudimentary gear, would be so far beneath him as far as finesse and skill went. He’d been ready to show off, to impress with slick movements, his athleticism honed on the Bandit’s playing field, his strength enhanced by years of fighting fires and regularly hitting the gym.

What the hell was wrong with him that he’d underestimated the soldiers so badly? He’d been so arrogant.

As he walked away from the training field today—or more aptly, limped, staggered, and shuffled—he felt like an ass for having judged the book by its cover. True, he’d been more prepared today, but damn, those guys were fierce. And strong. And merciless. How quickly he’d learned that the men of Torr Cinnteag had honed their craft over half a decade of bloody conflict and a lifetime of manual labor, their battle tactics as lethal as they were primitive. Cole had quickly learned that the brutal simplicity of medieval combat was more terrifying and effective than any modern mindset or workout could have prepared him for.

And yet, while he was indeed humbled, he wasn’t necessarily embarrassed by his own poor showing. He looked at it as a challenge. It needed some hard work and dedication, of which he was never afraid, and Cole was bound and determined to prove both his worth and his competence.

He needed not only to improve with the use of the sword, but he needed to understand how better to wield both sword and shield, as he was being trained. He wasn’t yet comfortable with his entire forearm being locked into the back of the shield, and thought too often that hefting the wooden piece on his arm sometimes threw off his balance. It felt clumsy, like an unwieldy appendage, and more than once, he thought he might want, at times, to grip the sword with both hands for better control—but the shield made that impossible. This, then, was also still a work in progress.

Here’s hoping riding a horse is easier than wielding a sword , he thought wearily, heading back to the castle yard and the stables where he was looking forward to meeting Ailsa.

As he walked through the gate, with returning soldiers in front and behind him, he was struck not for the first time by how these people dealt with the cold—or rather, how they seemed so unbothered by it. He lived in Buffalo, NY, which was not exactly the frozen tundra but knew its share of frigid weather, but it couldn't hold a candle to the constant, biting, unrelenting chill of the Highlands. In Buffalo, the cold came with layers of modern convenience—thermal coats, insulated gloves, and the promise of indoor heating at the end of the day. Here, the wind seemed sharper, knifing through his winter layers and cutting straight to the bone, as if the mountains and wind themselves conspired to keep weak people away. The Highlanders, however, seemed immune. They didn’t just endure the cold; they wore it like a second skin, unflinching and indifferent to the kind of weather that would have grounded half of Buffalo under emergency conditions. For Cole, the icy air felt like a personal insult, as if the land itself was mocking him as fragile.

He washed his muddied hands in a trough near the stables as others did, the icy water stinging his scraped, bruised, and chapped hands. And while he dried his hands on the sweatshirt beneath his coat, he scanned the interior of the stables, looking for Ailsa. She wasn’t there but as he approached the opening, a young kid, about ten years old, bound to his feet from where he’d been sitting in a pile of hay, and came forward, looking as if he’d been waiting for Cole.

“I take ye to lady,” the boy said in very stilted English.

“Ailsa? Where is she?”

The young kid responded in the Scottish language so that Cole wondered if Ailsa had simply taught him that one sentence. Cole nodded to show that he understood, and the kid nodded as well and then turned and led the way from the stables, scurrying like a little sewer rat, forcing Cole into a jog to keep up with him.

The boy led Cole down a gentle slope outside the gates, where snow crunched softly beneath their feet. Beyond the bridge, they turned left, off the main path and headed into a stand of trees. The boy darted swiftly around firs and birch trees, his small feet hardly making any noise at all. The wooded vale was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind through bare branches. Up ahead a clearing presented itself and Cole spotted Ailsa waiting there. She sat astride a sleek, reddish-brown horse with a white blaze down its face. The horse’s ears flicked forward, its breath puffing in visible clouds. Ailsa’s cheeks were rosy from the cold, and her eyes widened slightly when she noticed the kid and Cole approaching. Her back was straight, her posture poised, and her lips parted slightly before curving into a polite smile.

“Ye made it,” she said, her voice light but uncertain. She slid gracefully from the horse’s back, her movements fluid. Her cloak swirled around her legs, and she remained near the horse, her hand lingering on the mare’s neck. “I kent it best to begin away from too many eyes.”

Cole shot a glance back at the boy, who lingered a moment before darting off toward the keep, leaving them alone. “I appreciate the privacy,” Cole said, grinning faintly as he stepped forward, eyeing the horse. “I’d rather not have any witnesses,” he quipped, hoping this proved less difficult than wielding a sword.

“Ye’ve truly never ridden?” Ailsa asked, studying him carefully.

“No—unless carousels count,” Cole replied, his tone dry.

Ailsa blinked, her brow furrowing at the unfamiliar word, but she chose not to ask. Instead, she stepped forward, apparently meaning to get straight to business. “We’ll start with the basics,” she said. “This is Ceara.” She stroked the mare’s neck affectionately. “She’s gentle but strong-willed. Respect her, and she’ll respect ye.”

Cole reached out cautiously to pat the horse’s side, surprised by the solid warmth of its coat. Ceara’s ears swiveled toward him, and Ailsa smiled faintly. “She’s watching ye. Horses are perceptive creatures.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that,” Cole acknowledged, though he couldn’t remember from where.

“First,” Ailsa began, her tone softening as she shifted into instruction, “ye need to approach a horse confidently but calmly. Nae sudden movements. Let her get used to yer presence.” She encouraged Cole to come closer, having him stand by Ceara’s shoulder and stroke her neck.

His hand brushed against hers accidentally as he reached out to pat the horse. Ailsa pulled her hand back quickly, her cheeks gaining some color.

“This is the bridle,” Ailsa said after clearing her throat. She pointed to the leather straps fitted around the horse's head. “The bit—this piece here—rests in her mouth, just behind her teeth. It lets ye guide her with the reins.”

She ran her gloved hand along the bridle with an ease that spoke of years spent in the saddle, her touch deft and sure. Cole’s breath caught as an errant thought blindsided him—a vivid image of Ailsa’s hand tracing over him with that same confident familiarity. Somehow he managed to keep his eyes from widening, though the sheer audacity of the thought left him stunned. Holy hell. He clenched his fists, willing the heat in his face to subside, but the idea lingered, unsettling and intoxicating in equal measure. Where the hell had that come from?

Unaware of his present distraction, Ailsa continued. “The saddle is where ye’ll sit, of course, but the girth here”—she gestured to the wide strap beneath the mare’s belly—“keeps it secure. Ye dinna want it slipping off mid-ride.” She glanced up, meeting Cole’s eyes briefly, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles. “?Tis hard to recover from the jeering ye’d take if that were to happen.”

Cole grunted a laugh. “Yeah, there’s been enough damage to my pride already, with the shellacking their giving me on the training field.”

Her smile grew slightly wider, but Cole could not say if it was filled with sympathy or amusement. Either way, the subtle curve of her lips stirred something unexpected. He shifted his weight, forcing his focus back to the horse.

His pride wasn’t a fragile thing, and never had been. By the time he hit the fifth grade, picked last for every team, he’d learned not to let anyone’s opinion define him. Being underestimated didn’t bother him; it only made him more determined to prove himself, to work harder until the results spoke for themselves. Yet here, with Ailsa, something felt different. It mattered what she thought of him, he understood. He wanted her to see him as capable, as someone who could rise to a challenge, no matter how foreign this world was to him. That desire unnerved him almost as much as her smile.

“Mounting comes next.” Ailsa pointed to the stirrup, then demonstrated, swinging up onto Ceara’s back with an enviable grace. She dismounted quickly and gestured for Cole to try. “Use the stirrup for leverage, swing your leg over, and settle into the saddle.”

Cole hesitated, eying the horse warily. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy. If ye’re nae made of jelly.”

“Great vote of confidence,” he muttered, planting his foot in the stirrup. His first attempt ended with him floundering awkwardly, half-draped over the saddle. He heard Ailsa stifle a laugh behind him.

“Try again,” she said, her voice firmer now. “This time, put more strength into the jump.”

Cole’s second attempt was better, though far from elegant. He landed heavily in the saddle, startling Ceara, who sidestepped. Ailsa steadied the horse with a quick word and a firm hand on the bridle.

“That was nae so bad,” she said, her lips quirking as she glanced up at him.

“High praise,” Cole replied, gripping the reins tightly as he adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation of being alone on the horse’s back, hoping the beast didn’t bolt.

Next, Ailsa advised him how to hold the reins properly. “Firm but gentle. You’re nae trying to pull her head off.”

“Got it. Firm but gentle,” Cole echoed, suiting words to action, loosening his grip a bit. “Now what?”

“We’ll walk,” Ailsa said simply, taking the reins to lead Ceara in a slow circle around the clearing. “Ye need to learn how to sit properly, balance, and use yer legs to guide her. Everything else builds from there.”

Cole nodded, the cold momentarily forgotten as he focused intently on her instructions and keeping his seat as the horse walked. As he’d come to notice, Ailsa’s initial shyness seemed to dissolve with time, her confidence growing steadily the longer they were together. Same as with dinner together or other meetings when her early reserve gradually gave way to a quiet ease, her words flowing more freely as their conversation unfolded, the pattern repeated now, and he found himself fascinated by the shift, drawn to the way her self-assuredness emerged in his company.

After a few laps with Ailsa walking beside him, keeping a steadying hand on the mare’s bridle, she stepped back, letting Cole circle the horse around on his own.

“Use the reins to turn her gently,” she said, her tone calm but watchful. “A slight pull to the side, just enough for her to feel it in her mouth.”

Cole nodded, adjusting his grip on the leather reins. He tugged lightly to the right, and the mare responded with surprising obedience, turning in a smooth arc. Ailsa gave a small nod of approval.

“Good,” she said, her voice carrying a note of encouragement that made him sit a little straighter. “Aye, keep yer hands steady—dinna jerk them—and try it the other way.”

He repeated the movement to the left, finding it easier now that he understood how little effort it required. She watched for a moment before commenting. “Ye have a natural sense for this, I ken.”

A flicker of satisfaction was stirred by Ailsa’s mild praise. He guided the mare around another circle, growing more confident as he went. The clearing was small and hence, so were the circles he made round Ailsa who stood in the middle, but he felt like this was tremendous progress already.

“Now,” Ailsa called after he’d made a few more arcs, “let’s see if ye can urge her to move a wee bit faster.” She gestured to the mare’s sides. “A light squeeze with your calves—just enough to let her know what ye want. Keep in mind she’s nae a mind-reader. If she dinna respond, give her a nudge with your heels, but dinna dig in too hard lest ye desire to fly.”

Cole winced at the suggestion that using too much force might see the mare bolt, possibly causing Cole to tumble end over end off her back. Gingerly, he pressed his legs lightly against the mare’s sides. At first, nothing happened, and he tried again, giving a slightly stronger squeeze. The mare’s ears flicked before she picked up her pace, transitioning into a brisk walk. Cole grinned despite himself, the sensation of movement beneath him both exhilarating and slightly unnerving.

“There,” Ailsa said, her voice tinged with approval. “Now ye’re riding.”

He was, but not well. What little he’d ever seen of riding—in movies—had always shown the rider moving in time with the horse but he felt that he was simply being bobbed along without any control.

Ailsa must have noticed it was well. “Ye’re bouncing too much because ye’re fighting the horse’s motion. Instead of sitting stiffly, move with her. Relax yer hips and let them follow her rhythm—she’ll tell ye where to go if ye listen to her.”

Cole frowned. “I can feel the rhythm,” he said. “I just don’t know how to get into it with her.” As the words left his mouth, a vivid thought crept in—another rhythm he’d practiced over the last ten years or more, one he’d never had any trouble with. He clenched his jaw against the unexpected thought of sex, even as he wondered if the same principles might apply—follow her rhythm. His hands tightened on the reins for balance, though his discomfort wasn’t about the horse anymore. He cast a glance at Ailsa, but she was oblivious, watching the mare and Cole’s progress with a practiced eye.

Thankfully unaware of his lewd thoughts, Ailsa recommended, “Feel for it. When she walks, her back shifts side to side. Let your body sway with that, like ye’re part of her. Sit straight but nae rigid. Your hips should be as loose hinges, nae locked bolts. Riding dinna mean ye sit and do nothing. As is she, ye are in constant motion, moving with her.”

He shifted in the saddle, trying to relax his posture.

“Better,” she encouraged. “Now, when she speeds up, the bounce will come naturally unless ye rise with her. Use yer legs to steady yerself, but dinna step hard, just slightly stand in the stirrups as she steps forward. It’s called posting.”

After a few minutes, Cole wondered if this was something that would come more with time and practice, or more easily to someone who’d started riding when they were young. He wasn’t deterred though, just resigned that it wasn’t going to be something he learned in one day.

After an hour, his ass was sore and his arms and neck stiff from holding the reins. But they kept at it.

He was amazed by Ailsa, who exhibited keen insight into what he was doing wrong and knew exactly the words to speak to correct him. She also seemed to be gifted with an endless amount of patience, which he thought wryly might come more easily when you were standing on solid ground, not being bounced around in a saddle like a sack of potatoes.

He never would have expected that riding a horse was so much work. The movies always made it look effortless but in reality, it required constant attention, physical effort, and a subtle partnership between rider and horse that demanded motion, balance, and focus. Ailsa had been right: one did not simply sit back and expect the horse to handle everything. He could only hope that this coordination would come more naturally with time.

The thought, however, gave him pause. Time. How much of it did he even have here? Would learning these skills turn out to be a waste if he were snatched back to the twenty-first century? Or worse, what if he weren’t sent home but hurtled somewhere else entirely? The very idea made his stomach twist.

Possibly the most maddening part of his predicament was the sheer uncertainty of it all. No rules, no guidebook, no clear sense of what lay ahead. Would he stay here for the rest of his life, forging an existence in this brutal yet strangely captivating world? Was there something he should be doing—some action, some choice—that could return him home? But, if he tried, could things actually be made worse? What if tampering with whatever had brought him here flung him into some other time period, somewhere even more unfamiliar and hostile than medieval Scotland? The lack of answers gnawed at him, each possibility more unsettling than the last.

And then, unexpectedly, the lesson took a turn—one that both intrigued and unnerved him. Ailsa, realizing he wasn’t quite getting the hang of the rhythm, paused in her instructions and suggested something that sent a jolt of awareness through him: she would ride with him.

“It might help,” she said simply, her tone matter-of-fact, though a faint flush tinged her cheeks, “if ye could feel how I move with the horse. Ye’ll learn quicker by example than words.”

The suggestion made perfect sense—was practical, even—but Cole’s stomach tightened at the thought. Suddenly he felt like a teenager, a high schooler being forced into close proximity with the teacher he had a secret crush on. He nodded, unsure if he even trusted his voice, and began slowing the horse under her guidance. The truth was, he probably shouldn’t be touching Ailsa at all while they discussed something as elemental as the natural rhythms of bodies moving in tandem. Especially not when his own body seemed to have its own ideas about being close to hers.

He swallowed hard, the faint wariness in his chest overcome by an undeniable current of anticipation. He could hardly deny it anymore—he was seriously attracted to her. And now, with her poised to join him in the saddle, he was achingly aware of how easily admiration and appreciation were tipping into something more visceral.

“Here,” she said, approaching the horse. She placed a hand on the saddle and gestured for him to adjust his position slightly to make room. “I’ll take the reins and ride in front, and ye should try to emulate how I move.”

He obeyed, shifting back in the saddle with an awkward jolt, his grip tightening briefly on the reins before handing them off to her. Ailsa climbed into the saddle in front of him, her usual grace only slightly hindered as she maneuvered her leg around him and the horse’s neck. She settled into place, her small frame fitting neatly against his, and Cole found himself acutely aware of how soft and warm she felt, her body pressed lightly against his chest. They were seated close enough that he caught the faint scent of her hair—something earthy and clean, like pine needles and fresh air.

She reached around and found his hand with her gloved ones, guiding his hand to her sides.

“Relax,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Hold my hips and I’ll show ye how to move.”

Her words, perfectly innocent, jolted him. Cole gritted his teeth, his muscles locking as his brain conjured a setting far removed from horseback riding. The rhythm she wanted him to master was all too familiar, too intimate, and he cursed his traitorous thoughts.

He tried to focus, tried to keep his grip steady and his attention on the task at hand, but it was no use. His heart was pounding, his body hyperaware of every small shift she made, and no amount of effort could suppress the image forming in his mind—a scene where "moving together" meant something entirely different.

This was going to be impossible, he decided fairly quickly.

As the horse began to move again, Cole forced himself to focus, though every nerve in his body was keenly aware of Ailsa’s dangerous proximity.

“Up and down, rolling your hips,” she instructed. “That’s nice. Move with me.”

He tried to ignore the way her words seemed to echo deeper than the lesson at hand, or how her movements—smooth and synchronized with the mare and now Cole—seemed to blur the line between instruction and something far more intimate. He exhaled slowly, fighting to steady himself.

This was just about learning to ride, he reminded himself. That was all. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, his body wasn’t listening.

Cole wasn’t sure he learned anything except that he and Ailsa moved well together, but they did this for almost ten minutes before Ailsa brought the horse to a stop and dismounted. He edged forward in the saddle, gripping the reins she handed back to him with a little too much force, keeping his hands low, between his legs. All the while, he prayed she hadn’t noticed the undeniable evidence of just how fiercely he desired her.

Blissfully unaware—or so he desperately hoped—Ailsa tilted her head up to him, a radiant smile playing on her lips.

Or maybe she was aware? Her cheeks were flushed a brilliant red, her gaze skittering past his eyes and landing, unmistakably, on his mouth. His heart stumbled. And the growing evidence of his attraction was not at all subdued.

“Ye can manage it for yerself now?” she asked, her voice light, though she still wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

He smothered a groan. I’ll have to, if I want to survive being in your presence without losing my mind. Aloud, he lied smoothly, “I think I got it.”

And, surprisingly, maybe he did. When he nudged the mare into a light trot at Ailsa’s prompting, circling the clearing in a wide arc, he realized he was finally beginning to move with the horse instead of against her. The rhythm Ailsa had tried so patiently to teach him felt less elusive now, as though his body had finally begun to understand what his brain couldn’t grasp before. Surprising, indeed, since he hadn’t been thinking much about the horse—or that rhythm—for the past ten minutes. No, his thoughts had been consumed by something, or rather someone , far more enticing.

***

And so the days passed, one after another, Cole falling into a routine in the fourteenth century. Each morning, he dragged himself out of bed, groaning and stiff from the accumulated strain of medieval sword training and horseback riding lessons. The aches and pains were relentless, a constant reminder that this was no quick session at the gym or a rough lacrosse practice. However, as he’d mentioned to Tank, Cole was certain that years of those modern-day routines were what made this grueling warrior regimen endurable. He might have been battered, but he wasn’t broken. For now, he counted small victories: fewer missteps, stronger strikes, and longer stretches in the saddle without feeling like he was about to be unseated.

In the meantime, it did not escape Cole’s attention that Ailsa never again offered to get in the saddle with him, and he had to wonder if that first day of riding, of talking about the rhythm of the horse while their bodies matched pace had affected her in the same way it had him. Whatever the reason, he was only glad that she hadn’t repeated that method of instruction.

On the third day of riding lessons, Ailsa asked, “Is nae yer friend in need of instruction as well?”

“I don’t know what Tank is doing,” Cole said, and there was plenty of truth to that statement. Embracing medieval life, was one answer. Despite their similar circumstances, he’d spent little time with Tank the last few days. His friend was enamored with this age and its people and was constantly out and about, wanting to learn and see and know, immersing himself in the culture.

That was Tank in a nutshell. He made friends everywhere he went. Kids gravitated toward him. Adults welcomed him. He could just as easily strike up a conversation with a homeless person as he could politicians back home. And it was no different here, Tank seen talking for more than an hour with the old blacksmith in his smoky forge, charming servants in the kitchen, and making friends with several of the soldiers. Tank could find common ground with just about anyone.

Cole, on the other hand, didn’t have the same ease with people. He was fine one-on-one or in familiar settings—comfortable at the firehouse, confident on the lacrosse field with his Bandits’ teammates—but in unfamiliar situations or around new people, he didn’t put himself out there. Crowds and small talk weren’t his forte, and he’d never enjoyed being in the spotlight. He struggled with the press requirements of the Bandits, as the players were required to give interviews regularly during the season as part of their contract and according to league rules.

Now, here he was in a world where fitting in wasn’t exactly optional. Tank seemed ready to adapt and thrive, but Cole wasn’t sure where he stood or how much he wanted to integrate himself. If this place became his reality—if he never got back home—he’d have to adapt whether he liked it or not. And unless he decided to learn a trade, which wasn’t entirely out of the question, he had little choice but to keep working at the skills Ailsa and others were teaching him: riding, fighting, and surviving as if he were actually a warrior from this time.

After about an hour of lessons, and by now, Cole felt he had a firm handle on the extreme basics, Ailsa advised she was needed back at the castle.

“It’s candle making day,” she explained when he stopped the horse near her.

She had a habit of approaching whenever he brought the horse to a halt, and laying her hand on the horse’s neck, idly stroking, usually while she mentioned something he was doing wrong or could improve, or often some helpful tip. For some reason, Cole liked these moments, when she stood close, her face tipped up at him. As ever, her eyes were a startling blue outdoors in natural light. Today, as there was scarcely any wind, her hood had been lowered and her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves. He wondered if the small distance created by him being mounted, or if the presence of the horse itself calmed her, but in these moments she never appeared shy or hesitant, always open and at ease.

“Isn’t that what servants are for?” He asked, his mouth curving a bit.

“Aye, of course, but my hands are nae broken,” she answered before shrugging and offering a saucy smile. “Alas, someone has to direct them.”

“I would think Anwen would be better suited for that job,” he ventured.

“And dinna doubt she is,” was Ailsa’s grinning reply. “But she takes pride in her elevated role as my maid. Supervising the servants is beneath her—or so she says—and she makes nae secret of her disdain for the more tedious work.”

“As in, she wouldn’t be caught dead getting her hands dirty?”

Another shrug preceded her response. “Aye, ye might say that.”

“I’m curious, because she’s usually hot on your trail,” Cole commented. “So where does she think you are everyday when you’re here with me?” Though he had no proof, he suspected that their daily lessons were not something Ailsa wanted widely known.

“?Tis nae my absence I explain,” Ailsa confessed, utterly unrepentant. “Instead, I give her wee tasks to keep her occupied. Yesterday, I sent her hunting for my favorite pair of riding gloves—which, as ye ken, I was wearing when we met here.” Her grin turned impish. “And today, I suggested that there might be some grand trouble brewing between Aimil, the dairymaid, and the lad she fancies, Eachann. I sighed, lamenting how I wished I could smooth things over but admitted, with great reluctance, that ’tis hardly my place to meddle.” She lifted her hand dramatically to her forehead, palm out, and let out an exaggerated sigh. “If only there were someone who could intervene.”

Cole let out a startled laugh, shaking his head. “Ailsa Sinclair! You’re a troublemaker—a schemer!”

Her smile didn’t falter in the slightest, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Nae, I’m a woman who treasures the occasional moment of peace, free of her maid’s ceaseless harping.”

Cole scratched his head as though perplexed, his lips twitching. “And here I was thinking you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart. You’re just using me to escape your warden.”

Ailsa tilted her chin, her smile widening. “Och, I’m verra glad to help ye, Cole Carter. Escaping Anwen is just an added bonus.”

Cole gave her a mockingly thoughtful nod. “Well then, I’m happy to be of service.”

When they parted company, both going in different directions, Cole believed he had a few more answers as to why Ailsa—stunning natural beauty aside—intrigued him so.

Ailsa’s straightforwardness and lack of pretension made her feel refreshingly genuine—Cole was convinced that Ailsa had no idea how ridiculously gorgeous she was. Her practical knowledge of so many things modern people had no experience in—herbal medicine, managing a castle, candle-making, and being skilled as a rider. Her hands-on competence was both captivating and admirable. Though he had the sense that she was treated as a much less qualified woman by her brother and possibly everyone in this time period, Ailsa was independent in so many ways that was so different than modern women.

Unlike the casual, often self-deprecating charm he’d come to expect in modern women, Ailsa’s demeanor was shaped by a world of formalities, lending her an air of timeless grace. She was elegant, poised, and almost regal in her movements and speech, yet her wit and playful mischief—like the wild goose chases she orchestrated for her maid—showed an entirely different, lively, relatable side of her.

As Cole turned these thoughts over in his mind, he began to believe that aside from the rather inconvenient fact that she lived seven hundred years in the past, Ailsa Sinclair was, to his way of thinking, damn near perfect.