Chapter Twenty

The march was grueling, a steady, punishing trudge, often through deep snow and in biting winds that stretched the Sinclair army thin. For all the snow he’d seen living in Western New York, Cole was sure he’d never hated it more. Here, there was no relief from it; they did not return to any nice, warm house, putting their feet up in front of a blazing winter fire at the end of the day. Here, the end of the day only meant giving the horses a rest while they attempted to keep warm out in the mean elements, not daring to light fires at all once they’d gone too far south. For a week, they advanced toward Biggar, the sharp cold cutting through even the thickest woolens. The weight of their gear and the unrelenting terrain tested even the hardiest among them.

As Christmas loomed on the horizon, both Tank and Cole found themselves sinking into bouts of melancholy. They thought about the people back home—those who, after so many months of silence, might now be grieving their absence or assuming the worst, that their lives had ended somewhere in Scotland.

For Cole, the thought of Aunt Rosie’s sorrow was almost too much to bear. Same as she was to him, he was basically all the family she had left. Rosie had envisioned her later years surrounded by the sound of children’s laughter—Cole’s children—filling her home with life and joy. The weight of knowing she was facing this Christmas without him, likely mourning what she thought was an irretrievable loss, gnawed at him until he thought constantly, desperately, trying to imagine some way to get word to her.

There were several evenings where even hardy, optimistic Tank was quiet, reflective, his gaze lingering on the fire while his expression was either blank or troubled. They didn’t talk about it, but Cole was pretty sure he was thinking along the same lines as Cole, of family and Christmas.

What little comfort they did know during the march could be credited to Ailsa.

He silently thanked her once again for her foresight and efficiency. Her knowhow and care were evident, for it was she who’d ensured that he was as well-prepared as possible for conditions far removed from Torr Cinnteag, and from his time. Somehow she’d managed to procure another thick, woolen cloak, clasped with a sturdy brooch, several tunics, and linen undergarments. A woolen cap and heavy leather gloves were given to him to protect him against the cold. Though she’d told him the army itself—specifically the quartermaster and the armorer—were responsible for supplying the army with food, weapons, and gear, she’d given him a shirt of chainmail and a padded gambeson for protection, and had surprised him with a small dagger, which she’d advised should be tucked into his boot. Though the army had its own cook, Ailsa had made sure Cole had his own pack containing dried provisions—salted meal, oatcakes, dried fruits—and a fire-starting kit, flint and steel. Above and beyond those generous necessities, she supplied him with a rolled-up blanket, which she’d shown him how to strap to the back of his saddle, and some basic medicinal supplies—linen bandages, a small jar of salve, and an herbs she said to brew if he found himself with a fever. She’d come to bed late the night before they’d departed, having managed to assemble all these things for him. Tank, too, had benefitted from Ailsa’s preparations. She’d ensured both men carried the proper gear and provisions for the march and the fight that might come.

After seven days, the Sinclair army reached Biggar, where the sight of Simon Fraser’s forces was a welcome relief. Thousands of Scots had gathered, their banners flapping defiantly in the icy wind. The combined armies set out the next morning, their destination clear: John Segrave’s massive English contingent, reported to be marching toward Edinburgh.

They were joined in the next week by John Comyn, of Badenoch—who was sometimes referred to as The Red by Tavis. Tank had frowned and seethed when they’d joined with his army, “Jesus, we’re living inside the pages of a history book.”

Cole glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Comyn?” He asked, not recalling the name from any history he’d been introduced to while in Scotland visiting museums, ruins, and memorials.

Tank waved a hand toward the two men in discussion with Tavis and several other generals, as he and Tank had come to think of the many lairds combining forces in this army. “Fraser and Comyn, actually. Sir Simon Fraser and John Comyn III.”

Cole shook his head, feeling a flicker of guilt. He knew Tank had spent hours poring over books before their trip to Scotland, while Cole had mostly coasted, assuming Tank’s enthusiasm would fill in the gaps.

“They’re major players, man,” Tank continued, his voice low. “But they’re complicated. Both of them waffled during this whole mess of a war. Fraser fought for Edward I in Flanders not that long ago. So did Comyn. Hell, they both wore English colors for years before switching back to the Scots’ side. But Comyn, he’s one of the nobles who left Wallace high and dry at Falkirk.”

Cole frowned, the name “Falkirk” sparking a memory. “Wait, what happened at Falkirk?”

“Disaster,” Tank said, his tone bitter. “Wallace needed cavalry—desperately. The English had knights in heavy armor, longbows, the whole shebang. Wallace had infantry and hope. Comyn and his lot refused to provide cavalry support. Treachery, man, pure and simple. According to some of what I read, John and his clan hated Wallace. Showed up on the battlefield just to make it look like they were helping, but they had no intention of lifting a damn finger.”

Cole digested this, his jaw tightening. “And now we’re fighting alongside this guy?”

“Yeah, history’s messy,” Tank replied with a shrug. He leaned closer, and quieted his voice even more. “But hey, good news—Bruce takes care of Comyn in the end. Stabs him in a church, before he takes the throne. The ultimate power move.”

Cole snorted at Tank’s irreverence but couldn’t shake the unease settling in his gut. He realized he needed to pay attention, not just to Tank’s impromptu history lessons but to these men themselves. If he was going to be stuck here for any length of time, he’d need to know who the players were, who could be trusted, and more importantly, who could not.

Christmas came and went, hardly marked by the army, which had now swelled, by all estimates, to nearly 8,000 strong. A brief spell of fair weather, or at least something less frigid, gave the men a small reprieve. Daytime temperatures might have crept toward forty degrees, and those days weren’t so bad. There was a bit of hunting, and venison roasted over roaring fires dotted the sprawling camp that stretched for miles. The camaraderie and temporary ease of the days felt like a reprieve before the storm, though the men rarely spoke of what lay ahead.

By the end of January, scouts reported that they had caught up with Segrave, and the real grind began.

The daily marches were relentless, each one blending into the next as they shadowed Segrave’s movements. Soldiers’ breaths hung heavy in the freezing air, their steps crunching through ice and frost. Even the thickest cloaks offered little defense against the cold that seeped into bones and lingered. The moments of camaraderie over campfires now felt like distant memories, replaced by the monotony of trudging mile after mile.

Cole tried not to dwell on the inevitable clash ahead, but the occasional pang of unease crept in. His muscles ached, his hands stiffened in the cold, and though he tried to focus on the rhythmic sound of boots and hooves, the looming thought of battle pressed against the edges of his mind.

One day, Tank said to Cole out of the blue, “If the fight comes, stay near me.”

Cole turned his head sharply, scoffing at the suggestion. “I’m not hiding behind you, Tank.”

Tank didn’t laugh, his expression deadly serious. “I can’t lose you, man.”

Cole felt the weight of the words settle between them. “Nor I you, Tank. But let’s fight side by side and keep an eye on each other’s backs.”

Tank nodded but added with a faint smirk, “Fine, but seriously, stay a half step behind me. It’ll make it easier for you to watch my back.”

Cole grinned and shook his head, but then briefly worried more about his own competence. If Tank was questioning it, Cole felt like maybe he didn’t realize the exact depths of his own unpreparedness.

“Deal,” Cole said but knew he wouldn’t be hiding behind anyone. Able or not, it wasn’t his style.

Tonight, as ever, the camp bustled with subdued activity. They remained several miles from the English, a safe distance. Small fires lit up the landscape for miles. Cole and Tank sat around the one they’d made. Cole sat near their modest blaze on a small log he’d found, a warm bowl of watery stew cradled in his hands. Tank leaned back against a tree, his breath misting in the chilly air. They talked more now than ever, had possibly exchanged more words in the last month on this march than in all their ten years of knowing each other. Sometimes, they revisited shared memories, sometimes they talked sports, wondering if they could introduce lacrosse or football to the fourteenth century. On other occasions, such as tonight, they talked of trivial things, merely to pass the time.

“Coffee wakes you up and makes you a better, kinder person,” Cole declared with mock authority as they debated the merits of coffee versus tea.

“Tea doesn’t make you jittery,” Tank shot back. “Plus, you can drink it hot, cold, sweet, plain—it’s versatile.”

Cole rolled his eyes. “Coffee is life, man. Besides, tea tastes like wet grass.”

“You’ve just been drinking the wrong tea.”

“Right,” Cole said with a smirk. “And now—along with cold-pressed juices—you’re a tea connoisseur.”

Tank chuckled but didn’t respond, his attention shifting to a figure approaching from the shadows. Cole followed his gaze, instinctively tensing as the stranger walked with purpose directly toward them.

The man moved with a predator’s ease, his steps soundless against the frozen ground. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in a plaid cloak that had seen better days. Long, dark hair framed a rugged, angular face marked by scars—testaments to a life spent in battle, Cole might presume. His sharp eyes glinted in the firelight, their intensity almost unnerving. Cole recognized him vaguely as one of the lairds in this combined army, though he couldn’t recall his name. The man’s presence radiated authority, a quiet, unyielding power that made Cole instinctively straighten.

“Mind if I join ye?” the man asked, his voice a low rumble.

Cole glanced at Tank, who shrugged. “Sure,” Cole said cautiously.

The man settled on his haunches near the fire, his gaze flicking between them. For a moment, he seemed to be weighing something, then he spoke. “I have a question, and I’d appreciate an honest answer.”

Tank raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”

“What year were ye born?” the man asked, his tone even but his gaze sharp.

Cole froze, the question striking him like a bolt out of the blue. Tank, too, looked caught off guard.

“Why do you ask?” Cole managed, his voice steady despite the jolt of nerves.

“Yer English sounds similar to that of my wife.”

Cautiously, Cole wondered, “And what does that have to do with what year we were born?”

“My wife is from some place I’d never heard of—Florida?”

Cole somehow managed to prevent his eyes from widening. This man, whoever he was, shouldn’t know about Florida, not unless medieval Europe had one that he didn’t know about. “Is she?” He asked, his hackles raised a bit.

“Aye,” said the man, his tone mild, conversational. He glanced around to ensure they weren’t overheard, then leaned in slightly. “If I asked ye what an airplane was, would ye ken what I meant?” He asked cryptically even as Cole had some suspicion that he was trying to appear casual, didn’t want to alarm them, or give too much away.

Cole was flabbergasted by what he guessed the man was trying to say, to impart. Never had it occurred to him that there might be others, people aside from him and Tank who’d been moved through time.

“Son of a...” Tank breathed. “Was your wife born in a year that begins with one and nine?”

Very subtle, Tank , Cole thought.

“Might’ve been,” the man allowed, his mouth lifting in the barest grin. “Ye?”

“Maybe,” Tank returned, equally as non-committal.

“Yer secret is safe with me,” the man assured them. “My wife—she’s nae from here either.” He stood and leaned over toward Cole, extending his hand. “Reid Nicholson,” he introduced himself. “Charlotte tells me this hand shake is how it’s done...eventually.” He said hand shake definitively as two words.

Cole rose to his feet. “Cole Carter,” he introduced himself, his brain still reeling. The man’s grip was firm and sure. But here was further proof, since he hadn’t seen anyone use a modern-day handshake in this time. They embraced. They clasped forearms. They nodded politely as a greeting. No one shook hands, not that he’d seen.

Tank stood and introduced himself as the man shook his hand as well.

The tension in Cole’s shoulders eased slightly, though his wariness didn’t entirely fade. And a whole bunch of questions came to mind. “How did you know?”

Reid’s shoulders shifted slightly, a bare shrug. “The way you speak. It reminded me of her.”

Yeah, Cole might have guessed that modern day English all sounded the same to folks here in this century—the same, but very rare.

“Have ye been here long?” Reid asked. “In this time,” he clarified, “nae here, tracking Segrave.”

“No,” Cole answered. “Or, what’s a long time? We’ve been here about two months.”

“How long’s your wife been here?” Tank inquired. “Shit, sorry—is your wife still here?”

“Aye, she’s here—more than a year now.” Reid said, his voice tinged with affection. “It’s nae been easy.”

Tank leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Has she ever thought about... going back?”

Reid’s jaw tightened briefly before he nodded. “She has—nae that she has any concept of how that might be accomplished. There’s a part of her that misses what she left behind, but she’s found her place here.”

The fire crackled between them, the weight of Reid’s words settling over the conversation.

“We don’t...” Cole began hesitantly, “we don’t tell too many people—”

“Aye, keep that close,” the Nicholson laird agreed. “Ye dinna want that getting around.” Reid frowned then, as if it just dawned on him, that they were with the army. “What the hell are ye doing here? In this fight?”

“We’re with the Sinclairs,” Tank answered simply.

The Nicholson laird’s scowl darkened. “Ye’ve nae business dying for a fight that’s nae yers,” he asserted, his hands on his hips.” He inclined his head toward Cole’s sword. “Ye ever use that? Against another man?”

Cole shook his head.

Reid Nicholson did as well, seemingly perturbed by the answer. “Stay in the midst of the cavalry,” he advised tersely. “Whatever ye do, dinna lose yer seat, yer horse. Better yet, take yerselves away—”

“We came to fight, to support the Sinclairs,” Cole protested.

“Ye owe Tavis something?”

Cole wasn’t surprised that this laird would know Tavis, imagining they were like mayors across counties in the same state. “I owe my wife, Tavis’s sister, my support,” he maintained.

“I see,” he said, eyeing Cole with more awareness now. He nodded then, as if that was all—he’d learned what he’d set out to learn. “When this is done, when ye return to Torr Cinnteag, make plans to come round to Kingswood,” he offered, rather as an afterthought, Cole guessed. “My wife will nae take kindly if I tell her I met...others of the same fate and did naught to get ye together.”

“Are there...more?” Tank wondered.

“Aye, at least one other, another lass, come from... your time.”

“No shit,” Tank mused.

Reid Nicholson, who didn’t look like he smiled too often, or at all, grinned. “Nae shite,” he confirmed. He shook their hands again. “God speed, men,” he offered before taking his leave.

As he melted back into the shadows, Cole felt a strange sense of connection—or at the very least, nearly a small sense of peace. For the first time since landing in this impossible situation, he realized they weren’t entirely alone.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Tank mused, staring into the darkness where Reid Nicholson had just disappeared. He glanced at Cole. “He was real, right? And that conversation? We didn’t just imagine that, did we?”

“Nope,” Cole replied thoughtfully.

“Holy shit,” Tank exclaimed.

“Yep.”

***

Tavis lingered in the shadows, his breath shallow as he strained to catch every fantastic word spoken in low murmurs between Reid Nicholson, Cole Carter, and Tank Morrison as they stood round a small wind-whipped fire. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but something about Reid Nicholson’s tone had stopped him in his tracks. Now, he stood frozen, hidden in the creeping darkness behind a sturdy birch, his mind racing.

...my wife—she’s nae from here either.

Have ye been here long? In this time?

The words hit Tavis like a blow to the chest. He gripped the rough bark of a tree for balance, his pulse thundering in his ears. He must have misheard. Surely, Reid— Reid Nicholson —had not just admitted to believing the same outrageous tale that Cole Carter and Tank Morrison had spun. Time travel? Tavis had dismissed it as lunacy, the ramblings of men driven mad by the strain of war or some strange ailment.

But Reid Nicholson wasn’t mad. He was the steadiest man Tavis had ever known—grounded, deliberate, and sensible to a fault. If Reid said his wife was from another time... Tavis felt a tremor run through him.

He didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t quite bring himself to, and yet... there it was.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, as if trying to physically push away the revelation.

Ailsa. He’d allowed his sister to wed this man. Aye, he’d abhorred the idea, but had felt he’d little choice, knowing the damned kiss would indeed have ruined her. Jesu .

A new wave of unease crept over him. If Cole and Tank weren’t lying, if their claims of coming from the future were true, then everything Tavis thought he understood about the world, about time itself, had just been upended.

He peered through the tangle of branches and brush, watching as Reid departed, leaving Cole and Tank by the fire. He, himself, shrank further into the shadows. He wasn’t ready to confront them yet, wasn’t sure he could trust himself to speak without betraying the storm raging in his brain.

Tavis let out a slow, shaky breath. He needed time to process this, to think. One thing was certain—he could no longer dismiss Cole as a madman. If Reid Nicholson believed him—not only believed but reinforced the fantastic tale by admitting his wife had suffered the same fate—then there was more to their story than Tavis had been willing to see.

***

Ailsa tightened her grip on the coarse cloth, her hands red and raw from scrubbing the stone floor of the keep’s main hall. The air was sharp with the scent of lye soap, overcoming even the bone-deep chill of February. Beside her, Anwen knelt with equal determination, her sturdy arms moving with surprising efficiency as she wrung out a rag and attacked a stubborn stain. More shocking, this chore had been Anwen’s idea—Anwen, who preferred quiet embroidery by the fire in Ailsa’s solar, regularly suggested small tasks and even larger chores such as this, as if hard manual labor had suddenly become her life’s mission.

“This would’ve been done twice over by the servants already,” Ailsa muttered, brushing away a loose strand of hair that dangled in front of her eyes, glancing at the slow progress made.

“Aye,” Anwen replied, not looking up, “but they’re busy enough, what with keeping fires lit and the bread made, and three of them down with fevers.”

Ailsa cast her a sideways glance. “I ken ye do this simply to keep me from worrying.”

Anwen sat back on her heels, sighing wearily as she stared at Ailsa. “Is it working?” She asked simply, her dark eyes meeting Ailsa’s with a clarity that spoke of her usual unflinching practicality. “Dinna tell me having the flesh worn from my fingers and my back broke by the end of every day isnae helping.”

Ailsa grinned at her maid, a deep sense of affection engulfing her. She nodded. “Aye, it helps.”

Both women returned to all-fours and continued their scouring.

It did help, but it could not completely keep her thoughts from turning—as they did nearly every hour of every day—to Cole. The silence between the women stretched, broken only by the rhythmic sound of cloth and occasionally a wire brush against stone.

The winter had not been kind to Torr Cinnteag. With Tavis and his men gone, the keep was quieter than ever, the usual hum of activity dampened by the harsh season and the strain of rationing. Supplies were thin, and though Ailsa knew they could manage until spring, the weight of survival bore down on her. It wasn’t just the food—though every meal of porridge stretched thinner than the last—but the waiting.

Weeks had passed since they’d received Tavis’s letter, reassuring them that the army was in good health and had yet to meet the enemy. Weeks of silence since then. No news of Cole. No way to know if he was safe, if he was hurt—or worse.

Ailsa sighed and sat back on her heels again, tossing the rag into the bucket of lukewarm water. She stared blindly up at the tall windows, where white winter light poured in.

Worry gnawed at her as she imagined Cole out on the battlefield, wondering if he had the instincts and resilience to handle the brutality of medieval warfare. She thought of the warriors she’s known all her life—her brother, Dersey, any Sinclair, men who’d been molded by years of training and born into a society that prepared men for such harsh realities. For Tavis and men like him, war was second nature, not just a skill but a mindset that required shutting out fear and focusing on survival, even at the cost of compassion.

But Cole was different. Despite his physical prowess, by his own admission, he came from a time where violence was tempered by rules and largely left to controlled arenas, like sports, rather than mortal combat. She can’t shake the fear that he might lack the cold determination needed in battle—a determination that came not just from strength but from a mental hardness, the ability to silence any empathy or hesitation and do what’s necessary to survive.

While she prayed religiously and fervently for his return, Ailsa wrestled with the thought of what he might be or have become, forever changed or perhaps hardened beyond recognition, his spirit dulled by the violence and bloodshed that has scarred so many of her people.

“Ye ken it’s impossible nae to worry,” she ventured quietly to Anwen.

Anwen paused her scrubbing and turned to Ailsa, her expression softening. “About Cole.”

Ailsa nodded and allowed her fears to spill out. “He’s nae like Tavis, Anwen. He wasnae raised to this life, to war. He’s strong, aye, but... I dinna ken if he has the kind of resolve it takes to survive out there.” She gestured vaguely, as though the battlefield were just beyond the stone walls.

“Ye underestimate him,” her maid testified without hesitation.

Ailsa’s brow furrowed. “Do I?”

“More resolve than ye ken, is my guess,” Anwen affirmed with a single, sharp nod.

Ailsa hoped so, but she simply wasn’t sure, certainly not when it came to war. “I only long for him to be safe. I canna help but worry that the very traits I admire in him—his kindness, his warmth, his eagerness to earn a place among the Sinclairs—are what could make him vulnerable.” She’d been impressed with his resilience, his ambition to prove himself, to conquer necessary skills, but for months she’d been anxious that same determination in him might bring him to his end.

She missed him terribly. There were days when the quiet loneliness that came with his absence was enough to hollow her out.

She ached to have his arms around her, the solid, reassuring strength of him pressing against her as if to ward off all these hardships and fears. She longed for the way his hands would cradle her face as though she were the most precious thing in his world. And she yearned for his laughter—the soft, unguarded chuckle that escaped when she said something that amused him, or the deep, booming laugh when she surprised him with her wit. That laugh could chase away even the darkest of days. She yearned for one more of those sweet, crooked grins he reserved just for her—those ones filled with joy, promise, and something deeper that made her breath catch every time. She’d convinced herself they meant something more, that their marriage was indeed real to him, though he’d never spoken the words aloud. She clung to that hope, fragile as it was, like a lifeline in the storm of her worry.

But most of all, she missed the quiet moments between them, the times when words weren’t needed. She longed for him to be beside her in their bed, the weight of his body against hers, the feel of his skin under her fingertips, and the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. It was in those moments, when the world fell away, that she’d felt most at peace but now felt most vulnerable and afraid.

Anwen’s soft, knowing voice cut through her thoughts. “Ye love him.”

Ailsa blinked, startled by the bluntness of the statement. But as the truth of it had been known to her for some time, she found she couldn’t deny it. “I do,” she whispered.

“And that,” Anwen said with quiet confidence, “is why he’ll come back. For ye.”