Chapter Eighteen

Cole had officially moved into the keep. It felt strange to take up space in what still felt like Ailsa’s world.

The chamber they now shared was modestly sized, yet warm and inviting, tucked at the far end of the corridor on the same floor as Tavis’s quarters. Thick stone walls framed the space, their surfaces softened and warmed by colorful tapestries depicting hunting scenes, heraldic symbols, and one long and thin one with blooming vines. A single, narrow window let in faint light during the day but at night was shuttered against the chill, with a fur-lined curtain drawn to keep drafts at bay.

The centerpiece of the room was the large wooden bed with a tall canopy draped in rich, if slightly worn, fabrics dyed a deep crimson. The mattress, stuffed with straw and feathers—about half a foot taller than what Cole had been sleeping on for the past few weeks—was covered with a heavy woolen blanket and furs that promised warmth during the cold Highland nights. At the foot of the bed sat a sturdy trunk—kist, Ailsa called it—its dark wood carved with intricate knotwork. It was here that Cole had stowed his few belongings, and where he kept the clothes he’d arrived in.

A small table and two chairs occupied one corner near the hearth, where a fire burned at almost all hours of the day, its glow casting flickering shadows across the room. The mantel above the hearth bore a few personal touches: a brass candlestick, a neatly folded stack of small cloths, and an unassuming earthenware pitcher. Ailsa’s comb and a few small porcelain jars rested atop a second chest of drawers, clearly her domain, while an iron wall hook nearby held her woolen shawl and a spare cloak.

Against the opposite wall, a modest washstand with a basin and pitcher provided for their daily needs. A wooden peg rack next to the door offered a place for Cole’s cloak and his borrowed sword, which looked slightly out of place hanging among Ailsa’s more delicate belongings. Despite the practical arrangement, the space felt lived-in, marked by the subtle contrast between her touches of refinement and the hints of his presence now woven into it.

The sword, by the way, had been given to him by Dersey. There’d been no ceremony to the gesture; instead, Dersey had called out Cole’s name shortly after arriving on the training field two mornings after Cole had wed Ailsa, grumbling under his breath as he tossed the sword at him with a casual, almost careless flick of his wrist. It sailed awkwardly across the few feet between them, hilt-first, leaving Cole no time to think. Reacting on instinct, he’d managed to catch it—barely.

Dersey, unimpressed, had grunted, “Laird dinna want to be embarrassed by ye, having nae weapon. What kind of man is that, a weaponless one, I dinna ken.”

Moments later, Tank had received a sword in much the same way, its handle as plain and unremarkable as Cole’s, solid but bearing none of the personalization that might mark it as a warrior’s own.

Anyway, for Cole, the interior of the castle—anywhere outside the hall—was still a strange and unfamiliar world, but in their bedroom, the space he shared privately with Ailsa, it began to feel a little like home.

He’d returned to their chamber last night to an unexpectedly exquisite sight: his new wife submerged in a wooden tub placed before the fire, her auburn hair damp and loose around her shoulders. Anwen stood at her side, a rough cloth in hand, turned to see who came though Ailsa had not. At first, he’d felt like an intruder, halting at the door with an apology on his lips for not having knocked, ready to retreat. But Ailsa’s calm, unflustered invitation—“Stay”—stopped him mid-turn, and he’d entered the room. Within a minute, while he’d shed his cloak and boots, having caught glimpses of Ailsa’s bare, dampened shoulder, just the hint of the curve of her breast, and marveling at the way the firelight worshipped her face and her flesh, he’d huskily dismissed Anwen, and had happily stepped in to help Ailsa finish her bath.

What shyness she’d exhibited on their wedding night had slowly given way to a boldness that both surprised and captivated him. Ailsa, it seemed, was learning to trust him in ways that went beyond words. Her initial hesitancy had melted into a quiet confidence, her tentative touches becoming increasingly assured, her laughter freer, her kisses more daring. With each passing night, her passion revealed itself not only in her touch but in the way she looked at him. Cole knew for certain that no man had ever touched her as he had, but she looked at him at times, he was convinced, like he was the only man who had ever mattered. He found himself utterly enchanted by her.

The days quickly settled into a new routine.

Cole made every effort to contribute to both his marriage and to Torr Cinnteag. He continued his training under Tavis and Dersey's scrutiny, and though the laird remained as gruff as ever, there were moments—a brief nod here, a begrudging word of approval there—that told Cole he was making progress. When Tavis remarked that Cole should sit in on his meeting with the castle’s steward—“Ye need to ken what it takes, what is needed, to manage a demesne of this size”—Cole had sat with Tavis and the steward, a gray-haired man named Murchadh, listening to the steward’s suggestions for rationing the wheat supply for what was already seeming to be a long and rough winter. He learned that the Sinclairs sometimes traded cured fish and furs for grain with neighboring clans, though some recent skirmishes —and the loss of the MacLaes’ good will— had complicated such arrangements.

Murchadh also spoke at length about the livestock—how the cattle would need additional fodder if the snow kept coming and the fields were buried, and how the hens' dwindling egg production might necessitate the culling of older birds. They discussed the state of the castle’s stores of salted meat, the dwindling supply of candles and lamp oil, and even the need for mending torn woolens before the colder months settled in.

At first Cole had remained silent, only listening, but with some expectation that he was supposed to learn, he began to ask questions, needing some words, phrases, and processes defined and explained to him.

Murchadh also reminded Tavis that a neighboring clan’s annual tribute was overdue, and that a decision would need to be made about whether to send men to collect it or risk seeming weak in the face of the delay.

Tavis decided that he would confront the clan, announcing that Cole should accompany him.

That night, he’d had to confess to Ailsa that he didn’t understand the tribute, what it was or why it was owed to them, and that he had no idea what, if anything, might be expected of him when he rode with Tavis to this neighboring clan.

Naked in his arms after he’d made love to her, she’d traced patterns over his chest and explained as much as she could to him.

“The Henshaws were granted nearly a thousand acres of fertile soil generations ago,” Ailsa explained. “Originally, it was part of a planned marriage alliance between our families, but the Henshaw groom was killed before the wedding could take place. By that point, they’d already begun working the land. Out of respect for their loss, it was gifted to them as tribute to their fallen son, with the agreement that after five years, they would begin paying a lease. Since the land is much closer to their keep, more accessible to them than us, it wasn’t much of a loss to Torr Cinnteag.”

“But why does Tavis want me to go with him? Is this some kind of test?” Unexpectedly, but in truth, Cole thought he might actually be spending more time in Tavis’s company than he did Ailsa’s of late. This didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. Honestly, he’d rather prove himself to the laird now, quickly, showing that he wasn’t a threat, rather than be walking around on eggshells for any length of time.

“It might be,” she allowed with a tilt of her head. “Tavis needs to be assured nae only of yer loyalty but of yer usefulness—yer capabilities.” A faint grin curved her lips as she added, “Or maybe he intends to bring someone intimidating along for effect. The Henshaws have grown lax in recent years, delaying their tribute longer and longer. Perhaps he means to remind them of their obligations. Ye are rather fierce looking when ye are cross.”

As the days passed, he and Ailsa slowly learned more and more about each other. They shared stories from their pasts—childhood misadventures, cherished moments, and particularly fond memories of their mothers specifically. Ailsa’s curiosity about his world in the future led to many late-night conversations, though he sometimes struggled to explain certain inventions, abstract concepts, and the complexities of modern life.

From nearly the beginning, though, there was an undeniable sense of ease between them, a comfort that seemed to transcend the stark differences in their worlds. It didn’t surprise him, not really. He’d been drawn to Ailsa from day one.

It felt natural, even as so much uncertainty loomed in the background. Neither of them spoke of what their marriage meant in the long term, but for now, they seemed content to take it day by day.

For the first few mornings after their wedding, Cole woke up to an unfamiliar weight draped against him. It was a sensation that startled him at first initially—the warmth of Ailsa beside him, her soft breath tickling his shoulder—but one that quickly became something he found himself looking forward to.

This morning, he took some time to simply stare at her while the faint light streaming through the shuttered window illuminated her sleeping face. Her braid had come loose in the night and stray strands curled against her cheek. Cole didn’t dare move at first, half out of fear of waking her and half because he wanted to savor the moment.

He liked to lay still, watching as she stirred, as her long lashes fluttered open.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice low and a little rough from sleep.

She blinked at him, a soft smile tugging at her lips even before she’d fully opened her eyes and lifted her gaze to him.

“Good morning,” she replied, her voice a gorgeous, groggy purr that sent a pleasant hum through his chest.

As she shifted to sit up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders, Cole reached for her hand, pulling her gently back down beside him. “Not yet,” he said, a playful note in his voice.

She laughed softly, her cheeks flushing, but didn’t resist. Their lips met in an unhurried kiss, one that quickly deepened, revealing a growing familiarity between them. The passion from their wedding night hadn’t faded—in fact, it simmered just below the surface, ready to ignite at the smallest spark, as it had each night since. Cole shifted, turning her onto her back as he deepened the kiss.

When they finally broke apart, Cole rested her forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers.

“We’ll be late to break our fast,” she murmured, though she made no move to leave.

“Let them wait,” Cole replied with a grin, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Anwen will come knocking,” his wife reminded him, since the maid arrived each morning to help Ailsa dress.

“I dropped the bolt in place last night,” Cole announced—a practice he’d begun after the first morning, when Anwen’s arrival had shocked the hell out of him. Apparently, he’d learned, he was expected not to feel awkward, to rise naked from the bed and go about his day as if there wasn’t a third person in the room, another one of those medieval things that would take some getting used to.

Ailsa grinned and moved her hands around his back, and down over his butt. “Ye have all the best ideas.”

***

“I was never interested in hunting for just this reason,” Tank whispered. “This shit is for the birds.”

Cole grunted softly in agreement. Crouched low behind a cluster of snow-dusted bushes, the cold had seeped into his bones hours ago, and his patience was wearing as thin as the layer of frost on the meadow they overlooked. He was having trouble sitting still for so long as well. He’d kept himself busy by thinking of a million things he’d rather be doing or should be doing.

Eventually, his mind had wandered to Ailsa.

He pictured her as she’d been this morning when they’d parted, the wondrous smile she’d given him when he’d said he’d see her later and he’d winked at her playfully, a suggestive gleam in his eye. Her cheeks had pinkened—God, he loved her blushes. There was something thrilling about coaxing them from her, knowing it was him who made her skin bloom with warmth.

A sharp, muted crack of a twig broke his reverie. One of the men in their party, stationed farther downwind, raised a cautious hand, signaling that the red deer were approaching.

Tank shifted beside him, brushing snow from his knees and squinting out into the clearing where the deer were expected to come. “I don’t even know why we’re here,” he grumbled. “Unless they’re hoping we stab the deer to death.”

Cole agreed with this as well. The deer hunting involved the bow and arrow, a skill in which neither he nor Tank had shown any proficiency yet.

Dersey had snorted a laugh the other day when Tank bugged him for more instruction, had said, “Calm down there, mate. One middling skill at a time.”

Cole proposed now, “Maybe if we aren’t so quiet, we won’t be allowed on these hunts in the future.”

“I like where you’re going with this,” Tank said.

But neither of them made a sound, knowing how far a single stag would go toward feeding Torr Cinnteag.

A moment later, Tank said, “I’m wondering if they’ll shoot me if do make noise and scare off dinner.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Cole answered, almost mechanically.

He didn’t really believe that. Though he still felt that he and Tank were looked upon as outsiders—odd and inept outsiders—they’d made great strides fitting in with the Sinclair men. In a way, it wasn’t so different from what he’d experienced as a firefighter or as a member of the Bandit’s team. Sure, the stakes here were life-and-death in a way his old life couldn’t quite match, but the camaraderie, the good-natured rivalry and ribbing, the way men built bonds by giving each other hell while sharing experiences and long hours together—that was the same.

Whether it was hauling hoses through smoke-filled buildings or taking hits on the field for your teammates, there was a mutual respect that grew from those shared experiences. The Sinclairs might wield swords instead of axes or lacrosse sticks, but the way they ribbed each other, the way they worked together when it mattered, that kind of thing was apparently timeless.

A few minutes later, when still not a single deer had yet to emerge into the clearing, Tank shifted again.

“I don’t know how you sit so still for so long,” he said, “but I guess you got something to keep yourself occupied. You were grinning a few minutes ago and I hadn’t said a word, so I guess you’re thinking about your new bride.”

“Might be,” was all Cole allowed, the grin returning, but mostly for how put-out Tank sounded.

“Yeah, I’d be dreaming of her, too, is she were mine. Christ, dude, can you believe it? You’re friggin married,” he whispered dramatically. “In the friggin’ fourteenth century.”

Funny, he didn’t think of it like that. To Cole, he was simply married to Ailsa. And yeah, though the married part was still a shock, the fact that it was Ailsa somehow made it all right. More than all right, actually, since there wasn’t one thing he didn’t like about it. Not one damn thing.

“Pretty soon there’ll be little Coles and tiny Ailsas running all over Torr Cinnteag,” Tank went on, his tone light. “Bugging Uncle Tank for piggyback rides,” he imagined. “Maybe I’ll be able by then to teach them how to ride horses and shoot arrows.”

Tank’s words hit Cole hard, knocking the proverbial wind out of him.

“What?” Tank asked, his grin fading as he noticed Cole’s reaction.

Cole shook his head but said nothing, his mind suddenly racing.

Children. Ailsa pregnant.

The thought should have filled him with joy—and a part of him did feel a sudden flash of that—but it also brought with it a tidal wave of dread.

What if she did get pregnant? What if they had a child, and then he... disappeared? Zapped back through time just as suddenly and inexplicably as he’d been brought here? How could he live with himself knowing he might abandon her, leave her to raise their child alone? Worse still, how could he live with not being there to see their child grow up, to guide them, to hold them? The idea clawed at him, tightening his chest.

Cole’s mind flicked back to his mother, to her words in her final days when cancer had stolen everything but her fierce love for him. I’m not afraid of dying , she had said, her voice thin and weak but steady. I’m afraid of not seeing you grow. I won’t get to see the man you’ll become, the life you’ll live. That’s the heartbreak of it.

At the time, he hadn’t truly understood. He’d been too young, too focused on the fear of losing her, being left alone with his indifferent father. Her words, in truth, had been little comfort to him. Only now, as the weight of the future and the possibility of fatherhood loomed over him, did he grasp the depth of his mother’s sorrow. Now, he understood her heartbreak with a clarity that knocked the breath from his lungs. He imagined holding a child of his own, feeling their tiny fingers curl around his, watching their first steps, their first words—and then imagined losing it all in an instant. The pain of it was stark, brutal, as if it were reality already.

“Cole?” Tank pressed, concern creeping into his tone.

Cole forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just a lot to think about.”

It wasn’t nothing, though.

Ahead, the faintest rustle stirred the air as a cluster of deer began to emerge cautiously from the tree line. Their sharp ears twitched at every sound, their noses testing the cold for scents of danger. The Sinclair men held their positions, the tension thickening in the air.

The hunt was on.

***

Cole found Father Gilbert inside the chapel, kneeling on the stone step before the altar, exactly where Cole had stood to be wed to Ailsa. The priest’s head was bowed in prayer, his hands clasped tightly, a picture of devotion and serenity. Cole lingered near the door, unwilling to disturb the moment. He shoved his hands into his pockets, having worn his jeans today as wash day was still another few days off and his breeches were—as Aunt Rosie would have said of clothes beyond dirty— walking .

For several long minutes, he waited, letting his gaze wander. His eyes were drawn to the tall, slim stained-glass window behind the altar, a cascade of vibrant reds, blues, and golds glowing faintly in the soft winter light. The image was of the Blessed Mother cradling the infant Jesus, her serene face tilted toward the child in her arms.

Cole stared at it, the simplicity of the scene striking something deep within him. He’d seen similar windows in churches as a boy, hundreds of them he was sure, back when his mother had taken him to Sunday Mass without fail. He’d barely paid attention back then, more interested in sneaking a piece of gum from her purse or counting the tiles on the ceiling.

Now, though, it hit differently. The tenderness in the mother’s expression, the trust in the child’s tiny grasp—it was no longer just an artistic depiction to him. It was a vision of everything he might lose, everything he might never get to experience.

After a few minutes, when Father Gilbert hadn’t moved, Cole walked quietly forward and sat in the first pew, the seat narrow, the wood cold. His attention returned to the stained glass and it dawned on him that the image depicted only mother and child. No father. He frowned, the familiar ache of disappointment resurfacing. His father had been a hard worker, a good provider, dedicated to his job as a firefighter, a hero to everyone else—but often a stranger to his own son. He was the disciplinarian, often gruff—rarely did he smile—and hardly ever did he spend time with Cole. They didn’t play catch, he hadn’t taught Cole how to ride a bike, he hadn’t gone to any of Cole’s games. After his mom passed, his father had withdrawn even further, had become even colder.

Cole remembered watching his dad sit in the living room chair, staring blankly at the TV after long shifts, as if the weight of the world—and the grief they both shared—was too much to carry. And yet, they never spoke about it. Never shared the burden. The isolation Cole felt during those years had been suffocating.

He’d vowed then, as a kid trying to make sense of loss, that if he ever became a father, he’d be different. He wouldn’t hold his children at arm’s length. He’d be there—not just in the room, but present. He wouldn’t let his kids wonder if they mattered, wouldn’t let them feel unseen.

The knot of dread in his chest deepened as he thought about Ailsa, about the children they might have.

“Cole?” Father Gilbert’s gentle voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

Startled to awareness, that the priest was no longer kneeling, but standing and facing him, Cole exhaled, taking his hands from his pockets.

“Something troubles you, lad,” the priest observed, coming to sit beside Cole.

Cole hesitated, then sat back. “I need your advice, Father. About something... I don’t even know how to categorize it.”

Father Gilbert regarded him patiently, his weathered face calm and open.

Cole took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Whether you believe it or not, it is true. I am not from this time. I was born in 1995—that’s where I’m from. And I don’t know how or why I ended up here. But what worries me is that I might not stay. I didn’t choose to come here, and I’m afraid I won’t have a choice if I’m taken back to the present...or, what I know as the present, two-thousand and twenty-four.”

Father Gilbert’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, letting Cole continue.

“Ailsa...” Cole said softly. He swallowed hard and started again. “If we have children... what if I...?” He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. “What if we have children and I’m moved again through time? I don’t...I’m not sure...” his voice trailed off, his thoughts jumbled beyond reason.

The priest stood quietly for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “You seek certainty in a world that offers little of it,” he said finally. “Whether you remain or are taken, whether Ailsa bears children or not, you must live as though each day is your last. Commit yourself fully to the life you have now, or you risk losing both the present and the future.”

Cole nodded slowly, his mind still whirling but finding a small measure of clarity in the priest’s words.

Father Gilbert continued, “We’ve lost hundreds of men in half a decade, men who had hopes and dreams before they became victims of another’s greed and want of power. Even now, the war will resume, death will claim more of us, but lad, do not allow that to dampen hope. Live a life of good intention, that is all we can ever do. Do not refuse to commit because you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not one of us does. You are strong, as is Ailsa. If, as you fear, you might be taken from here—and her—you will survive, as will she. Ailsa is loving and giving and if...if you were somehow taken away, you cannot fear that your child would not know love, not be cherished, cared for, protected. Live purposefully, lad. Any moment not lived intentionally is only wasted moments.”

“But I’ve never...” Cole began, grimacing a bit.

“Loved another as you do Ailsa?” Father Gilbert guessed, a small, pleased smile curving his mouth.

Cole nodded tightly, with Father Gilbert having voiced what he, himself, had suspected.

“What would you do if you knew this was your only life?” Father Gilbert asked gently.

“I would...live it. Embrace it,” he said, knowing the priest was right, already beginning to feel much less paralyzed by fear.

“There is your answer, lad. To do any less is a disservice to both yourself and Ailsa. And to any child that might be born of your union.”

“You’re right,” Cole agreed. “I know you’re right.” He exhaled at length and faced the priest, grinning a bit now. “I’d like to think I’d have realized that, that I’d have come to the same conclusion myself eventually.”

“I’d like to think that myself, but it’s probably best you came to me,” Father Gilbert deadpanned.

Cole stared at him, the normally stoic, reserved priest, and burst out laughing, so surprised by this show of humor.

“Fair enough,” he allowed. He stood and extended his hand to the priest, still smiling. “Thank you, Father.”

The priest clasped his hand and laid his other over the top of them. “Be well, lad. Be at peace here and now.”

Nodding once more, Cole took his leave. Somewhat calmed, he made his way to the keep to wash up for supper, oblivious to the person ducking around the side of the chapel, into the shadows.