Chapter Thirteen

“Dinna ye want to ken me?” Ailsa asked, her words uncertain, as if she wasn’t quite sure herself. “Dinna ye want to spend time with me? Ye enjoy the moments we’ve shared. Mayhap... ye want more hours together.” She faltered, her voice dipping as she shifted from foot to foot, a nervousness creeping into her posture.

Cole noticed her chest rise and fall more quickly now, her breath betraying her unrest.

He knew it was in his best interest to remain silent. Don’t engage . Hell, he should turn and run.

“Ye do want more, actually,” she decided boldly even as her voice was small and her fingers twitched and curled. “Ye want to kiss me—have ye nae imagined it?” She took a hesitant step closer, then another, as if testing the ground beneath her feet, or gauging his reaction.

“Ailsa...” Cole growled, his gaze sliding away, a heavy warning hanging in his tone.

Christ, she was going to get him killed if she kept this up.

But she was undeterred, her voice trembling slightly but still bold. “I ken I’m nae wrong. I... I want the same.” Ailsa’s step was tentative, but there was a resolve to it as she moved within his reach. Her eyes, bright but unsure, highlighted by the healthy flush in her cheeks, didn’t leave his. “I’ve thought about kissing ye. I... I might have even instigated it, but...” She paused, and blinked nervously, “I’ve nae been kissed before.”

Cole’s eyes widened. How the hell was that possible?

An image of Tavis brandishing his sword came to mind, swiftly and effectively answering that question. Next, Father Gilbert’s words echoed in his brain: she is to remain untouched .

A crime, that, to leave untouched so tempting, so exquisite a woman.

When in the next moment, she put her hand on his chest and used those blue eyes to great effect, glancing up at him with seeming innocence, an open invitation, Cole was sure he was being set up.

Yep. She’s going to get me killed.

It might almost be worth it.

Snaking one arm around her waist, he pulled her against him, their bodies colliding in a heat that defied the frigid air. His mouth claimed hers, firmly, unrelenting, a kiss meant to show her just how dangerous it was to play with fire. Almost instantly, she went rigid in his embrace, and Cole tamped down the fire inside him. He brushed his lips over hers in a deliberate tease—first one corner of her soft, trembling mouth, then the other—before pressing firmly again, urging her to yield.

When her lips parted, he deepened the kiss, claiming her with a fervor he hadn’t intended to unleash. His tongue slid against hers, seeking, tasting, conquering, and for a moment, he lost himself completely in the heady sweetness of her.

The lesson he’d meant to teach her—about the dangers of provoking him—was all but forgotten as his focus shifted to something else entirely, giving and taking pleasure. Her lips were warm, her taste intoxicating, and the soft, hesitant response she gave made his heart pound. She was inexperienced; he could feel it in the way she faltered at first, then grew bolder, mimicking his movements. Her tongue touched his tentatively, then traced and stroked in a way that sent a rush of heat coursing through him.

His blood roared, his senses sharp yet overwhelmed. The softness of her against him, the shy but growing confidence in her kiss, surpassed every expectation he hadn’t even realized he held. When her hands slid up to his shoulders, her fingers curling into him as if she couldn’t bear to let him go, the last shred of his restraint snapped.

His brain shouted at him to stop, to pull away, to save himself from the chaos she was bound to bring into his life. But his body, his heart—they wanted none of it. Instead, he tightened his hold on her, ignoring every rational instinct that told him this was a mistake.

Nothing—absolutely nothing before this moment—had ever felt so right.

It was a long, delicious moment before Cole regained his senses and forced himself to break away, shoving her back just enough to create space between them.

“Stop,” he hissed thickly. It was unclear from where the strength came to push her away—God knew he didn’t feel it in his body. “Christ, Ailsa, are you trying to get me killed?”

Her lips were red, wet and glistening, and her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson. When her blue eyes fluttered open, they held a dazed, almost dreamy expression, as though she were still lost in the moment.

“Ailsa, Father Gilbert is right—and here is proof,” he barked out, prudently taking a step backward. “This is a bad idea—any time spent with you. Yeah, I might want more,” he said— damn, I do want more , “but it’s dangerous. To you, to me, to whatever Father Gilbert meant about needing peace between the Sinclairs and the MacLaes and your marriage managing that. I...Ailsa, I’m not even supposed to be here. I can’t be the reason that this time or your life, or even the safety of the Sinclairs gets all messed up.”

It was a moment before she responded at all. When she did, her voice was small, filled with as much hesitation as it was hope. “Mayhap ye are here for a reason.”

“And what reason would that be? To kiss you and get myself killed when your brother finds out? To ruin whatever peace your clan hopes to gain? To die in this century instead of my own?” He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. A thought struck him, sharp and unwelcome. “And what are you even saying, Ailsa? You don’t really believe I’m from the future. I know that. You’ve been polite, but deep down, you think I’m lying—or crazy.”

Her gaze fell, and she absently brushed a hand down the front of her gown. “I did,” she admitted softly, almost inaudibly. “At first, I thought ye mad—or mayhap jesting. But now...” She lifted her face, meeting his eyes, with what looked to be newfound determination. “Now I dinna ken what to believe. Only that, whatever the truth is, ye feel real. As if ye’re meant to be here. As if we’re meant to be.”

Her words struck him like a fist to the gut, the context, the very idea presented leaving him momentarily speechless. Because the worst part of it was—no. No! He didn’t want to believe it. It was nuts. Meant to be, my ass . This was simple, raw, maddening physical attraction. Nothing more than her soft lips, her wide, questioning eyes, and her damnable innocence baiting him into losing his head.

Logic would not allow him to hitch his wagon to some absurd star filled with BS about romantic destiny.

“Christ, Ailsa,” he muttered, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “You have no idea what fire you’re playing with.”

Her face fell, her expression crumpling like paper crinkling when thrown into the flames. For a moment, it looked as though she might retreat entirely. But then she squared her shoulders, the fire in her blue eyes sparking again.

Needing to leave before he did something even more stupid, Cole pivoted on his heel, forgetting about the horse he’d returned, and strode angrily toward the stable doors. Part of him, skeptical modern-day man that he was, felt a flicker of doubt. Was she using him to escape her 14th-century marriage? No. Ailsa wasn’t like that. She wasn’t devious, wouldn’t have planned such a manipulation. Would she?

“Cole, wait!” Ailsa’s voice caught up to him, cracking slightly, desperation threading through it.

It gave him pause, his hand stilling on the wooden doorframe. He didn’t turn, but he couldn’t force himself to leave either.

“I... I’m leaving on the morrow,” she said, her voice trembling, her accent softening. “I’ll be gone for nearly a week, visiting my sister at Kilbrae.”

Another punch to the gut, but he masked his reaction with a sharp inhale, letting the sting of cold air clear his thoughts. It was probably for the best. Still, his chest tightened at the thought of her leaving Torr Cinnteag.

He tapped his fingers on the hard wood of the door frame, considering the possibility that he might well be gone by the time she returned. He had no hint, nothing had happened to allow him to believe he would again be moved through time, back to the twenty-first century... but what if he was? And he never saw her again? The idea hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, but he swallowed it down, baring his teeth, refusing to look at her.

“Be safe, Ailsa,” he called over his shoulder, his voice quieter now, burdened with something he refused to name. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out into the biting wind.

***

This trip to her sister’s should have been a reprieve—a chance to escape the mounting tension of the upcoming meeting with Alastair MacLae and the expected betrothal announcement. It had been planned for this time for exactly that purpose. Normally, these visits brought her solace. She loved the sweet laughter of her nieces, the easy flow of conversation with her sister—even though Orla sometimes proved even more annoyingly overbearing than Anwen and could occasionally be excessively critical of Ailsa. But she loved her sister and had never before dreaded journeying to visit her. Yet now, the thought of leaving filled her with an unfamiliar sense of dread.

What if Cole Carter wasn’t here when she returned?

The question gnawed at her, a persistent ache she couldn’t ignore. The thought struck her like a physical blow. Cole was a man out of time. What if the same strange force that had brought him to this age decided to whisk him away again? The notion was as terrifying as it was plausible. She could picture it all too vividly: returning to the castle, finding his room empty, and realizing he had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

Ailsa had pleaded with Tavis last night, trying every argument she could think of to delay the journey.

“Surely it can wait a few more days,” she had insisted, only to meet the steady wall of her brother’s unyielding will.

This morning, she’d tried a different approach, claiming illness as her excuse. “I can’t manage a seven-hour carriage ride, Tavis,” she said, adopting the most pitiful tone she could muster. “I’m quite sure I’m feverish.”

He’d placed a warm, calloused hand against her forehead, his skeptical gaze pinning her. “You’re as cool as a Highland morning,” he said dryly.

“But I was feverish! Overnight,” she protested, though even she heard how unconvincing she sounded.

Her attempts were futile. Tavis was immune to her feeble ploys and determined to send her on her way.

And so here she was, bundled into the carriage, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the uneven road doing little to distract her from her rising anxiety.

She’d had no opportunity to see Cole Carter this morning. Either he was a man unaccustomed to early rising or he’d gone out of his way to avoid the bailey, as she and her party of a dozen men had been seen off by Tavis and a few others.

Anwen, opposite her on the other bench, was blessedly silent for once, allowing Ailsa to revisit every glorious second of Cole’s kiss, which had lingered like a sweet echo, softly in the corners of her mind since yesterday afternoon. Even now, with only the memory to hold onto, she felt the warmth bloom inside her chest, spreading outward. She could almost feel the heat of him still, his hand firm at her waist, the intensity of his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.

Her heart fluttered at the recollection, and though she tried to steady herself, the delicate thrum of excitement would not settle. None of her imaginings had come close to reality. The way his lips had moved against hers, so commanding yet tender, was a sensation she’d never expected.

At length Ailsa moved aside the curtain and looked out the carriage window at the passing landscape, her thoughts drifting as her heartbeat quickened.

What if she never knew another kiss from him?

How would she feel if he actually was spirited away while she was gone?

Ailsa dropped the curtain into place and sank further into the upholstered seat, pressing her fingers to her temples as the answer surfaced with startling clarity. She would feel as if something extraordinary had been stolen from her—a fleeting, beautiful opportunity to connect with someone who intrigued her in a way no one else ever had.

***

“Three days, Ailsa. Three days you've been here, and I’ve yet to see ye truly here .”

Orla’s voice carried its usual sharpness as she adjusted the lace cuff on her sleeve with a disapproving tug.

“Ye might as well be a ghost, haunting this solar. What have ye? Has Torr Cinnteag suddenly become irresistible that ye dinna want to be here?”

Despite the cold winds howling through the narrow windows of the stone house, Orla’s solar was pleasantly warm. Ailsa sat near the hearth, the fire crackling brightly in the corner, sending warm orange light dancing over the tapestries that adorned the walls. Her niece, Bébhinn, played quietly with a doll beside her, while her older sister Mairead hummed softly, as she worked on her embroidery. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and herbs, and was a comfortable space, though one in which she had never truly felt at ease in. The furniture was old, heavy oak, worn with years of use, not softened by any cushion, and the low ceiling made the room feel more enclosed than she preferred.

It had been quiet, wonderfully so.

Ailsa blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Her fingers went still, abandoning their task of attempting to untangle several knots in the skeins of yarn. She swallowed and her eyes flicked to her youngest niece, a round-faced cherub of four winters, who was blissfully unaware of the sudden tension in the room. The child giggled as she stripped her linen doll of her wool dress, playfully tossing the miniature garment up into Ailsa’s lap, oblivious to her aunt’s sudden unease.

“Apologies, Orla, for my inattention,” Ailsa replied too quickly, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her tone. Her gaze fell to her hands as they folded over the yarn in her lap, suddenly aware of the heat blooming in her cheeks beneath Orla’s sharp scrutiny. “I had said to Tavis that I was nae feeling well and that perhaps I—"

“Ha!” Orla snorted, her laughter grating against the quiet atmosphere. She nudged her sewing basket aside, sitting up straighter, preparing to pry deeper. “Rubbish. I dinna believe that for a moment. Ye’ve barely spoken a word to anyone, and dinna ken I haven’t noticed that ye stare...at naught. It’s like watching Mairead,” she said, gesturing with distaste toward her eldest daughter, who was in fact not so earnestly working on her embroidery but only staring at it. “What has ye in such a state, then? And pray dinna tell me this unsettling cloud is only anxiety about Alastair MacLae.”

Ailsa flinched at the mention of her betrothed. Her sister’s words hit too close to the truth, the weight of the betrothal hanging over her like a heavy shroud. “I dinna ken what you want me to say,” Ailsa murmured evasively, folding her hands tightly in her lap. She avoided Orla’s gaze as the sudden pressure of the conversation threatened to suffocate her. “Perhaps I just... miss the familiarity of home,” Ailsa finished, though the half-lie sat uncomfortably on her tongue. It was partly true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.

Anwen’s disdainful snort from the corner of the chamber turned both sisters’ heads around.

Ailsa’s lips pressed together as she glared at her maid.

Orla eyed the smirking maid with speculation. “Ye might as well tell me, Anwen. We both ken I’ll find out eventually.”

“Nae for me to say, m’lady,” Anwen pronounced.

Ailsa snarled silently at her maid’s sudden reticence, after she’d purposefully revealed so much with only one scathing sound.

At that moment, Bébhinn climbed into Ailsa’s lap, wanting help with dressing the doll she’d made naked. Pleased with the distraction, Ailsa turned the little girl around in her lap and with her arms around her, proceeded to dress the figure in the discarded clothing.

“A man is my guess,” Orla said suddenly, startling Ailsa. “That’s what ails ye.”

Just as Ailsa raised her gaze, wondering how Orla had arrived at that conclusion, Anwen snidely provided, “Aye, Cole Carter, he is—a more unworthy soul I’m sure ye’ve never met, m’lady.”

Ailsa closed her eyes, willing calm upon herself, even as she fleetingly fantasized about slow torture methods she might inflict upon the loose-lipped Anwen.

Ailsa sighed heavily, lifting her niece off her lap as she’d been scrambling to get down. The child toddled away, giggling as she noticed that she inadvertently dragged the unraveled yarn along with her.

Ignoring her daughter and the mess she’d made of Ailsa’s tedious efforts, Orla’s eyes glinted with a knowing spark. “Ah, now that makes sense. And who is he who’s got ye all twisted up like a fisher’s net—Cole Carter, ye say?” She smirked, clearly relishing the moment of revelation. When Ailsa said nothing, Orla turned her attention to Anwen. “Mooning, is she?”

Ailsa’s chest tightened. The room seemed to shrink around her, and a rush of heat flooded her cheeks. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, and before she could stop herself, she blurted, “I am nae mooning over Cole Carter.”

The lie was spat out with indignation she had no right to feel, since it was in fact the truth.

Orla’s loud laugh startled both Ailsa and the girls. Mairead looked up from her embroidery in mild surprise, and Bébhinn paused in her play, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

“You’re nae a guid liar, Ailsa,” Orla chuckled, completely unbothered by her sister’s discomfort. “Ye never were.”

Anwen—who prior to this had rarely said anything unless directly spoken to in Orla’s house, as she was more readily cowed by Orla’s changeable temperament and sometimes curt manner—continued to betray Ailsa.

“Stranger he is, and there’s something nae right about him.”

Stunned, blindsided by the depth of Anwen’s betrayal, Ailsa could muster no immediate response, not even the harsh rebuke Anwen so richly deserved right now. Having known Anwen all her life, having trusted her so implicitly for so long, she would never have anticipated such blatant disloyalty. Was it intentional malice? Jealousy? A misguided attempt to help?

Anwen simply raised an eyebrow and shrugged, the perpetual smile she wore seeming to mock Ailsa now. She said no more but what she had revealed hung in the air, and Orla seized upon it.

“What is nae right?” Orla demanded to know. “Who is this man?”

Directing her icy gaze to her maid, Ailsa instructed coolly, “Leave us.”

Though Anwen blanched a bit at Ailsa’s frosty tone, she dared to challenge the edict. “I said only what—”

“I said leave us!” Ailsa said, raising her voice as she so rarely had cause to do. Her lips quivered with her effort to refrain from sending Anwen on her way, on her own, away, forever, from Ailsa.

“She speaks of that which she dinna ken,” she told her sister after a shocked Anwen had stood and huffed and stormed out the door.

But now it was out there—Cole’s existence, his name, a suggestion that something existed between them. Ailsa knew her sister well enough to know she’d have not an iota of peace until her sister was satisfied she knew every last detail.

After releasing a bitter sigh of resignation, Ailsa explained as much as she knew—as much as she dared—about Cole Carter, without confiding in Orla about Cole’s asserted origins, seven hundred years in the future. She described him as a lost traveler, not precisely a lie, and focused more on what he was to her rather than simply who or what he truly was.

“He’s... nae like any other I’ve ever met,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s different. Strange in some ways, aye, but—” she faltered, struggling to find the words. A faint smile curved her lips. “Sister, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever encountered. Nae matter how I try, I canna stop thinking about him. I ken it’s foolish, but...”

Orla’s dry, humorless laugh interrupted her. “Foolish? Foolish? It’s madness, Ailsa. Do ye forget the MacLae is coming? You’re to be betrothed—announced, nae less—in a matter of days! And you’re here dreaming on a stranger? God’s bluid, has he ruined ye? Tell me you’re nae so weak, so simple to have been—"

“It’s nae like that,” Ailsa protested weakly, though she could feel her cheeks flush even deeper, the memory of his kiss returning. “I ken my duty,” she assured her sister. “But when I’m with him, I feel... alive in a way I never have before. Like I can breathe.”

Orla’s voice rose higher, her incredulity stark. “Alive? Breathe? Ailsa, marriage isna about that. It’s about loyalty to the clan and securing alliances. When I married Iain, do ye ken I felt ‘alive’ or like I could ‘breathe’? Nae! I did it because it was required, because it strengthened the Sinclairs. And ye dinna get to shirk your duty just because ye’ve stumbled across some handsome distraction.”

Ailsa recoiled as though struck, her fingers tightening into fists in her lap. The bluntness of Orla’s words stung, but she couldn’t deny their truth. “I dinna say I meant to shirk anything,” she muttered, trying to steady her voice.

“Ye dinna have to say it. Your face says it for ye,” Orla retorted. Then, softer, she reached out and took Ailsa’s hand, her grip strong, more forceful than reassuring. Her following words were quiet but still carried the weight of experience and the starch of authority. “I ken it’s difficult. I ken what it is to dream of something else, something more or better. But dreams dinna protect the people we love. Duty does.”

Ailsa swallowed hard, her throat tight. The truth of her sister’s words was inescapable, pulling her back to the grim reality she couldn’t escape. She looked down at their clasped hands, her own trembling slightly. “But how can I wed the MacLae if my heart is elsewhere?”

“What’s in yer heart has nae bearing, sister.” Orla’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t release Ailsa’s hand. She squeezed it. “I’m sorry, luv, but life dinna always give us what we want.”

Ailsa nodded, tears threatening behind her eyes. She understood the truth in her sister’s words, but it didn’t make the pain any easier to bear.

***

Ailsa did not speak to Anwen for the next three days, her first words coming as they departed Orla’s house and climbed into the carriage. And then it was only to tersely instruct her maid to not speak to her for the entirety of the journey home.

Anwen, chastised to some degree by Ailsa’s chilling silence of the last few days, dared to open her mouth to object.

Ailsa held up her gloved hand. “Nae a word from ye,” she repeated with greater force.

Anwen didn’t speak for the first hour of their journey, until, apparently, she could hold back no more. “What I did and said was done with only yer best interests at heart. He’s nae guid and ye’re nae meant for him but another. Begging trouble, is all yer doing, and I canna sit by nae more and only watch.”

Having closed her eyes some time ago, but hardly able to sleep, knowing that unless Cole Carter had disappeared while she’d been gone from home, she would see him this day, Ailsa did not bother to open her eyes now, even as she responded coolly. “Unless ye mean to make the trek to Torr Cinnteag on foot, I suggest ye say nae one more word,” Ailsa said, unmoved by her maid’s stated justification. “?Tis your final warning.”