Chapter Sixteen

Time was cruel, stretching endlessly in the damp, airless dungeon. The only markers were the faint shifts in the shadows cast by the single sputtering torch and the occasional creak of the iron-bound door as guards came and went. Cole had tried to keep track of the changes in their keepers, but it didn’t really matter. Most of them avoided speaking to him anyway, brushing off his questions with gruff indifference. Only Rory and Somerled, and less generously Davey, when their turns came, offered scraps of news.

Tank was amused by their short shifts, anywhere from two to four hours, but with no regularity that they could figure out a pattern.

“Must have a pretty good union here,” he’d remarked.

In the beginning, when they’d first been thrown in here, Tank had talked quite a bit, trying to keep up their spirits. Cole wasn’t sure if he should be worried now, as the hours dragged on, that Tank had become increasingly silent. Cole felt terrible for Tank—he hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no reason for Tavis to have imprisoned him as well. Apparently, the Sinclairs employed a mindset of guilt by association .

The stink of the chamber was unbearable. The pot they’d been given for their needs was foul and humiliating, sitting in the corner, a nasty reminder of their indignity. Cole hated it. Hated that they were fed—better than he expected, to be fair—but treated like animals all the same, with metal plates being slid under the gate of the iron cage.

He paced when Tank didn’t, muttering curses under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching.

He thought the Sinclairs must not keep many prisoners, as there was only this one cell, which he and Tank shared. The generous size of it might suggest that many people could be jammed in here, Cole figured fifteen to twenty if the laird didn’t care too much about a person’s comfort. He might guess that was of little concern since there were chains on the wall, dangling to the ground, the end of them outfitted with thick iron cuffs just large enough for a man’s wrist. He supposed he should be thankful that wasn’t their circumstance, chained to the wall.

It was Somerled, many hours after they’d first been thrown in here, who finally brought the first news Cole had been clamoring for.

Ailsa was all right.

“The lass was carried straight away to her chamber when we returned,” he’d whispered through the bars, “half the women in the household fussing over her. She’s warm, safe. Sleeping off whatever draught they gave her.”

Cole relaxed slightly, though he still kept his fingers curled tightly around the bars. “Good,” he murmured, though his tension didn’t fully ease. “And Anwen?” He thought to ask.

“She’s fine too. They’ve been seen to, both of them. Luck, if you ask me, that they went into the woods when they did.” He’d paused, awkwardly adding the reason they’d done that. “Seeing to personal business—what timing, eh? The maid said they felt it—the snow crumbling down the mountainside—heard a roar, and sadly, came to the tree line just in time to see the men being buried. Anwen said they were frozen, shocked. Then when it was done, Peile was the only one they saw. His hand was sticking out of the snow. They dug feverishly, she said—and I dinna ever see that maid do anything feverishly—and pulled him out. He wailed all the way, she said, as they dragged him into the trees—well, ye saw his leg, I’d be wailing, too.”

The anger that had been constant since he’d been seized by the Sinclair soldiers gave way to a surge of relief. He let out a long breath, pressing his palms into his eyes. “Good,” he muttered, the word heavy with exhaustion.

But even the knowledge that she was safe didn’t erase the bitterness. It wasn’t just the injustice of it—it was the sheer absurdity. Yeah, he’d overstepped boundaries, he was sure—but damn, you didn’t put a guy in jail for kissing a woman! He had plenty of time to reflect on that, by the way, why he’d kissed her. He hadn’t planned it, obviously. Hadn’t thought to himself if we ever do find her I’m going to take her in my arms and kiss her. He’d just reacted, his relief—his joy!—at the moment possibly being the most overwhelming emotion he’d ever known. He hadn’t thought, he’d just acted. And touching her, needing to feel her, to know that she was alive, had been his unconscious priority. The kissing part, well, that was just a furtherance of his joy, seemed natural at the time, in that moment.

Tavis didn’t see it that way, obviously.

He got that part, too, how it must have looked to the MacLaes standing, open-mouthed, watching. It didn’t look good, not for the woman who was expected to wed Alastair MacLae to be kissing another man.

Still, it didn’t mean he needed to be locked up. Certainly, Tank shouldn’t be made to pay for Cole’s crimes.

“Will he hang us, you think?” Tanks’ voice broke into Cole’s thoughts. “He’d hang us, right? Or...what? Do they have medieval firing squads, stand us in front of those archers? The ones we trained with?”

Willing to be distracted, Cole suggested, “Maybe they’ll pit you against me in an arena, a fight to the death—knowing damn well you’d be the likely winner.”

“Hey, don’t count yourself out so easily,” Tank argued. Cole could plainly hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re a scrappy little guy.”

Cole chuckled despite himself. “That’ll take me far in the 14 th century.”

Quiet for a moment, until Tank spoke again. “Disembowelment?”

“I think that’s used with something else,” Cole mused. “Like drawing and quartering.”

“That sounds like a good time,” Tank laughed.

“Flaying,” Cole offered as another possibility.

Tank grimaced. “I’ll take the hand-to-hand combat with you—sorry, dude.”

Another minute of two of quiet while Tank stood at the gate, leaning against the bars, and Cole sat with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up, arms laid over them.

“You think he’ll kill us?” Tank asked again. “Seriously.”

Cole would like to think that Ailsa—if she had any sway at all with her brother—wouldn’t let it come to that. But frankly, he just had no idea. He let out a bitter laugh. “If he does, I’ll haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.”

Tank cracked a faint smile at that, but the moment passed quickly, the silence resuming its oppressive weight. The hours stretched on, with the only upside being that Ailsa was safe and well. That was enough.

Tank resumed his pacing, the scrape of his boots filling the silence once more.

Above them, the muffled sounds of the keep carried faintly through the stone—footsteps, voices, the distant clatter of metal. Life went on, even as they waited in the cold, damp stillness.

***

The tension in the air was almost suffocating as Ailsa faced her brother in his private chamber at Torr Cinnteag. The cold stone walls seemed to amplify the weight of their words, every syllable echoing like a hammer blow. Though her pulse raced, she forced herself to stand tall, her composure fragile, but not broken yet.

Tavis, the brother who had once been her steadfast protector, now sat behind a heavy oak table, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm that betrayed his barely restrained fury. His narrowed eyes pinned her where she stood, a scathing glare that made her feel like a trespasser in his domain.

Below them, three floors down in the keep’s frigid dungeons, Cole and Tank were imprisoned under Tavis’s orders. The laird had refused her an audience the previous day, and her attempt to visit the dungeon had been similarly denied. "Laird’s orders," Colin had said, shifting uncomfortably beside Davey as they stood guard at the door. The younger lad hadn’t met her eyes, wincing as he was compelled to rebuff her.

“Tavis, this is a gross overreaction,” she said calmly, trying to reason with him, somehow managing to refrain from wincing herself as her brother leveled her with a scathing glare. “I dinna ken why you’re making such a fuss about this,” she said, her voice tight with frustration. “Cole’s actions were naught but... he was worried for me, just as any decent man would be!”

Tavis’s eyes flashed with fury. “Dinna insult my intelligence,” he growled savagely. “I dinna see any other man—lads ye’ve ken all yer life— hurrying to ye! Kissing ye, for the love of St. Columba!”

Ailsa clenched her fists, but she fought to keep her voice steady. “It was a reaction. Tavis,” she insisted again. “He was frightened. He was frightened for me, but nae because of any attraction—but because aye, we had become friendly...but nae close.” The lie felt hollow even as she spoke it, and the flicker of doubt in Tavis’s eyes told her it hadn’t landed.

Tavis stared at her for a long moment, his jaw set. “Ye ken I’m an eejit, lass?” he finally asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Ye ken I dinna now see what goes on—beneath my bluidy nose!” He banged his fist on the table, rattling an ink pot and shivering papers. “The MacLae will have every right to back out! He willna wed ye! Nae with yer virtue in question. He dinna want spoilt guids.”

Ailsa bristled at the vile insinuation, the heat of indignation rushing to her cheeks. “I am nae despoiled,” she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. “And dinna speak to me of virtue in the same breath as ye mention Alastair MacLae’s name. ?Tis nae secret what he is. How he hounds his servants, the mistresses he keeps—under the same roof as his sisters and nieces! Aye, I’ve heard it all. Everyone has. The man is depraved, Tavis, a spineless predator!” Her fists clenched, and her chest heaved as her words poured out, raw and unrestrained. “I said naught when ye sought to bind me to him for the rest of my days. Even as I kent the distasteful nature of the man, his repulsive ways, I made nae objection. I kent what was expected of me! But ye ken this—ye broke my heart, brother, sacrificing me to that man without so much as a second thought.”

Tavis’s face darkened, his eyes blazing. “Dinna ye question my—”

Ailsa stepped forward and banged her own small fist on the table, stunning her brother into silence. “I will question it!” she cried, her voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “How could ye? How could ye have done what ye did to Orla? How could ye spare so little consideration for your own flesh and bluid?” Her voice rose to a crescendo, shaking the very rafters. “And God’s bones, Tavis, dinna say the word peace to me even one more time!”

Tavis opened his mouth, but Ailsa pressed on, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions. “Damn ye, Tavis, for your cold-hearted ignorance, for sacrificing your own sisters with so little care! Ye should have destroyed the MacLaes years ago, should never have suffered their ignorant tyranny and petty cruelty, their devious plots and their constant pecking at Torr Cinnteag and any Sinclair! Ye should have done that, Tavis.” Her breath came in ragged gulps, her chest rising and falling as the torrent of her emotions finally began to ebb. “Have ye forgotten, Tavis, what they’ve done to us? How they snatched our wee brother—our bonny Callum—when he was just a bairn? How we wept, how mam near lost her mind until he was returned—sick and frightened—only after Da paid them half the fortune of Torr Cinnteag? Did ye forget the creach of a decade past, when they burned every home in the village, leaving naught but ash and two charred ruins? Did that slip yer mind, as well?” Her breath hitched, but her words poured out, unstoppable. “And Uncle James—stabbed in the back like a common dog. Oh aye, highwaymen ye say, but everyone kent it was the MacLaes. They never paid for it, were never made to answer.” Her voice dropped, raw with emotion. “And do ye forget the desecration? The MacLaes crept onto Sinclair land, to our ancestors’ resting place, and shattered the stones of men and women who’ve been dead for centuries. Desecrated our family’s bones, Tavis! And yet, here ye stand, pretending nae any of it ever happened, asking me to bind myself to the MacLaes with so much Sinclair bluid on their hands—however do ye sit there with a clear conscience and suggest that I have ruined the peace?”

Having spent her fury, she straightened her back and lifted her chin, her icy gaze boring into Tavis’s stunned face. Never in her life had she unleashed such an unladylike, fiery tirade. And far from feeling ashamed, she was glad—no, relieved —to have finally unburdened herself. Swallowing thickly, she spoke again, her tone frosty and resolute.

“Aye,” she said, her voice edged with steel. “I’ll keep to your plan, Tavis. Your indolent, foul wish to secure peace in the most expedient manner—even by way of this abomination of a marriage. I’ll wed the predatory bastard.” Her words hit like hammer blows. “But nae unless and until ye release Cole Carter and Tank Morrison.” She stepped back, her hands steady now despite the rawness in her heart. “And nae if you mean to hold Cole’s actions against him in any way, shape, or form. If the man is more forgiving than I and decides to remain at Torr Cinnteag after what you’ve done, I’ll nae stand for him to be punished further. Mayhap ye should try it, brother—forgiveness rather than punishment,” she suggested smartly.

“That is nae how a laird governs—”

“Then you’re doing it wrong, brother,” she suggested somberly.

She drew a slow, shuddering breath, her defiance stark against the ensuing, oppressive silence of the room.

Tavis hadn’t moved, save to clench his fist even more rigidly upon the table, since she’d begun speaking.

He didn’t move now. Save for a muscle twitching in his cheek, pulsing with the heat of his wrath, he made no move, didn’t even blink.

A cold shiver ran up Ailsa’s spine.

“Begone from my sight,” Tavis said, his whisper more dangerous than any roar, “ere I do something I will later regret.”

After a small gasp, Ailsa left the chamber, pulling the door closed sharply behind her. She paused, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to steady her breath. The weight of the confrontation lingered, making her knees weak.

It was only when she caught the faintest shuffling in her peripheral vision that she realized she wasn’t alone. Anwen was there, her presence as cautious as a shadow, tiptoeing forward as if afraid to break the tenuous quiet—or alert Tavis to her presence. Ailsa slowly turned her head, her watery eyes meeting the maid’s.

They hadn’t been the same, not as they once were. Not since Orla’s house. There had been flickers of warmth, however, hesitant and fragile, in the aftermath of the avalanche, and all those harrowing hours spent together. Something like a tentative understanding—or ceasefire— had thawed them toward each other.

But now, there was no censure or judgment in Anwen’s eyes, no priggishness in her demeanor. Her face was soft with compassion, her brow pinched as though she might cry for the pain she’d overheard. Quietly, Anwen slipped her arm around Ailsa’s shoulders, her gesture hesitant but full of genuine care.

“Come, lass,” she said gently, her voice low and soothing. “Still weak ye are, and that dinna help. Rest ye need, and let’s see to it.”

The simple kindness nearly undid Ailsa. Her chin trembled, and though she wanted to brush the offer aside, to steel herself with the same stubbornness that had carried her this far, she couldn’t. The weight of it all, her own helplessness, pressed too heavily on her.

She let herself lean into Anwen’s support, just for a moment. “I don’t need rest,” she said weakly, her voice lacking the conviction to make the lie believable. “I need—” She stopped herself, uncertain what to say.

“I ken what ye need,” Anwen replied softly, leading her down the corridor with gentle insistence. “Sure and we’ll figure it out, how to help the Spaniards. But that willna come tonight. Come now—rest your bones, and let your mind settle. The battle will wait for the morn.”

***

The next morning, unable to stand the weight of guilt any longer, scarcely able to entertain a thought that was not about Cole locked up in Torr Cinnteag’s dungeon, Ailsa went in search of Father Gilbert.

Cole was in the dungeon because he’d kissed her.

The memory of it flared to life in her mind, as vivid now as it had been in the moment. The warmth of his hands at her cheeks, the brush of his lips against hers, and the unrestrained relief in his eyes—it all surged back with a force that made her stop in her tracks, pressing a hand to her chest. That kiss hadn’t been some calculated move, some selfish whim. Cole had simply been overcome with relief that she was alive and well—it was clear as day to her.

Thus, beneath the guilt, another feeling stirred. What did his joy at her safety say about his feelings for her? She wanted to believe it meant something, that it reflected more than just relief or gratitude. Could it mean he cared for her, truly cared for her? The possibility was... exhilarating.

Still, what good was hope in the face of her reality? She was expected to marry another, had only yesterday verified her pledge of duty to Tavis. To entertain even the smallest flicker of joy at the idea that Cole might feel something for her was folly. Worse, it was cruel—to herself and to him. No amount of hope could change what was required of her.

But hope was stubborn, and it nestled itself in the quiet corners of her heart despite everything. She tried to bury it, to smother it beneath the weight of her guilt, but it refused to die. And so, guilt and hope warred within her, each one sharpening her urgency to act. She owed Cole more than rueful longing. She owed him his freedom, his life.

Squaring her shoulders, Ailsa quickened her pace toward the chapel. Whatever it took, she would convince Father Gilbert to help. She couldn’t change what had happened, nor could she alter the path she was bound to walk, but she would not let Cole suffer for merely expressing joy.

Ailsa pushed open the chapel door where the early morning light cast a pale glow through the high windows, passed through to the offices in the back. Inside, Father Gilbert sat at his desk, engrossed in his daily readings. He glanced up at her entrance, his expression softening briefly before tightening with concern.

“Ailsa,” he greeted warmly but then frowned. “Lass, you should be abed, recovering still from—"”

“I need ye to talk some sense into Tavis,” she blurted out. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to continue. “He’s locked Cole in the dungeon, Father—and Tank as well. It’s absurd. It’s criminal what he’s doing—Cole did nothing wrong.”

The priest’s wince gave her pause.

“Did he not, upon finding you safe from the tragedy, kiss you?”

Some of the things that had come to her after she’d met with Tavis—things she’d wished she said—came to her now. “Father, Cole believed me lost to the avalanche, perhaps even dead. His kiss was nae born of any improper intent but of relief so overwhelming it overtook him in the moment. Surely, ye understand how emotions can spill over in such dire circumstances.”

Father Gilbert frowned, setting his book aside. “Lass, I am not in any position to—”

“It was a fleeting gesture, Father,” she argued further, “nae some calculated or licentious act. If Cole had realized how it might be perceived, I’m certain he would have restrained himself.”

The priest rose to his feet, his face a mixture of shock and unease. “And you believe I can and should speak with your brother?”

“Ye must,” Ailsa urged, her voice trembling but resolute. “Cole dinna deserve this, Father. He risked his life for me. Whatever ye may think of him, he’s a good man.”

Father Gilbert hesitated, his gaze searching hers. “And what of his claims? This... other time he speaks of?”

“Whether it’s true or nae dinna matter, nae in this moment,” Ailsa replied, stepping closer. “He’s nae threat. You ken him—ye must see that.”

The priest sighed, rubbing his temples. “Tavis is not easily swayed, especially when it comes to the importance and necessity of this contract with the MacLaes.”

She refused to go down that path with the priest—he certainly didn’t deserve her censure, her thoughts on Tavis’s poor handling of the feud with the MacLaes. “But if anyone can speak sense to him, it’s ye. Please, Father. I’m asking ye to help Cole—if nae for him or nae for me, then simply because ye ken it’s right. What Tavis is doing—God only kens what he plans to do!—is wrong.”

Before Father Gilbert could respond, heavy footsteps echoed outside the doorway. Ailsa turned sharply as Tavis entered, his broad frame blocking the light.

“Hmph,” Tavis grumbled, his tone cold as his gaze settled on her. “Here ye are.”

Ailsa stiffened, refusing to meet his eyes. “I came to speak with Father Gilbert.”

“Och, I dinna suppose I need to inquire about the content of yer discussion,” he snarled, his voice laced with accusation. “It seems ye are nae all that’s been ruined by Cole Carter.”

Ailsa fisted her hands. “I am nae ruined!”

“What do you mean?” Father Gilbert interjected, the only calm one in the chamber.

Tavis pulled a folded missive from his belt, tossing it onto the priest’s desk. “A message from the MacLaes. They’ve declined to proceed with the betrothal. Ruined or nae, sister,” he said darkly, “ye are perceived as such.”

Ailsa’s breath caught, and a flush crept up her neck. “That’s nae—”

“Enough,” Tavis snapped, silencing her. “What’s done is done.”

Father Gilbert picked up the letter, scanning its contents with a frown. After a long moment, he set it down and met Tavis’s glare with steady resolve. “This is unfortunate, but it is... not insurmountable.”

“How is it nae?” Tavis demanded angrily. “Nae marriage, nae peace! And now, her reputation is in tatters. Nae man will take her now.”

“Perhaps,” the priest conceded, his tone thoughtful. “But it also presents an opportunity.”

Ailsa and Tavis both turned to him, Ailsa’s expression confused while Tavis only scowled more grimly.

“Speak plainly, man!” He commanded.

Father Gilbert clasped his hands, addressing them both. “Yes, it might be true, that Ailsa may find it difficult to secure another match, given the rumors and conjecture that will surely follow... the lad’s demonstration near the mountain. But there he is, a man who has already proven his regard for her—and his commitment to her well-being.”

Tavis’s eyes narrowed. “Ye canna be serious.”

“I am,” the priest said calmly. “Untimely, ill-advised kiss aside, I believe Cole Carter is an honorable man—one you, yourself, laird, spoke in positive terms about only a few days before your sister’s return,” Father Gilbert reminded the laird, lifting a knowing brow.

Tavis growled, “I said he finally showed some improvement with the blade—something we kent we’d never see.”

“No,” Father Gilbert replied, shaking his head, “"you said, and I quote, ‘He’s a man who keeps to his duties, even when they appear to be fruitless.’ Aye, laird, you recognized that his persistence and willingness to learn are marks of a man of some character."

Ailsa’s mouth had fallen open with Father Gilbert’s suggestion and still, moments later, her mind was reeling. “Ye want me to marry Cole?” Her heart stumbled over itself, caught somewhere between shock and a startling flutter of excitement. Marry Cole? Of all the things she’d expected as a result of her efforts to free Cole, that suggestion was nowhere among them. The shock of it thrilled her in a way she wasn’t entirely prepared to admit, but the thrill was followed swiftly by worry. What would Cole think? Would he agree solely to be released from the dungeon and spared whatever Tavis’s punishment would be? She’d never once worried about what Alastair MacLae thought of wedding her, if he would abhor his circumstance, same as she, forced to wed to promote peace, but Cole... she wasn’t sure she could stomach the idea that Cole might not want to wed her, mayhap not even to save himself. And yet, the idea of it, bound to him for life, standing beside him, sharing the weight of her world with someone so steadfast, was not at all unappealing to Ailsa.

“It dinna solve our problem with the MacLaes, Father,” Tavis declared in a low growl.

“There are ways to mend relations beyond the union of a marriage,” the priest offered sagely. “Surely, a laird as wise as yourself can see that compromise need not mean surrender, and that strength comes not only from force but from unity within your own walls. Consider it well, laird.” When neither Tavis nor Ailsa had a ready response available, Father Gilbert continued, “You have two problems, laird—the MacLaes and now Ailsa’s reputation and future prospects. With the MacLaes bowing out, these are now separate issues. One can be addressed simply by wedding Ailsa to the lad.” He tilted his head and offered a thin smile. “Cole Carter may not bring a banner or a title, but his devotion—and his resilience—are gifts no contract can guarantee.”

Tavis looked equally stunned but far angrier. “Ye propose I hand my sister over to the very man who’s caused this mess?”

“Neither of them caused this,” Father Gilbert countered emphatically, his voice firm. “The embrace was innocent—a moment of relief after great peril. Surely you see that. You risk further scandal—and greater harm to Ailsa’s future—if this is not handled smartly and, dare I say, speedily.” The priest’s gaze softened as he turned to her. “You may not have chosen this path, my child, but perhaps it is God’s will...after all.”

Ailsa swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She assumed Father Gilbert was trying to impress upon her some meaning in reference to their earlier discussion about Cole, and the possibility of him having traveled through time. She glanced at Tavis, but he refused to meet her eyes.

Instead, he addressed the priest with a scowl. “?Tis madness.”

“Is it?” Father Gilbert asked. “Or is it the best solution for all involved?”

Silence fell, the weight of the proposed idea settling over them. Ailsa’s mind raced with questions and doubts, trying to comprehend the magnitude of her relief that she wouldn’t be compelled to marry Alastair MacLae, and of greater consequence, the wild and stunning proposal that she wed Cole Carter instead.

But only if Tavis allowed it.

Ailsa looked again at her brother, saw that he wore a pained expression as he considered the idea, his scowl dark and his lips curved downward. He turned a ferocious glare onto her, wordlessly pinning her with what looked to be an accusation, either for her part in the collapse of betrothal talks with the MacLaes or for having to now consider this, marriage to a man he might yet consider a stranger.

She held her breath.

Tavis turned to the priest once more. “See it done.”

Ailsa’s breath burst from her in a small whoosh of disbelief. She hadn’t really believed Tavis would accept the idea.

“Bring him to me—”

“No,” she argued suddenly, a bit frantically. More calmly, she continued. “No, Tavis. Let me be the one to present the...option to him.” She needed to see his reaction, needed to know if he would wed her as she would him, with a quiet, hopeful thrill, or if he would do so only to escape his imprisonment. And if he refused, she needed to hear it from him. Clearing her throat, she said, “I need to know what his fate will be if he rejects the...proposal, as that option should be known and available to him.”

“I’ve made nae decision yet about his fate,” Tavis replied. He shifted a bit on his feet. “However, I dinna ken I was set to hang him,” he admitted.

“Likely you were considering banishment as a wiser course,” Father Gilbert said, quietly asserting his suggestion.

“Hm,” was all Tavis said.

“I will go to him,” Ailsa declared. “It should come from me.”

***

Somewhere beyond his view, the door to the cellar groaned as it was opened, as it did every few hours when either guards came or prisoner food arrived. Cole froze as the sound of a soft, feminine voice could be heard exchanging words with whoever was currently on shift as guard.

Ailsa.

He was on his feet in an instant, a flood of relief and something sharper—joy—surging through him.

A moment later, the flicker of torchlight illuminated a familiar silhouette walking toward the cell.

“Ailsa,” he breathed, equally as happy to see her up and about as he was sure this was a good sign regarding his fate and Tank’s.

She approached carefully, the ground beneath her feet uneven earth with puddles of dampness. Briefly, she put her fingers beneath her nose as if to ward off the onslaught of unpleasant odors. Her soft features were lit in golden light, her presence banishing every shadow.

God help him, but he knew at the first sight of her that he’d been wrong. It wasn’t just relief at seeing her safe. It was something far deeper. If she’d perished in that avalanche...well, he didn’t want to finish the thought. Though he didn’t quite understand the depth of it or even the why of it, he knew that he wouldn’t have survived losing her.

But her expression as she neared gave him pause. Her smile was forced, tight. She might be happy to see him, but she wasn’t bringing good news, he guessed.

Directly in front of him, she raised one small hand and curled her fingers around the bars between them. There was an unmistakable tension in her posture and Cole’s jaw clenched.

“I cannot begin to express to ye,” she began, her gaze on his neck, not meeting his eyes, “and ye, Tank,” she added as he’d come to stand beside Cole, “how deeply sorry I am for my brother’s treatment of ye.”

“Shit,” Tank responded, “but you’re here to tell us there’s nothing you can do about it.”

She shook her head immediately, but it was a wobbly motion. “There is something...a resolution has been worked out.”

It was everything she wasn’t saying—or couldn’t bring herself to announce directly—that worried Cole. “But...?” he prompted, tightening his own hands around the bars.

Finally, Ailsa lifted her eyes to his. He wasn’t sure exactly what he saw but he decided she was trying to appear braver and more optimistic than she felt. She cleared her throat. “Mayhap a...kiss in your time is less...damaging. Here, however, well...it is nae. A missive arrived today—Alastair MacLae has decided nae to wed me.”

“Having met the guy, I feel like that should be cause for celebration,” Cole said, “but I’m guessing that’s not the case.”

“Tavis desperately wanted the peace,” she reminded him quietly.

“And now we’re to pay for it?” Tank speculated.

Ailsa kept her gaze on Cole. “Mayhap nae. Tavis has agreed to release ye. Tank as well.”

Hope conflicted with caution inside him. There was a catch, he presumed, based on her hesitant demeanor.

“To tamp down any...scandal that will undoubtedly attach itself to me,” she continued, lowering her gaze again, her lashes sweeping down over her cheeks, “and ultimately...inhibit any possibility of a respectable match, Tavis has decided that we—ye and I—should wed.”

The words staggered him.

Marry her! His mind spun wildly, bombarded by the possibilities. Ailsa as his wife. Legally, undeniably his. The thought sent a rush of exhilaration through him, though it came as a vivid, yet complicated hope. To hold her, kiss her, make love to her without hesitation or fear. Her laughter, her fierce spirit, her everything—belonging to him. He realized in an instant he didn’t dislike the idea. Not at all.

And yet... his gut twisted.

“Ailsa,” he began, forcing the words through the chaos in his mind, “I... can’t. I don’t belong here. In this time.”

Her brows drew together, confusion and hurt blooming in her expression.

“I might be pulled back at any moment,” he continued. “I don’t know how this works. What happens if I marry you and then...disappear?”

Tank groaned at his side. “Dude, you’re overthinkin’ it. Say yes and worry about the rest later.”

If only if were that easy!

But then, what choice did he have? It wasn’t just about him but about Tank as well. Apparently, he’d endangered not only his own life, but Tank’s, with his heartfelt but ill-advised reaction to finding Ailsa alive two days ago.

Into the awkward silence, Ailsa announced in a stilted voice, “Ye should ken that Tavis was nae set to...execute ye. Father Gilbert had impressed upon the laird that banishment from Torr Cinnteag was a more appropriate...punishment. Thus, I presume banishment would be yer fate if ye choose nae to wed.”

Tank scoffed at this. “Send us out into the wilds of the Highlands? In the middle of winter? That’s not a death sentence?”

Neither Cole nor Ailsa responded to this. For a long moment, silence fell between him and Ailsa. She didn’t press him further, but her eyes stayed locked on his, filled with sorrow, determination—and maybe a cautious, indistinct hope?

Finally, Cole exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Ailsa, I can’t... promise you anything. Not anything lasting—I just don’t know what might happen.”

Her chin lifted, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I understand,” she said, though her tone betrayed her pain. She gave him a small, brave smile, but the hurt lingered in her eyes. Still, she seemed resolved, willing even, to bind herself to him in order to save him, and that made his chest ache.

“But yeah,” he said, “I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”