Chapter Fifteen

At once evidently meant within the hour, much to Cole’s dismay. He’d gone back to the rectory, but only to grab his own coat, putting on that underneath the wool cloak he’d been given, which he’d worn every day trying to fit in. After that, he’d gone directly to the stables, where several young kids and the stablemaster, Angus, were already saddling horses. Cole jumped right in, saddling the horse he’d been using for lessons. Though speed was his goal, he did not forget either Ailsa’s or Roibeart’s constant harping about outfitting the horse properly, correctly.

He needn’t have bothered to hurry. Aside from only a few soldiers idling, waiting in the courtyard, Tank included, by the time Cole joined them, neither Tavis nor the bulk of his army were ready to go.

“Feels like I’m back in the Marines,” Tank decided impatiently after they’d been waiting a quarter hour. “Hurry up and wait.”

It was another half hour before the party finally moved out from Torr Cinnteag, during which time Tank had twice persuaded Cole to hold back. Tank insisted they had no business venturing out alone— they had no clear destination and no idea what dangers lay ahead. Cole, however, was restless, frustrated by the delay. Tavis, when he finally emerged from the keep, made no apologies for the wait, and since no one else seemed eager to move any faster, Cole decided with mounting frustration that this must simply be how things worked in this time.

With no idea whether Ailsa’s disappearance was due to a natural disaster—if it had anything to do with the snow that had fallen—or was the work of an enemy, Tavis had brought the entire army along. Only the house guards were left behind to protect Torr Cinnteag.

Shortly after they set out, news spread to Cole and Tank that it wasn’t only Ailsa who was missing, but her maid, Anwen, as well. Six soldiers, including the carriage driver and footmen, had also vanished without a trace. The list of the lost only deepened Cole’s sense of urgency, but at the same time, he was somewhat appeased that she wasn’t alone, that she was accompanied by men whose sole job it was to protect her.

Though it wasn’t yet something he was entirely comfortable with, Cole wanted desperately to gallop to where she’d last been seen. Instead, Tavis set a pace that was decidedly, maddeningly slower.

Snow began to fall again about an hour after they’d left Torr Cinnteag.

The young soldier, Rory, who sometimes rode beside Tank and Cole, advised when they left Sinclair property, and that they must now be more vigilant.

The snow kept falling and the cold bit through his coat and the wool plaid, his breath fogging the air as he glanced up at the gray sky. The snow was heavy, but not like any blizzard conditions Cole had lived through over the years in Buffalo, and yet it was enough to slow their progress to a crawl. Cole wondered what they had to be vigilant about—who else would be out in this?

He muttered a curse under his breath, knowing that in modern America—maybe anywhere in the world—a missing person could be tracked with helicopters, drones, thermal imaging, or at least a damn cell phone. Here, they had to rely on the scouts’ memory, instinct, and luck—all of which seemed so much less valuable to him.

Cole exhaled hard, his gloved hand gripping the reins tightly. “We’d already be there if we had paved roads,” he muttered to Tank.

“Or cars,” Tank added. “Hell, even a four-wheeler.”

Cole grimaced. He thought of Ailsa constantly—the idea of her out here, in the cold and danger, gnawed at him.

As the day stretched on, and they were forced to climb one hill after another, the snow began to fall heavier, the wind picking up. Cole asked Rory to ride ahead and inquire how much further.

Despite his concern for Ailsa and the others, the details of the march did not escape Cole. Rather, it fascinated him. The scene was unlike anything he had experienced: the army marched in double columns, creating an impressive line that stretched far into the snow-laden distance, the long procession winding like a dark ribbon through the white landscape. All of it was mostly silent, the sound of their movements shrouded by snow and wind.

The men were disciplined, their movements orderly despite the uneven terrain. Snow clung to their faces and cloaks, but they pressed on, after a while looking like more a white army. Certain riders, who Cole presumed to be messengers or officers, moved up and down the line on horseback, carrying orders or checking on the men. Their horses left tracks that were quickly blurred as fresh snow continued to fall.

Rory, a very helpful guide, explained that the scouts— other than those leading the party to where they’d left and lost Ailsa—would regularly venture out, up to two miles ahead to ensure the safety of the path.

Cole realized then that what he had perceived as a delay earlier might have been necessary preparations. The soldiers had packed their own food and supplies, ensuring they could march without stopping for meals. As they rode, they ate chunks of bread or gnawed on strips of dried meat as they marched and sipped from flasks of ale.

Cian and Colin, two younger soldiers who had taken a liking to Cole and Tank, generously shared bread with them. Cole accepted the gesture with a nod of thanks, chewing thoughtfully as he watched the snow swirl around the procession. Both Cole and Tank declined the offered ale, drinking from their water flasks instead, knowing hydration was more important.

By late afternoon, Cole’s ass was sore and his feet were freezing and he was beginning to lose hope. He had no idea how much further they needed to go, but was struggling to imagine any way Ailsa and those lost could survive the elements for so long.

At one point while he rode somewhere near the front third of the group, they passed Tavis and Dersey, who’d pulled off to the side of the columns and watched them go by.

Dersey, his red cheeks all that wasn’t white on him, was calling out something in Scots as they passed. Anxious, not understanding, but with renewed hope, Cole stood in the saddle to see the front of the column begin to angle toward the left. It looked as if they were aiming for a pass between two mountains.

At the same time, Tank asked Rory, “What’s he saying? Are we close?”

“Nae close enough,” Rory replied. “Cap’n says we’ll stop for the night at Torr Dubh.”

Cole sat back down, pinning Rory with a feral glare. “Stop? We can’t stop. Aren’t we getting close? We must be getting close.”

“Torr Dubh?” Tank asked. “What’s that?”

“The Black Tower,” Rory said, ignoring Cole’s concern. “The MacLae stronghold.”

“Why are we stopping?” Cole persisted, thinking he should step out of formation and address this with Tavis.

With a grimace of sympathy, Rory explained, “We canna press on in the dark.”

Momentarily distracted, Cole’s brow knit, and he asked, “MacLae? The guy Ailsa’s supposed to marry?”

Rory nodded, his expression revealing some confusion, either about how Cole knew that or why it seemed to upset him.

“Jesus Christ,” Cole muttered. “But aren’t we close?”

Rory shrugged a bit, burrowing into his breacan, possibly to escape the censure Cole leveled at him. “Nae close enough. ?Tis too dangerous. Torr Dubh land is harsh. Rocky. Laird willna risk the horses, nae in the snow—nae his men.”

Cole was as angry at this weak explanation as he was stunned. Not even for his sister?

At his side, Tank tried to make him see reason. “Dude, he’s right. It’s a good call. We’ve been out all day—the guys and the horses need a rest.”

Cole clenched his fists, his breath coming in quick bursts as he fought the urge to shout. “I can’t just stop. Not when she’s out there.” Desperately, he suggested, “We don’t need them. We can keep going.”

Tank’s mien softened slightly as he met Cole’s gaze. His beard was completely white and his nose and cheeks were noticeably red. “I get it, Cole. But it’s gonna be dark soon, and we don’t know these lands. We’d be lost within an hour.”

“Christ, Tank,” he implored, hardly able to comprehend the fear that gripped him. “Would you be able to stop now, if someone you...?”

Tank lifted a brow, but Cole did not finish. Tank filled in the blanks. “If someone I cared about was out there, possibly in danger? It’d be tough, yeah. But there’s no way we can move forward without them. And we’re no good to her if we wind up dead.”

The words hit home, though they did nothing to ease the frustration roiling in Cole’s chest. He turned away, biting down on the urge to argue further.

As the group rode toward the castle, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world around them in ominous silence. Cole’s heart ached, fear clawing at him while he felt that he was abandoning Ailsa.

***

The toasty hall of Torr Dubh was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The fire in the massive hearth roared, sending waves of heat through the space, but even with the physical warmth, an undeniable chill hung in the air. Cole noticed it almost immediately, in the way the Sinclair soldiers sat together, huddled with each other in their dark tartans, speaking low among themselves but sparing little more than curt nods for their hosts.

The MacLaes seemed no more welcoming. They sat clustered at different tables, their expressions guarded, except for what glares they aimed at the Sinclairs. Even the servants, darting between the tables to deliver plates and refill cups, seemed a bit more thin-lipped as they approached the Sinclairs. Certainly, they delivered less food and drink to the visitors than they did to the home team.

Cole took it all in as he sat among the Sinclair men, chewing absently on a piece of cheese. He’d heard enough during his few weeks at Torr Cinnteag to understand that relations between the Sinclairs and MacLaes were as cold as the weather outside. The feuding, apparently, had been infrequent but long-standing—small slights and border disputes festering into grudges over the years. Ailsa’s marriage to Alastair MacLae was supposed to warm those relations, to serve as a bridge between the clans. But looking around, Cole had his doubts.

The MacLaes on one side of the hall were an unremarkable group, at least in Cole’s eyes. The men were clean and well-dressed, their tartans crisp and their tunics embroidered with subtle but deliberate details, but it wasn’t their appearance that set his teeth on edge. It was the way they acted.

They leaned close to one another, speaking in low tones, their murmurs punctuated by the occasional smirk or quiet chuckle. After each burst of laughter, their gazes would flick toward the Sinclair tables, lingering just long enough to make their target feel the scrutiny before turning back to their own group.

One of the MacLaes—a broad man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw—caught Cole’s eye and didn’t look away. His expression wasn’t hostile, but there was a cool detachment in the way he stared, as if weighing Cole and finding him lacking.

Cole tore his gaze away and glanced at the others. They, too, carried themselves with a sense of ease, leaning back in their seats and gesturing languidly as they spoke. They weren’t careless, exactly, but their casual air felt deliberate, as though they wanted it known that they were entirely unimpressed by the presence of their Sinclair guests.

It reminded Cole of opposing teams in the lacrosse arena. Yeah, there were teams—and certain players—who exuded that arrogant indifference. Though he’d been conditioned to ignore posturing from other teams, it rubbed Cole the wrong way now. It felt dismissive. Superior. And he didn’t like it.

Tank, seated beside Cole, leaned in slightly. “Damn, I feel like we’re sitting on a powder keg,” he muttered, obviously having noticed the strained tension as well.

Cole’s gaze drifted back to Alastair MacLae, whom Rory had pointed out earlier. Alastair sat at the high table near his brother William, the laird of Torr Dubh, and despite his finely tailored tunic—its rich fabric catching the firelight—he looked every bit a man who’d long stopped caring about appearances.

Looking like he was nearly fifty, Alastair carried his weight poorly, his belly straining the fit of his clothing while his broad shoulders were rounded and drooped. His thinning hair had been combed in a desperate attempt to cover the bare crown of his head, but the sorry comb-over only highlighted the effort’s futility.

Still, it wasn’t his looks that made Cole’s jaw tighten. It was the way Alastair’s eyes roamed the hall, showing interest in only the female servants, and lingering far too long on one of them—a young woman balancing a tray of empty tankards, her full bosom straining against the fabric of her dress. Alastair’s gaze followed her with a lewd intensity that made Cole grimace with disgust.

There was nothing subtle about it. Alastair didn’t bother to hide his interest, his lips curling into a smug half-smile as the girl passed close to the high table. Cole watched with disdain the casual way Alastair tilted his head, leaning slightly to get a better view of her figure.

Cole exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look away before his expression betrayed him. He’d seen men like Alastair before—men who thought wealth or power gave them the right to take whatever they wanted. It didn’t matter the century; that kind of arrogance was timeless, and it infuriated him.

“Shit, he’s a piece of work,” Tank commented, his attention seemingly on Alastair as well.

Cole murmured an angry assent.

He kind of understood the necessity of the match, but knowing didn’t make it easier to accept.

How could Ailsa stand it? How could she possibly resign herself to spending the rest of her life with a man like that? Alastair wasn’t just older; he was smug, crude, and entirely unworthy of her. Cole tried to imagine what it would feel like, to know your future had been decided for you, to see it coming like a slow-moving train you couldn’t stop. His twenty-first century brain couldn’t wrap around it.

For more than an hour they remained inside the hall. Cole’s attention again and again on the high table, where Tavis and William MacLae were locked in quiet conversation. Whatever they were saying, it hardly seemed like any friendly conversation. Tavis wasn’t known for his humor, but Cole had seen him smile here and there—certainly he liked to poke fun at Cole during drills. But not tonight. His jaw was set and each nod he gave to William MacLae appeared stiff.

“Tavis looks like he wants to haul off and punch him,” Cole remarked to Tank.

“That’s some workout, holding back,” Tank agreed. He shook his head. “I’m not sure how a marriage is supposed to change that.”

“One more thing about medieval life we don’t understand,” Cole suggested.

Around Cole, the Sinclair men carried on with their meal. The young ones, like Cian and Colin, shared quiet jokes, while the older soldiers cast wary glances toward the MacLaes at the opposite side of the hall.

When Tavis stood, indicating he was finished with his meal, the Sinclairs, almost as one, rose as well.

They were given accommodation in the stables, which left Cole and Tank wide-eyed with disbelief. The Sinclair soldiers crammed into the space like sardines in a can, barely any room between them as they unrolled thin blankets onto the packed dirt floor. The men didn’t seem to mind the close quarters. They were used to this, clearly, settling in shoulder to shoulder as if it were just another night on the road.

The overflow of men spilled into the nearby barns, where the conditions weren’t much better—no heat, just the faint warmth of the animals, whatever blankets they had brought along, and their comrades to keep them from freezing.

Though he suffered not at all from cold—the press of bodies was indeed helpful—Cole barely slept, tossing and turning with Tank snoring in his ear and the image of a freezing or injured Ailsa in his mind.

Still, when morning came, Cole felt a renewed sense of urgency, anxious to get going, being one of the first in the courtyard, which was much larger than that of Torr Cinnteag.

Alastair MacLae emerged from the keep as the Sinclair army gathered, and Cole guessed it made sense for the man to join the search for his fiancé. That was not the case, however; he was simply here to wave goodbye, apparently—though he did commit six of his men to the effort. Six.

Cole rolled his eyes and happened to catch Tavis’s eye as the Sinclair laird walked his horse past Cole.

“That’s the guy you want your sister to marry?” he challenged with disgust, earning him a ferocious scowl from Tavis.

***

Though the snow had stopped falling, the cold bit into Cole’s skin almost more bitterly than it had yesterday. He felt more frantic, more anxious today, believing too much time had passed by now. He feared they’d come to find it was no longer a rescue mission but only the recovery of bodies. What snow had fallen yesterday amounted to about a foot in these parts, the horse’s legs sinking up to their knees. The horses seemed sluggish to him, their trek ponderous, while the world seemed blanketed in an oppressive silence. The landscape stretched out before them, white and desolate, with jagged mountain peaks looming in the distance beneath dark clouds.

The group had been traveling for hours, scouts racing ahead and coming back—no news, no sightings— when they neared the largest mountain they’d seen yet. It came down through the ranks as they approached that this was where Ailsa, the carriage, and the others had last been seen.

“Oh, shit,” Tank cursed, staring up at the mountain.

“What? Oh shit what?”

Tank, bundled in his parka and cloak, lifted his gloved hand, pointing toward the mountain—a football field away, but visible enough now that the pattern was undeniable. “See that stripe of snow cutting through the trees on the mountain? Right there? The one running from the top to the bottom?” Tank’s voice was grim, his familiarity with the scene evident. “That’s a clear indication of an avalanche. Look at the broken trees—limbs scattered like matchsticks—and the snow... it’s not just fresh snow. That’s snow that crashed down from the mountain. And look at the debris field—no way this happened just from a storm. This mountain's been pissed.”

Cole didn’t question Tank’s observation. He knew the man had spent years skiing the Rockies in Colorado, and his expertise in avalanches, however indirect, was something to trust.

“Damn it,” Cole muttered, urging his horse forward, wanting to reach the base of the mountain. As he passed Dersey and Tavis, who had turned to look at him when they heard him coming, Cole called out, “An avalanche—Tank says it looks like there was an avalanche.”

The scene before them grew clearer as they neared the bottom of the mountain. The snow had settled in deep drifts, stretching out across the land in soft, undisturbed sheets. Yet the way it lay, the broad expanse of smooth snow interrupted by jagged edges and ridges, was unmistakable: this was no natural accumulation. The avalanche had carved a wide, jagged scar into the landscape. Snow had crashed down with such force that it had ripped apart trees, sending large branches and limbs flying, leaving only broken stumps behind. Rocks, large and small, lay strewn across the path as though the mountain had unleashed a great fury.

Tank caught up with Cole and both men dismounted at the same time at the edge of the debris field of snow, where it had come to rest at the base of the mountain. Tank turned and held up his hand to the approaching Sinclairs. “No horses beyond this point,” he called out, his voice carrying easily. “Watch your step. This ground’s unstable. The snow might look solid, but it’s packed in layers—some areas could be pockets where it hasn’t settled yet.”

Cole faced Tavis, thinking to instruct, “Have some rope on hand. Bring up the strongest horses for pulling someone out if they disappear beneath the surface.”

“What do we do? How do we search?” Dersey asked, swinging down from the saddle.

Cole looked to Tank for the answer.

“Slowly and carefully,” was Tank’s suggestion. “Maybe only a few men to any grid of”—he shrugged, possibly only making it up now— “ten square feet. We don’t want to put too much weight on this snow.”

This gave Cole pause. He stopped abruptly and looked down. Christ. Could Ailsa be somewhere beneath him?

Tavis, seeming to perfectly understand what might have happened, and what Tank had suggested, hollered for Stewart, who Cole knew to be the army’s engineer.

“Map it out, lad,” Tavis said, “by sight. All this area, all this snow that is taller than what we walked through to get here—Jesu, it’s nearly ten feet higher. Dersey! Where are ye? Och, Dersey, assign three men to each grid as Stewart directs.” He went on, calling for rope to be attached to several of their huge war horses, and to have them at the ready. And then Tavis himself began searching, awaiting Stewart’s direction.

The first clue came before Stewart had assigned even twenty men—a crumpled shape just visible beneath the surface.

“There!” Colin alerted.

Hearts stopped as first one shape and then another were recognized beneath the snow. A booted foot was visible with very little digging from Colin, half-buried in the snow, the other leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. More joined in the digging, pushing aside the snow, revealing another man—this one more badly crushed, his body mangled, his expression of shock frozen forever on his young face.

Cole’s blood ran cold. They were already too late.

They moved on, the grim discoveries continuing. Shattered wood and broken harnesses marked the remnants of the carriage. The horses lay buried in the snow, their massive forms still hitched to the splintered yolk. Soon after, the carriage was discovered. It took half a dozen men, on their bellies, digging down, trying to get to the door or window. Cole knew a surge of hope—the inside of the carriage might have a large enough pocket of air to survive in. Hope was quickly dashed, though, when they bared one of the windows and Cole realized they had no glass or none had survived, and that the interior of the cab was filled with snow. He kept digging though, alive with fright that at any moment, his hand might find hers.

It seemed to take forever, but eventually, they’d dug out almost to the bottom, the left side of the cab, encountering no bodies. Cole’s heart pounded as he stepped back, his mind racing, struggling to keep up with the terror that slowly crept in. With every step, he felt the weight of time ticking away.

He paused to shout her name. “Ailsa!” He roared.

Others called out as well, their voices echoing across the empty expanse.

Then, near the edge of the debris field, one of the men held up a shoe—a woman’s shoe, its delicate leather darkened by the damp.

Cole clambered through the snow, his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn’t know the name of the man who held the shoe that he, Tavis, Tank, and others had come to investigate.

Tavis couldn’t say whether or not it belonged to Ailsa, or even Anwen.

The man holding the shoe pointed to how close he was to the end of the avalanched snow pile. “Sure and someone might have escaped,” he suggested.

The discovery renewed their efforts, and minutes later, a trail was found—a faint series of drag marks leading away from the wreckage. Drops of blood dotted the snow, sparse but unmistakable.

“This way,” Rory said, already moving forward.

A large group followed the trail, eventually stepping onto solid ground, having only to walk through the snow that fell yesterday, making running easier. Ailsa and Anwen’s names were shouted again.

The path led into a dense stand of trees up ahead, toward which at least fifty men ran.

Then, as if answering the desperate calls, two bedraggled figures emerged from the trees ahead of them.

Ailsa and Anwen.

Ailsa!

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave, so powerful that he almost lost his footing, stumbling in his haste to reach her.

Ailsa moved stiffly, looking frozen and bedraggled, her once-vibrant cloak tattered and coated with a crust of ice. Her hair was a tangled mass, strands stuck to her face with frost, and her skin was pale—almost ghostly—against the white backdrop. Her eyes, wide with shock and tinged with exhaustion, locked onto Cole’s with a frantic, desperate recognition.

His heart pounded and his hands shook as he pulled her into his arms. He cupped her cold cheeks, checking for any signs of injury, his eyes searching hers for any trace of harm.

“Ailsa,” he breathed, his voice low with relief. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her eyes wide with shock but clear. Her legs buckled just as he wrapped his arms around her.

He kissed her—without thought, without hesitation. It was a kiss of relief, of yearning, of everything he felt for her, what his fright had shown him. The world seemed to pause, the wind stopped, voices faded beyond his awareness. Everything that mattered was right here, in this moment, with her in his arms.

“Thank God,” he said over and over, kissing her brow and her cheeks, her lips and hands.

“Cole!”

The roar of his name startled Cole, his body tensing instinctively as his eyes found the source of the fury.

Tavis stood rigid, glaring, beside the mounted MacLaes—who Cole had forgotten all about, and who had not even bothered to dismount and aid in the search.

But Tavis’s furious displeasure was then explained, as the MacLae men stared at Cole, still holding a weakened Ailsa to his chest.

A swift scan of others close by—Tank, Dersey, another dozen Sinclair faces, men he knew by now—all showed varying expressions. Each face was a mask of shock, some grimacing as if they’d tasted something bitter, others more solemn, but all were marked by the silent knowledge of what Cole had just revealed— what he had just destroyed—with his actions, by kissing Ailsa in front of so many witnesses.

“Shit,” he hissed under his breath, hindsight coming as it did, too late.

"Seize him," Tavis growled, red-faced with rage, his command slicing through the cold air like a blade.