Chapter Nineteen

Ailsa moved quietly through the corridors of the keep, her steps soft against the stone floors as she searched for Tavis. The further she walked from the bustling kitchen and the hall, where preparations for supper were in full swing, the more the silence of the keep settled around her. This part of the castle, far from the noise and activity, felt distant, almost detached, as she made her way toward the steward’s chamber.

She respected Tavis’s authority—always had—but in this matter, she knew he was wrong. He had been for some time. Ailsa had caught Ceitidh, one of the kitchen servants, leaving the plate room months ago, with no reason to be there. She’d voiced her concerns to Tavis then, but he'd dismissed her suspicions as mere paranoia. Today, though, Ailsa had found Ceitidh near the treasury once more. While she hadn't searched the servant’s person, she’d grown more certain of her suspicions since that first encounter.

Since then, Ailsa had kept a closer eye on the household’s inventory—silver goblets, plates, utensils—and had recently noticed a troubling discrepancy. At least half a dozen goblets and plates had gone missing since her last count over a month ago. The theft was no longer a suspicion; it was fact. Now, Ailsa had to confront Tavis again, knowing that he might dismiss her once more, at which time she vowed she would take matters into her own hands.

Ailsa had always suspected that Tavis had dismissed her allegations about Ceitidh simply because he fancied her. While it was common knowledge that Tavis didn’t usually involve himself with the servants, it was also no secret that he had an ongoing relationship with Lias, a widow from the village. Ailsa couldn’t help but think that perhaps Tavis kept Ceitidh around as a backup, in case his relationship with the widow soured. After all, everyone also knew that Lias expected to marry the laird, but Tavis had resisted, unable to bring himself to wed someone he considered beneath his station.

But now, as she neared the steward’s office, she hesitated.

She could hear Tavis’s voice—low, controlled, but edged with something sharper, something darker—coming from the open door. He was in the middle of a conversation, though she couldn’t quite make out the words. Ailsa knew better than to barge in when his tone was like that, when his mood was already foul.

She lingered in the hallway, fingers tracing the stone of the wall as she debated. A small, quiet part of her urged her to turn back—to handle the matter with Ceitidh herself. As mistress of Torr Cinnteag, she had every right to do so. But the rest of her wanted to present her case, to advise Tavis that he was wrong about Ceitidh—the woman was not innocent.

Stick with the widow , she wanted to tell him.

A moment later, as she stood waiting, Domhnall came sprinting down the corridor toward her, flushed and out of breath, his expression tense with urgency.

"Domhnall," she gasped, an instinctive fear gripping her as she took in his agitated appearance. "What is amiss?"

He shot her a quick, dark look—one that struck her as unusually impolite—and, without missing a beat, said with a sharp edge to his voice, "I need to speak to the laird, nae ye."

The tone in his words hit her hard, especially after she'd always imagined him to be someone who held her in high regard, was mayhap even smitten with her. But there was no mistaking the condescension in his manner now, and it left her momentarily stunned.

Tavis, possibly having heard the small commotion, whipped the door open just as Domhnall went to open it.

“What’s this?” Tavis barked, his fuse short today apparently.

In the face of the laird’s displeasure, Domhnall shuffled his feet and stammered, “It’s...,” he paused and glanced at Ailsa and then said through lips that barely moved, “it’s about Cole Carter, Laird. I need to speak with ye—privately.” Another pointed look was thrown at Ailsa.

But Ailsa’s heart flipped, suddenly unconcerned with Domhnall’s odd manner. “Good heavens, Domhnall, is Cole all right? Has he been injured?”

Tavis’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Out with it, lad. I’ve nae time for games—”

Stubbornly, Domhnall thinned his lips and shook his head. “I’ll nae say it in front of the lass—”

“My sister’s ears,” Tavis growled impatiently, “are as guid as mine. Speak, lad,” he commanded.

Still, Domhnall hesitated. Ailsa thought Tavis was about to go through the roof. The steward had come to the door as well, stood peeking over the laird’s shoulder—even he seemed annoyed with Domhnall’s tentativeness.

“I’m about three seconds away from relieving yer body of what seems to be a worthless head,” Tavis warned.

Domhnall cast a nervous glance at Ailsa, who gave him a steady look. “Whatever it is, say it plainly, Domhnall,” she urged, her voice firm but not unkind.

The soldier took a deep breath. “I overheard him speakin’ with Father Gilbert, Laird,” he said, addressing Tavis and not Ailsa. “He said—he said he’s nae from this time. That he comes from... the future.”

The words hung in the air. Ailsa froze, her heart hammering in her chest as she tried to process what she’d just heard.

Tavis, however, was less restrained.

“Have ye lost yer bluidy wits?” Tavis growled, stepping toward the young man, who shrank back under his glare. “The future? What nonsense is this?”

“It’s the truth, Laird,” Domhnall insisted, though his voice trembled. “I heard it with my own ears.” He flicked his thumb toward Ailsa. “Her husband said he was born—I dinna recall the year but it’s...in the future, hundreds of years. Father dinna seem so surprised, ye ken, so I figured he already kent this. And he said he dinna ken how he got here, and how he fears he might be er, taken back.” Color crept up into his cheeks and his hands clenched and unclenched as he briefly stared at the ground. “He said he was worried about...about getting the lass with child and then being ripped away.”

Alarmed by this, that anyone such as Domhnall knew Cole’s truth—Domhnall with his loose tongue—Ailsa forced a laugh and placed her hand to her chest, trying to stave off disaster. “God’s teeth, lad. Ye had me worried something terrible had befallen Cole. Quite obviously, ye misheard the conversation ye eavesdropped on.”

From behind Tavis, the steward harrumphed, a sound of disapproval that seemed to echo her stance. Spying on a private conversation was an egregious breach of conduct, after all.

Domhnall, however, squared his shoulders, his earlier hesitation evaporating as he fixed Ailsa with a look that was startlingly self-assured—and contemptuous. “I ken what I heard, mistress,” he said flatly, his tone devoid of any attempt at appeasement. “Ask him yerself if ye doubt me, Laird. But I’m telling ye, he’s nae from here—he’s fae, or immortal, or some such thing.”

Tavis’s jaw tightened, his irritation plain as his eyes flickered between Domhnall and Ailsa. Clearly, he was no more inclined to entertain such claims than she was, but the soldier’s conviction demanded some response.

Ailsa again attempted to dismiss Domhnall’s claims as nonsense. “Tavis, surely ye dinna believe that—

He held up his hand for silence. “All the more reason to put such rubbish to rest here and now. Go on then, soldier. Fetch Father Gilbert,” he snapped. “And bring Carter here. Now.” As an afterthought, he shouted down the corridor, “And bring the other one, Tank!”

***

As it was nearly the dinner hour, Tavis chose to have the meeting in his private office abovestairs. He signaled to the steward, Murchadh, to follow, knowing the man would dutifully record notes on any discussions concerning the happenings inside Torr Cinnteag. Tavis swept through the hall with a purposeful stride, his voice ringing out as he ordered Dersey to be summoned and brought to him at once.

Filled with dread, wishing she could somehow warn Cole of the impending inquisition, Ailsa trailed reluctantly behind her brother, her steps heavy with dread. Her brother had made it clear she was to accompany him and attend the conference as well.

“See what kind of man ye’ve wed,” he grumbled over his shoulder, as if Cole might not merely deny that Domhnall had heard correctly, and the matter would be put to rest, Tavis having learned nothing.

Inside his private office, Ailsa again appealed to her brother. “Tavis, ye dinna really believe any of what Domhnall said. Please tell me ye dinna.”

“Nae, I dinna believe in his fae folk nonsense—a man passing through the centuries. But something was said, I’m sure, something damning, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”

A bitter scowl twisted her lips, dismayed by her his words. “When will ye trust him? What has Cole ever—”

“I’ll trust him when I ken the truth,” Tavis snapped. “Do ye take me for a fool, sister? He’s hiding something—come from Spain, he says—bah! He’s nae more a Spaniard than I. Dinna ken how to ride, how to fight—dinna ken anything at all—”

“But ye allowed me to wed him?” Ailsa challenged.

“Necessary evil, that,” Tavis declared hotly. “There was nae escaping the truth—the consequences—that there’d be nae match for ye with another clan. But I liked the idea of having him right here under my nose.”

Ailsa harrumphed, her own wrath increasing. “And what have ye learned? That he’s willing to learn, that he’s able, that he will devote himself to Torr Cinnteag, to the Sinclairs. Tavis, I swear to God, I dinna ken who ye are anymore. I dinna ken—” She stopped when she realized that Murchadh had arrived, being so much slower to climb several flights of stairs than Tavis and Ailsa.

Dersey entered the chamber next, his brow furrowed in confusion, followed almost immediately by Father Gilbert, whose expression mirrored the captain’s. The unusual timing of the summons—just before the supper hour—and the presence of Ailsa seemed to have caught them both off guard.

“Laird?” Father Gilbert asked cautiously.

“Wait,” Tavis said sharply, raising a hand as he settled behind his desk. The table before him was cluttered with vellum sheets, a stack of ledgers, ink pots, quills, and the stubs of candles, though he paid them no mind. His gaze fixed on the window, his brooding silence casting a shadow over the room.

The door opened again, and Domhnall strode in, flushed from his errand. “Here they come, laird,” he announced, his chest heaving slightly. He stationed himself beside the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his stance resolute as though prepared to defend both his claim and his laird.

Tavis thought to issue a warning to the young man. “Yer first closed-door conference, lad, and I’ll warn ye now—what is said here dinna leave this chamber. If I hear any more talk of this madness, I’ll assume it came from ye and the punishment will be severe, as befitting the crime, ignoring a direct order.”

Domhnall gulped but nodded smartly.

Moments later, Cole appeared in the doorway, his steps measured as he entered. His brow lifted slightly, clearly surprised by the assembly awaiting him. His eyes flicked to Ailsa, who stood to the left of her brother’s desk, and though she tried to convey a silent warning in her expression, their exchange was fleeting—too brief for him to glean much, especially under Tavis’s watchful gaze.

Tank followed close behind, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. Over the weeks, Ailsa had come to realize that Tank rarely allowed solemnity to linger unchallenged. True to form, he surveyed the room with a wide grin, then clapped his hands together. “A seat at the big boys’ table. What’s the occasion, chief?”

Ignoring Tank’s flippant comment, Tavis motioned for Domhnall to close the door. Then, fixing Cole—not Tank—with an unrelenting stare, Tavis leaned back in his chair, deceptively at ease. Absently, he toyed with one of the quills on his desk, flipping it end over end, then tapping it on the wooden surface in a rhythm too slow to be casual.

“Domhnall claims ye’ve been tellin’ tales,” he began, his voice sharper than the edge of any blade, “about being from another time. Is it true?”

Cole’s gaze flicked to Ailsa, his expression softening for the briefest moment before he straightened his shoulders. “It’s true,” he said simply, his voice steady but low.

Ailsa gasped, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop it. Quickly, she recovered, stepping closer to Cole, though she was uncertain if it was to shield him from her brother’s ire or to steady herself.

“From another time, ye are,” Tavis repeated, twirling the quill between his fingers as if the conversation were of no more consequence than the coming of winter snow. The calculated indifference in his tone sent a chill down Ailsa’s spine.

Cole nodded grimly. “Yeah.”

Dersey, standing rigid near the wall, seethed quietly and crossed himself. “Mother Mary save us.”

Tavis’s hand paused mid-flip, the quill now pointing directly at Cole. “Are ye daft then?” he asked, his calm voice a dangerous contradiction to the undercurrent of fury in his eyes.

“No,” Cole answered, his breath controlled but his jaw tight.

“Are ye fae? A sorcerer?”

Cole shook his head, drawing in a large breath. “No,” he said on his exhale.

The quill flipped again, tapping lightly against the desk. Tavis shifted his focus to Father Gilbert, who stood at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. “Ye ken this?”

Ailsa’s heart clenched. Though she had been willing to lie for Cole, she doubted Father Gilbert would—or even could.

“Aye, laird,” the priest admitted, his tone measured. “I have been aware of Cole’s...story.”

“Ye dinna ken I needed to be made aware as well?” Tavis asked, his voice still calm but the quill’s sharp point now aimed squarely at the priest.

Father Gilbert met his gaze evenly. “If I’m to bring to you each and every improbable tale, laird,” he replied, “I fear there would be little time for anything else in your day.”

Tavis did not like his answer, and waved an angry, dismissive hand at him before returning his attention to the two men standing directly before his desk.

“And ye?” he asked Tank, flicking the quill once more before stilling it in his grip. “Ye move through time as well?”

Her brother’s voice, calm and almost polite, was far more unsettling to Ailsa than his usual tirades. It was the clouds holding back the storm, and she could feel the thunder gathering beneath his controlled facade.

Tank, unshaken, crossed his arms. “Chief, we didn’t move through time,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Someone—or some thing —moved us. We had nothing to do with it, had no idea it was going to happen, and...well, frankly, no idea it had happened until it became obvious we weren’t in the twenty-first century anymore.”

Tavis didn’t move, didn’t even blink as Tank spoke. Then, slowly, he chuckled, the sound low and devoid of humor. Ailsa’s breath hitched as the sound settled in her chest like a stone.

“The twenty-first century,” Tavis repeated, each syllable drawn out, as if tasting the words for the first time. He raised his familiar blue eyes to Ailsa. “Ye ken of this as well, I take it.”

She swallowed hard and nodded.

“And yet ye married him—a man evidently devoid of sanity.”

“I married a man who is warm and kind, who—”

“Rubbish that,” he spat, throwing down the quill. “and soft ye are, believing he’s nae up to nae guid.” He stood then, opening his mouth as if to unleash a tirade, wearing a suddenly thunderous glower.

Father Gilbert raised a calming hand. “Peace, Laird,” he urged. “This man has been nothing but forthright in his actions and his intentions since arriving here. Whatever brought him to us, it was no act of malice.”

“And why should we believe that?” Dersey cut in, his tone sharp. “For all we ken, he’s bringin’ trouble down on us just by bein’ here.”

Ailsa leaned into the table, speaking before he did. “Enough!” She cried and faced her brother. “Ye ken that he’s nae mad, ye ken that he—"

Cole shifted beside her, his hand pressing gently over her clenched fist. “Ailsa, it’s fine,” he said, his tone steady and calming, though his jaw tightened slightly. He met her gaze briefly, a silent reassurance, before turning his focus back to Tavis. “Listen,” Cole began, his voice firm but measured, carrying no trace of hostility despite the tension in the room. “I don’t know how this happened. We didn’t ask for it, didn’t seek it out, but we’re not part of—or engaged in—some black magic or whatever you’re imagining. We’ve done nothing to harm you or anyone at Torr Cinnteag.” He paused briefly, gauging Tavis’s unreadable expression before continuing. “You want the whole story?” he asked, his voice sharpening slightly, though still controlled. “Fine. Tank and I were living in the year 2024. Life looks a lot different in some ways—technology, the way people live day to day—but in other ways, it’s not so different, especially when it comes to how people treat each other. We can talk about that sometime if you’re interested,” he added curtly, a flicker of dry humor in his tone. “Anyway, we were hiking on a mountain trail. Just walking, nothing unusual, when the air...changed. I can’t even describe it, what happened. Then I blacked out. When I woke up, I was lying in snow—snow that hadn’t been there when we started climbing—and Tank was nowhere in sight. I didn’t know what had happened, where I was, or why—and I still don’t. That’s the same story I told Ailsa, the same one I told Father Gilbert—because it’s the truth. I don’t know what brought us here, but I searched for Tank for nearly a day before I stumbled into your domain. The first person I saw was Ailsa. I had to ask her what year it was because the reality of what seemed to have happened—it was too impossible to believe.” Cole leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “You think you’re struggling to believe? You think I’m crazy?” he asked, his voice dropping to a quieter, more intense tone. “Yeah, I’ve been there. I’m still there,” he added, his words deliberate now, his frustration finally breaking through. “Because I don’t know what happened or why.”

The room fell into an uneasy silence, all eyes on Tavis as he weighed Cole’s words. Finally, he turned to Father Gilbert. “And what say ye, priest? What counsel do ye give me on this madness?”

Father Gilbert folded his hands again. “I say that Cole Carter’s origins matter less than his actions. And his actions, thus far, have shown him to be a man true to his word.”

A knock sounded at the door, which Domhnall opened, revealing not any house servants possibly wondering if supper should be delayed, but a young man Ailsa had never seen before, wringing a silent gasp from her.

He stood tall and lean, with light brown hair falling just to his collar. His eyes darted around the room with a mixture of caution and curiosity, eventually settling on Tavis. He wore a practical tunic of deep green, well-fitted and free of excessive adornment, paired with a sturdy belt and boots scuffed from long travel. In his hand, he clutched a rolled parchment sealed with crimson wax, its edges slightly frayed from handling. The sight of it immediately dispelled Ailsa’s fleeting and fanciful notion that he might have also stumbled through time—his attire and demeanor rooted him firmly in their current reality.

The young man stepped forward hesitantly, the scroll held out in offering. “A message for the laird,” he announced, his voice steady but carrying the faint rasp of someone who had likely spent days on the road.

Tavis shouted, “For feck’s sake, what now?”

Domhnall received the scroll and passed it to Tavis, who seized it with such force that the vellum crinkled under his grip. He snapped the wax seal without hesitation and unrolled the message. The furrow in his brow deepened as his eyes scanned the lines, and a vein throbbed faintly at his temple.

For a long moment, Tavis remained rigid, as though the words had gutted him. Then, with a sharp exhale, his shoulders sagged, and the tension in his jaw slackened into something more raw—weariness, perhaps even fear. His hand trembled slightly as he placed the scroll on the table, smoothing it flat as though the act might lessen the burden of what it contained.

Finally, he lowered himself into his chair, the motion deliberate but heavy, as if his legs could no longer bear the strain. He rested his forearms on the edge of the desk, his fingers lacing tightly together, and stared at the message for a heartbeat longer. The room remained silent, the gravity of his reaction more unsettling than any outburst could have been.

At length, Father Gilbert prompted, “Laird?”

Seeming only then to recall that he was not alone, Tavis startled briefly and glanced up, moving his gaze over all the watchful faces.

“Tavis, what is it?”

A sigh preceded his answer, but he seemed to recover himself. He straightened in the chair and announced, “The truce expired weeks ago. I’d received word then that Edward would hunker down for the winter, that nae campaign would be instigated until spring. Now this, saying John Segrave, on Edward’s orders, is assembling at Berwick on Tweed. Heading toward Edinburgh, meaning to carry out a large-scale reconnaissance as far as Kirkintilloch. Reconnaissance...mayhap more than that.” He lifted his gaze, passed it over the priest and Dersey, and even included Cole and Tank in his sweeping glance once again. “Essentially paving the way, if ye will, for Edward to follow when he’s ready again to make war on us.” He shook his head, a fleeting grimness overcoming his fury. “ Jesu , it willna end.”

“Laird,” Father Gilbert said, stepping forward, “is this...only news being passed, or are you expected—”

“Aye, Simon Fraser summons the Sinclairs to Biggar, to assemble against Segrave.” He perused the missive briefly. “Possibly against Minton, mayhap Robert Neville as well,” he said, his gaze straying toward Dersey. “Christ, they’ll have twenty thousand men.”

Ailsa’s breath caught.

Father Gilbert clasped his hands together, his palms and fingers rigid and straight.

“When?” Dersey wanted to know.

“Now,” Tavis answered, and then chewed the inside of his cheek. “Simon Fraser wants to shadow them, see what they’re about. He needs troops now.”

Murchadh advised, “Laird, we dinna have the means to send ye off well-supplied, nae if we want to feed Torr Cinnteag o’er the winter.”

“Damn,” Dersey mused, “I kent we’d be home for Yule this year.”

Tavis stared blankly for a moment, his mind likely whirring in chaos.

Tank fisted his hand. “Let’s do it,” he said fiercely. “Let’s put all this training to work.”

The laird reacted angrily to this, snapping a hard glare at Tank, as if to say he was the last person Tavis wanted fighting beside him.

“You need us,” Tank reminded him. “You said yourself you didn’t have the numbers for this war.”

“Aye,” Tavis reluctantly agreed through clenched lips, “and I’m sure as hell nae leaving ye two here while I’m gone,” he barked, as if the very idea was preposterous. With greater good humor than he’d shown in the last hour, he supposed, “Mayhap ye’ll meet yer fate upon a battlefield and thus dissolve the need for me to ken what to make of ye.”

Ailsa’s heart lurched at the thought of Cole fighting alongside her brother and all the Sinclairs—fighting at all.

“Go on then,” Tavis grumbled, waving his hand, shooing them all toward the door. “Supper awaits, the last one at home. We leave with the morning light.” He picked up the quill he’d been fiddling with earlier and reached for an unused sheet of vellum, preparing his response for the waiting messenger, dismissing them from his mind.

Cole took Ailsa’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on,” he prompted.

Ailsa forced herself to smile at him.

***

Cole wasn’t afraid, not exactly. Fear would have been easier to define, maybe even easier to confront. Instead, he felt an unshakable sense of inadequacy, a gnawing doubt in his own ability to meet the expectations of what would be required of him. He was a man thrown into a world that demanded skills and knowledge he hadn’t had the time to acquire. The weight of it pressed against him more than any tangible fear of death or injury.

In a quiet voice while they supped, he confessed to Ailsa, “I don’t even know how to prepare, what to do.”

“I will help ye,” she said simply, calmly.

Later, they spent the night tangled in each other’s arms, bodies speaking the words neither dared to say aloud. The heat between them was desperate, almost frantic, a silent acknowledgment of his imminent departure and the possibility that this might be their last night together.

Still, as she slept beside him, her head resting lightly against his chest, Cole stared at the ceiling, wrestling with the storm of emotions raging in his chest. He wanted to tell her how much she had come to mean to him. But what good would it do to burden her with his feelings now, on the eve of his departure? To confess the depth of his feelings when there was no promise he’d survive to see her again? He feared giving her hope that might turn to sorrow. And, if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he could handle the rejection, should she not feel the same. Better to leave with her last memory of him unmarred by clumsy declarations.

Instead, he tightened his hold around her, pressing a kiss to her hair as he closed his eyes.

In the morning, amid the bustle of the courtyard, where hundreds of people readied to leave or prepared to say goodbye, Cole and Ailsa stood close, their parting overshadowed by an attempt to appear brave for one another, though both were terrified of what the day and following weeks might bring.

“Like as nae, it will come to naught,” Ailsa said, her voice calm despite the tears threatening to spill. “Mayhap they’re nae moving to make war, but only scouting.”

Cole managed a weak smile, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “I’ll try like hell not to embarrass you.”

“Mayhap instead,” she countered, a faint smile breaking through her sorrow, “try like hell to come back to me.”

He kissed her, long enough to feel her tremble, brief enough to keep the moment from breaking them both. When he pulled back, her hands lingered on his arms, her fingers curled into his sleeve.

“You’re strong, Cole,” she told him, her voice steady. “You’re capable, and fierce.”

He grinned. “Okay, I get it. Positive affirmations.”

“It’s nae just words,” she said firmly. “Truth is what it is.”

“I wish I had as much faith in me as you do, Ailsa.”

She searched his face. “Did ye find yerself frightened or anxious, mayhap even outright terrified, in your...in that other life?”

He shrugged, drawing the motion out as he considered. “Yeah, I mean, sure. I’ve known fear, anxiety, dread.”

“And ye walked through it, did ye nae? You’re still the same man, here in this time, are ye nae? Ye’ll face this as steadfastly as ye did any obstacle in your own time.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the fears he’d faced in the twenty-first century—raging fires, death, the loss of friends—seemed to pale in comparison to what lay ahead. This wasn’t a simulated training exercise or a controlled disaster response. It was war, and he felt woefully unprepared. It was like sending men overseas, Marines or any US military, with barely a week of training.

Still, he nodded, unwilling to let her worry more than she already did. Her fear was there, just under the surface, waiting to break free once he was gone, he was sure. “I got this. I can do this,” he said, pulling her closer. “But not without one more kiss goodbye.”

Their lips met again, a bittersweet blend of hope and heartache, a silent promise to find their way back to each other, no matter the odds.

“When I get on that horse,” he said softly, his breath brushing against her lips as they parted, “I won’t be able to look back. Don’t wait for a final wave or anything like that.” He didn’t want his last sight of Ailsa to be her sadness or the fear she tried so hard to hide. Gently, he added, “I packed away some images from last night. That’s how I want to remember you.”

He might have pulled away then, but Ailsa held him firm. She locked her gaze with his, her expression fierce. “I would rather have this with ye, all those small but glorious moments since we wed, than naught at all.”

Her chest tightened and he fought back the maddening tingling of tears at the back of his throat and eyes. “Same. Absolutely.” Glorious moments, indeed. He kissed her one more time.

Ten minutes later, as they rode with Tavis and the Sinclair army, Cole turned to Tank, his voice low but edged with uncertainty. “I’m not sure I can actually kill someone,” he admitted.

Tank, ever the Marine, didn’t hesitate. “You will if you have to. You’ve heard it before, maybe even seen it in some meme on social media—this isn’t about fighting them , the English. It’s about fighting for what’s behind us. If the English prevail, Cole, Ailsa and everyone at Torr Cinnteag are in danger. We fight for what’s behind us.”

Cole frowned, his thoughts circling back to yesterday. “Maybe I should’ve stabbed that red deer,” he muttered. “Might’ve felt better prepared if I’d at least swung a sword for real.”

Tank laughed. “Seems you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that.” He leaned toward him between their horses, extending a hand. “Whatever happens, it’s been an honor, my friend. You’ve been solid, through and through, for more than a decade. One of the good guys—always have been. We’ve been here a month, trapped in this crazy century, and not once have you blamed me for dragging you to Scotland in the first place.”

Honestly, the idea of blame had never crossed his mind.

He pumped Tank’s hand. “Same, Tank. I’m proud to call you friend. And frankly, I think I’d have gone crazy here if not for you.”

“What a freakin’ adventure, though—right?”

Cole laughed despite himself, as they marched toward what might be their end.

He thought of Ailsa. “Yeah, what an adventure.”