Chapter Twelve

Cole ran the brush along the mare’s flank, following the instructions Ailsa had repeated over the past few days, the routine care of the horse. In a nearby stall, Tank brushed down a bay gelding, his broad frame moving with a practiced ease. He’d just returned from a ride with a few of the Sinclair soldiers, who had shown him a bit more of Torr Cinnteag, parts of the thousands of acres claimed by the Sinclairs.

“Where’d you learn to ride?” Cole called across the otherwise empty stalls.

Moments after Ailsa had left Cole in the stables, having been summoned by a young girl from the kitchen immediately upon their return, Cole had witnessed Tank and his new buddies riding in through the gates. Though Cole had never once heard Tank say anything about riding a horse, Cole hadn’t missed how at ease his friend was in the saddle.

“My aunt and uncle had a horse farm in East Aurora,” Tank answered, naming a mostly rural suburb of Buffalo. “I haven’t ridden in years, but I spent a lot of summers there when I was a kid. Kinda like riding a bike, apparently,” Tank said, chuckling a bit. “It does come back to you.” Tank’s head disappeared as he ducked, presumably to brush the horse’s legs. His voice, however, carried to Cole. “You’re catching on, though. I saw you in the valley from the ridge above it, you and Ailsa. She your riding instructor?”

“She is,” Cole replied, expecting to take some ribbing for having asked her and not one of the soldiers.

“She must be good,” Tank said instead. “You almost look like you know what you’re doing.”

Cole grinned. “It is getting easier,” he admitted, “or at least I’m getting more comfortable in the saddle.” Indeed, today, he’d given the mare her legs —Ailsa’s wording, and hadn’t once felt like he was in danger of falling off as the horse galloped up and down the glen. He actually felt as if he’d been in control for most of that ride, great progress in his mind.

“I hadn’t realized how much I missed it,” Tank continued. “Who would, with cars and trucks, right? But damn, I like the feeling of it: riding, open air, man and beast”—he deepened his voice comically, grunting a bit—“primal male shit. Argh. Argh.”

Cole’s grin widened. “That started out so poetic,” he remarked. “So you had a good ride?” Cole asked Tank without looking up.

“Not bad,” Tank replied. “These guys know their way around a saddle, that’s for sure. They’ve been teaching me a trick or two. I’ve still got lots to learn if I want to keep up.” He gave the gelding a final pat before setting the brush aside. “There’s a hunting party going out tomorrow. I think we’re expected to join them. Basically, I think they want to test our mettle—”

Before the conversation could continue, Father Gilbert appeared at the entrance, his steady gaze sweeping over the two men before landing on Cole. The priest approached, his hands clasped in front of him as if he’d been considering his words carefully before speaking.

“Cole,” he began, his tone gentle but firm, “a word, if I may?”

Tank stepped back, sensing the seriousness in the priest’s demeanor but staying within earshot. Cole straightened, setting the brush on the stable wall. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Father Gilbert’s eyes flicked briefly around the stables. “I feel it is my duty to caution you. If what you’ve said about your origins is true, you may be...whisked away at a moment’s notice—returned to your own time. Or you may not, but the uncertainty remains. And in either case, you must be mindful not to grow too close to Ailsa Sinclair.”

Cole frowned. “Why’s that?” He felt a strange knot tighten in his chest, even as he figured he knew what the answer would be: he wasn’t acceptable.

Father Gilbert sighed. “There are practical reasons. Ailsa is to be promised in marriage to the MacLae son. Her brother, the laird, would never allow her to entertain the courtship of another. Their alliance is essential for peace.”

The words hit harder than Cole expected. He rubbed the back of his neck, grappling with the idea of Ailsa marrying someone else. “I don’t remember that I was courting Ailsa,” he said evasively.

Father Gilbert raised his brows at Cole. “Are you not?”

“She’s teaching me how to ride a damn horse,” he said, a little heated now under the priest’s critical stare. “This... MacLae son,” Cole said, his voice tight, “is he a decent guy?”

Father Gilbert tilted his head, considering—either Cole’s interest in the man or his answer. “I believe he will not be unkind. The laird would never allow his sister to be mistreated, though the marriage will be one of alliance, not love.”

Tank stepped forward, breaking the tension. “If it’s an alliance, it’s not exactly about what she wants, huh? That’s some medieval shit we got rid of over the centuries,” he said lightly, though there was an edge to his tone.

Cole stared hard into the priest’s dark eyes. “So she’s...what? Off-limits? Can’t even engage in a simple helpful tutoring?”

Tightly, Father Gilbert announced, “Ailsa Sinclair must remain above reproach. She is not to be seen in the company of any man without a chaperone, no matter the purpose. Her duty is to her family and to her future husband. Anything that could jeopardize that—any appearance of impropriety—must be avoided at all costs.” He thinned his lips and added pointedly, “She must remain untouched.”

The priest possibly mistook Cole’s clenched-jaw silence as understanding. He nodded approvingly. “If tutoring is what you need, I can make arrangements for someone else to instruct you. ‘Tis wise to avoid any entanglements that could lead to trouble for her—or for you.”

Cole’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to give up the lessons with Ailsa, but he knew the priest was right. He had little say with what went on here, at Torr Cinnteag, with Ailsa, or in the fourteenth century. “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Can you set that up?”

“I shall,” Father Gilbert said. “A wise decision, lad.” With that, he nodded to both men and departed, leaving the two of them in the stables.

Tank waited until the priest was out of earshot before turning to Cole with a knowing smirk. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cole shot back, defensive.

Tank leaned against the stable door, arms crossed. “It hasn’t escaped me how you look at her—or how she looks at you, for that matter. Not saying you’re doing anything wrong, but the priest has a point. If we ever figure out how to get back home, do you really want to leave things behind that make it harder?”

Cole didn’t answer immediately, staring at the mare as he resumed brushing her down. “It’s not like that,” he muttered, though he knew damn well he was lying.

Tank chuckled softly. “Sure it’s not. Just... think about it, okay? This isn’t our world, man. And if we’re sticking around, we’re gonna have to deal with whatever rules they’ve got here.”

Tank left the stables, leaving Cole alone with his now frustrated thoughts. He knew the priest was probably right but that didn’t mean he liked it, not one bit. Then again, it was ridiculous to feel this way about Ailsa after only a week. They’d just met. He didn’t even know how long he’d be here.

And yet, as much as he tried to push it aside, the thought of her marrying someone else gnawed at him in a way that set his teeth on edge.

***

God’s teeth, but Cole Carter was going to be the death of her.

He needed to learn faster how to ride, before she lost her wits completely and outright begged him to kiss her, touch her—anything!—to relieve this torturous, sweet ache that his presence stirred within her. Every lesson spent at his side, every exchange of glances, every accidental brush of hands left her trembling with emotions she could hardly name.

She paced the narrow corridor of the family solar, her hands clenched at her sides. It was madness, wanting something so wholly impossible. And yet... did it have to be? Ailsa forced herself to stop, gripping the back of a carved wooden chair as if it might ground her scattered thoughts.

Her brother’s voice from earlier today still echoed in her mind: “When ye return from our sister’s house, we’ll begin the serious negotiations with the MacLaes. William MacLae has expressed his eagerness to move forward on behalf of his brother.”

An arranged marriage, a strategic alliance—her future laid out before her. No consideration for what she wanted, what she longed for. The idea of binding herself to Alastair MacLae, a man she barely knew and felt nothing for, suddenly turned her stomach. Never mind that the rumors swirling around her expected intended frightened her, that he was neither good nor kind, that by all accounts there was little to love... but her heart, it was already wandering elsewhere.

It did not escape her notice, the realization that before Cole Carter’s arrival, she had accepted her fate with dignified resignation even as she’d been terribly anxious about it. She had always known this was her role. She’d grown up knowing that she had, essentially, one goal in life: she existed to secure a strategic marriage for the benefit of the Sinclairs. Her sister had done so years ago, and Ailsa had known she would follow. There had been no expectation of grand romance or heart-stirring passion—such notions were for ballads and peasants. Yet, she had believed she could find a measure of contentment, carving out her happiness as a dutiful wife and, hopefully one day, as a mother.

But now, that once-stoic resolve felt fragile, threatened by something—someone—that made her heart pound and her thoughts stray far from the life she had always assumed would be hers.

Ailsa released the chair and resumed her pacing.

Cole Carter was unlike any man she had ever known. His eyes alone, the way they lingered on her, seemed to ignite flames in corners of her soul she hadn’t even realized existed. The sheer presence of him stirred a disquiet within her, thrilling and unnerving all at once, leaving her both breathless and unsteady. And...wanting.

Each moment with him seemed charged, brimming with unspoken promises and tantalizing possibility. He made her want to take risks, to challenge everything she’d been taught about what her life should be.

But what could she do? The answer, of course, was nothing. Duty demanded her compliance, and her brother would never allow her to entertain such a reckless notion as pursuing anything with Cole.

Ailsa flopped down into a chair, her chin in her hand, staring out the window at the loch below. She couldn’t stop herself from wishing for the impossible. She wanted to know him—more, better, wholly. She wanted to find out what lay behind the calm reserve in his eyes, to unravel the mystery of his presence in her world.

She wanted, impossibly, irrevocably, only him.

Thus, she was taken aback and caused a great deal of pain and confusion with what Cole announced at supper that evening.

In truth, she was a bit surprised that her brother allowed Cole to continue to sit beside her at the meal. Though she was certain Tavis—and others—had a newfound appreciation for both Cole and Tank, or certainly less suspicious hostility since they’d joined the daily drills—Tavis’s reminder this morning about her inevitable betrothal had come after he’d made a cryptic remark about Cole to her.

“I dinna quite understand the man’s dedication to the training,” Tavis had remarked, his tone casual with curiosity. Then, watching her closely through narrowed eyes, he’d added, “Mark my words, sister, he will nae stay long. Fighting isna in his blood; he’ll find his way back to whatever place he calls home. And when he does, ’tis better he leaves with no bonds or ties to hold him here, nae person who might tempt him to remain where he dinna belong.”

At times, she suspected that Tavis entrusted her entirely with upholding decorum, as though it were her sole responsibility to avoid any awkward or compromising situation. He seemed to believe she could be relied upon to act with propriety in all circumstances, leaving little need for his intervention or concern.

The great hall was lively this evening, the long trestle tables buzzing with conversation, clinking tankards, and the scrape of eating knives on pewter and wooden plates. Ailsa sat in her usual place at her brother’s right hand, with Cole beside her. On the other side of Tavis, Tank was deep in conversation with a few soldiers, laughing at some jest that Ailsa hadn’t caught.

Her brother had spent most of the meal discussing trade agreements, but her attention was elsewhere—specifically on the man at her side. Cole had been unusually quiet, the air of ease that had been built, tarnished, and then repaired over the past days absent tonight.

Her suspicions were confirmed when, after he’d emptied his plate, he turned to her, his expression oddly sheepish.

“Ailsa, I wanted to say...that is, I really appreciate your help with the riding,” he began, his voice low enough to keep their exchange private, “but I think I’m good now.” He cleared his throat and avoided meeting her gaze. “I don’t think I need any more instruction.”

Ailsa blinked, caught off guard. “Oh.” Her smile wavered, and she quickly steadied it. “Well. That’s...that’s guid then. I’m glad to have been some help to ye.”

She meant to sound gracious, but even to her own ears, the words felt hollow. She didn’t mention what came first to mind, that Cole was far from ready to ride competently without further instruction; they hadn’t even begun to practice jumps, let alone navigating uneven terrain or handling a horse in more complex situations.

Cole shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away, out among the trestle tables, then back to her.

“You were a great help, very much so,” he added quickly, as if to soften the blow. “It’s just—uh, I think I can handle it from here.”

“Of course.” She inclined her head, her face a mask of polite composure. But inside, her thoughts churned.

Across the hall, a sudden commotion drew their attention. Two soldiers had risen from their seats, shoving each other amidst a clatter of spilled tankards and overturned plates. The larger of the two had his hand on the other’s tunic, his knuckles white as he hauled the man close, their faces inches apart.

The hall fell into a brief hush before erupting with laughter and cheers, a few people egging the pair on.

Tavis rose to his feet and slammed the side of his fist on the table. His voice boomed over the din. “Enough! Take it to the yard if ye must act like a pair of rutting stags. Nae here!”

The two soldiers hesitated, then grudgingly separated, muttering under their breaths as they righted the mess they’d made.

Ailsa barely paid them any mind. She glanced at Cole, who was watching the scene with mild interest. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense—not from the scuffle, she realized, but from something else entirely.

The hall’s noise swelled again as the scuffle was forgotten, but Ailsa couldn’t shake the unease curling in her chest.

Why did it feel as though Cole wasn’t just stepping away from the lessons—but from her?

For the rest of the meal, she made an effort to join in the conversation, to laugh at her brother’s occasional quips and nod along with the talk of trade, war, and an upcoming purchase of horses he planned. But her heart wasn’t in it, her thoughts circling back to the man beside her and the quiet, undeniable hurt his words had left behind.

***

Two days later, Ailsa was in the stables, her brow furrowed as she ran a soothing hand along her mare’s flank. The poor creature’s breathing was labored, her sides shuddering slightly with each inhale.

“Ah, my sweet girl, what ails ye?” she murmured, stroking the mare’s soft coat. Ailsa’s heart ached at the sight. The stablemaster’s absence due to illness hadn’t helped matters, and it seemed the care of the animals had suffered for it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices at the stable door. She didn’t need to look up to recognize one of them—deep, smooth, and unmistakable.

Cole.

He stepped into the dimly lit space, his presence commanding even in his disheveled state. His dark hair was windswept from his ride, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he laughed at something the lad beside him said.

And just like that, the hurt she’d been nursing for days resurfaced.

Ailsa busied herself with attention to her mare, though her thoughts became scattered. She had managed to avoid Cole all of yesterday, missing supper in the hall, having thrown herself into the distraction of the unfortunate incident at Harailt’s croft. The man, a wiry farmer known more for his quiet efficiency than any outward cheer, had taken a nasty fall just before the supper hour, snapping his arm in a way that made both Ailsa and Anwen wince. Ailsa and her maid had quickly joined Father Gilbert on the journey to his home, laden with supplies and some ambition to be of service.

The scene had been chaotic. The croft was cluttered with the practical chaos of a working man’s life—tools scattered across a rickety table, a half-mended fishing net in the corner, unwashed kitchen supplies littering the ground around the brazier in the middle of his cottage. While Ailsa assisted, whispering to the pale and sweating patient, Father Gilbert had set the bones with grim but efficient focus. When the worst of it was done, she and Anwen had set to tidying, rearranging furniture and making small adjustments to ensure the man could navigate his space more easily while his arm healed. They’d swept out the rushes, tidied the hearth, and before departing had made a promise to deliver a simmering pot of stew that evening.

That kind of purposeful labor had been rather timely, she’d thought later, allowing her to escape Cole’s company in the hall, where she feared she’d not have been able to keep her wounded heart hidden.

But now, with no such distractions, her pulse quickened at the thought of a confrontation. Tucked into the third stall behind her wheezing mare, Ailsa remained completely still.

“Remember to keep yer knees under ye, nae in front of ye,” the man with Cole said. “Sure and ye had guid progress today.”

A sudden frown wrinkled Ailsa’s brow and she stood up on her toes, peeking over the mare’s broad back. She recognized the man with Cole as Roibeart, the elderly groom responsible for training the war horses.

“Thanks, Roibeart,” Cole said, leading his horse into the stable.

“Ye ken how to rub her down?” Roibeart asked, remaining near the entry.

“I do, thanks. I appreciate your time.”

Ailsa did not duck quickly enough and winced when Cole moved forward, his gaze sweeping the stables until it landed on her.

“Ailsa,” he said, showing some surprise to find her here.

Guilty shock? she wondered.

She turned reluctantly as he stopped just outside the stall, her expression guarded. “Cole.”

He hesitated, then, frowning over her mare’s noticeable wheezing, and asked, “What’s wrong with her?”

Ailsa sighed, her frustration momentarily eclipsed by concern for the animal. “She’s been wheezing. I dinna ken what to do for her.”

Cole frowned, stepping closer. “I can barely breathe in here myself. You think it’s the straw or something? Maybe it needs to be changed more often?”

Ailsa shrugged, wanting him gone. “The straw is scarce in winter. We conserve it as best we can.”

“Well, that’s not ideal,” Cole said, moving the mare he’d borrowed into the stall next to her. “I’m not saying I know anything about this stuff, horses and stables, but it seems like it might help if the stalls were cleaned out more often.”

Ailsa tilted her head, considering his suggestion. It wasn’t unreasonable.

With renewed purpose, she decided she needed to do two things: remove Ceara from the stables for a while to see if fresh air might relieve her symptoms, and confront Cole Carter about what she’d just overheard.

“Ye said ye dinna need help with the riding,” she said, a wee bit more tartly than she’d wanted, laying the saddle blanket over Ceara’s back while she kept her back to Cole. “But it was me ye wanted away from.”

She felt more than saw Cole freeze in the next stall, with only the half wall between them.

“Ailsa, no. Jesus, don’t think that—it’s not like that at all. Actually, it’s the complete opposite.”

Ailsa snorted her disbelief. “Och, ye wanted more time with me and thus cancelled our standing lesson.”

“Listen,” Cole growled with his own frustration, “don’t just assume things about me. There’s a good reason why I couldn’t continue with lessons from you.”

“So it seems,” she said, hoisting the saddle up onto the blanket. “But leave it alone, I’m nae interested in your reasoning.” God’s bluid, but she hated that it sounded as if she were about to cry. How extraordinary! That she suffered so greatly by his casual defection!

“I said couldn’t , which means it wasn’t my choice,” he argued, coming to stand in the opening of Ceara’s stall while Ailsa secured the girth. “Ailsa, will you stop and listen to me?”

She felt his hand on her arm from behind and shook him off, her face contorting angrily.

“Go on, leave me be,” she commanded imperiously.

Cole did not heed her. “Ailsa, Father Gilbert said it was a bad idea, that it would cause trouble,” he said next.

With stirrups in hand, about to attach them, Ailsa whirled, surprised somehow to find him so close. Her chest heaved with indignation and pain, but she looked up at him, startled by his revelation. “What do ye mean? What did he say?”

Cole’s shoulders lifted slightly in a shrug, but his eyes never left hers, holding her gaze with an intensity that matched her own. His jaw clenched in frustration.

“Father Gilbert said that you weren’t supposed to be seen with a man without your maid around, or a chaperone. He said that you must remain untouched, above reproach for your marriage to that MacLae guy.”

While Ailsa stared at him, her brain whirring with more frustration for what the priest had said and done, Cole added pointedly, “He sought me out specifically to deliver that message, so it didn’t seem like a matter in which I had a choice.”

As she digested this, she couldn’t honestly say that it came as any great surprise to her. She’d kept the lessons hidden, had gone out of her way to not be discovered, tricking Anwen to be rid of her confining company, engaging the lad to bring Cole to her, far removed from the keep and watchful eyes. She’d known herself that it wouldn’t have been well received.

Still, she harbored some annoyance that Cole wouldn’t have simply mentioned Father Gilbert’s interference—it would have saved her two days of fretting, wondering what she’d done to earn his disfavor.

“Ailsa,” Cole said, his deep voice softened, “let’s not pretend the priest is wrong. Spending time with you was—is—dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Ailsa, you have to marry someone else and...I don’t want to cause any trouble for that plan.”

“Cause trouble?”

“You’re intent on dragging it out of me, fine,” Cole growled, his displeasure evident in the tightness of his voice. “Yeah, trouble. As in what seems to follow me every time I’m near you, Ailsa. I’m sure you’re not blind to the fact...I want to—” He cut himself off abruptly, his mouth twisting in frustration, as though fighting to contain the words he wanted to say.

Ailsa’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink, and she felt a stirring inside her—something that quickly replaced her confusion with a mix of wonder and an unexpected thrill. She could hardly believe it, but a flicker of hope seemed to bloom within her, despite herself.

“What do ye want, Cole Carter?” she asked, her voice slipping into something softer, more inviting. She hadn’t meant to make her words sound so... coaxing. But they came out that way, almost a purr, unintentional but unmistakable.

Cole’s gaze flickered over her, his jaw tightening, as if he was struggling with something he wasn’t ready to share. The air between them thickened, heavy with expectant tension, yet still somehow fragile.

Sweet Mother of God, was it possible? Did Cole Carter feel the same unspoken awareness, the same yearning hope that pulsed within her?

Suddenly breathless, Ailsa dropped her hand which held the stirrups and stepped forward.