Chapter Four

More than thirty minutes passed before Ailsa recognized sounds of people approaching. The cart’s wheels creaked and groaned a bit, disturbing the somber quiet of the cold winter day. Glancing down the lane, Ailsa realized that not only a few of the castle guards had come, but at least ten of them, including the captain of the army, Dersey Sinclair.

Ailsa groaned internally. Dersey would be worse than Anwen, would likely insist same as the maid had, that whoever the man was, he wasn’t their problem. Ailsa would bet her last coin Dersey would command the cart be used to deliver the man to some place outside Torr Cinnteag, far away from the Sinclairs.

She hopped to her feet and faced the party that approached, prepared to have to fight to have her way even as she knew she wouldn’t be able to explain why she felt so strongly that she needed to help this man.

Dersey’s frown was wild with confusion, darkening even further his habitual disagreeable expression.

“Step back, lass,” he said, unaccountably drawing his sword.

“Sweet heavens, Dersey,” Ailsa protested. “Disarm yerself. The man is nae conscious and thus nae threat—"

“And nae to be brought to the keep,” Dersey finished gruffly. “?Tis nae a lame duck, nae a fawn with a broken leg or some wretched hog ye’ll nae let us slaughter. ?Tis a man—an Englishman at that!”

Ailsa turned her glare upon Anwen, who’d accompanied the men and the cart. The maid had at least enough sense to shrivel under Ailsa’s furious glare for revealing the man’s nationality.

“We dinna ken that he’s English,” Ailsa said to Dersey, which was strictly the truth even as she had guessed he was. “And nae matter his origins, he finds himself at our mercy and we Sinclairs do nae reject—”

“Aye, aye, aye,” Dersey grumbled dismissively, waving a hand to silence what would have been her appeal to see the man cared for. “He’s English and hence, meant for the gaol. If he lives, he’ll have ye to thank as he rots beneath the keep.” The captain then waved his hand at the idling soldiers, beckoning them closer. “C’mon, then. Get him up and onto the cart. We dinna want his carcass stinkin’ up the lane.”

The soldiers dragged their feet. Lyle and Peile arrived first at the man’s side. Lyle frowned down at the man’s strange shoes before lifting his leg and then waiting on the others to grab a limb. When Peile positioned himself near the man’s upper body, meaning to take hold of his arms, Lyle decided that position was more favorable and callously dropped the man’s long leg from waist height, moving to stand beside Peile.

“Good heavens,” Ailsa cried. “Stop that! How can ye be so callous?” A much younger Ailsa would have shoed them all away, announcing she’d see to the chore herself—she’d been taught a lesson or two in her youth about her own stubbornness and the limits of her strength. She was older and wiser now, and rather than taking over to see it done as humanely as she’d have liked, she smacked her hands on her hips and used blatant threats instead. “Recall, lads, if ye will, that I do have some sway over the kitchen staff. Unless ye want to eat boiled straw and fried dirt cakes—again—ye will imagine this man is someone kent and admired, and ye will handle him accordingly.”

Dersey turned a baffled glower her way, possibly wondering why she cared.

But the Sinclair soldiers responded appropriately—Ailsa did not make idle threats, each one of them knew, reminded of the last time they’d ignored her instructions and of the poor meals they’d been served for almost a week until her brother had returned from the south. They lined up around the unconscious man and with greater care gathered his limbs, carrying him over to the waiting cart. When their heave to swing him into the cart just missed banging his head against the wooden bed, Peile swung a frantic gaze to Ailsa, fearful that she’d noticed.

“?Tis fine,” she allowed, since they had not struck the man’s head. “Make haste, please,” she said, collecting her cloak before she scrambled up into the cart herself, taking up a defensive position at the side of the vulnerable man. When Anwen approached, obviously meaning to ride as well, Ailsa bristled at her, recalling her treachery, revealing the man’s Englishness. “Ye’ll have to walk, I fear,” she said in a rare moment of pettiness. “Nae room for even one more. Mayhap bring that forgotten peat to Mallaig now.”

Anwen gasped at what was obviously meant to be a retribution, but she did not argue.

Dersey mounted his big red destrier and frowned down at Ailsa. “Ye yerself can take it up with yer brother, lass, whatever this sudden love of the English is to ye.”

Ailsa made a face at the captain but wasn’t wholly immune to fright. Her brother had no love for either strangers or the English specifically, and was known to be volatile, often reacting excessively. Tavis might lock her in the gaol as well for daring to bring this stranger into their home.

One problem at a time, she reminded herself, her gaze moving back and forth from the stranger’s face to the path ahead and the keep as it came into view within a few minutes.

Torr Cinnteag itself was a tall, square tower, built with thick dark gray stone, nearly blending into the surrounding cliffs, and streaked with moss, weathered from more than a hundred years of exposure to the rains and winds that blew across the deep loch. They crossed a stone bridge which spanned a natural gorge, creating a choke point for anyone approaching the fortress, making it nearly impregnable by direct assault. Just beyond the bridge stood the gatehouse, fortified with a heavy, iron-bound gate, flanked by two towers where the castle guards stood watch. Just inside the gate were the stables, housing the laird’s horses and those of his officers, and beyond that, adjacent to the main keep, sat the chapel, where Father Gilbert said daily prayers. The stone chapel was simple but solid, with a carved wooden cross and many Gaelic inscriptions merging Christian faith with ancient symbols of protection favored by the Sinclairs.

Ailsa sent a longing gaze toward the chapel, a bit of eager relief flooding her when, as if on cue, Father Gilbert emerged from the arched doorway, his psalter curled in his hand and tucked against his chest.

She didn’t want the Englishman sent straight to the dungeon, as her brother or Dersey would no doubt insist. But she knew, too, that no guest room in the keep would be allowed for him. The chapel, however—more specifically, the chambers at the back where Father Gilbert lived—offered a solution. In earlier times, when the Sinclair lands had been more populated, those rooms had housed other religious figures to tend the flock. Now, they were rarely used, quiet and sheltered, and, Ailsa imagined, perfectly suitable for a weary, and surely harmless, traveler.

“Father Gilbert,” she called out, waving her hand to summon the priest as the cart came to a stop near the doors to the keep and the main hall.

“Now dinna be disturbing the cleric with yer nonsense,” Dersey grumbled loudly as he dismounted.

“A person in need of attention is nae nonsense,” Ailsa chastised the captain. She scooted out from the cart’s bed, landing on two feet, her cloak bundled in her grasp and not on her person though the cold was beginning to seep through to her bones. “Father Gilbert,” she addressed the priest again as he neared.

The priest approached, his brow furrowed, his sharp eyes moving from Ailsa to the unconscious man sprawled in the cart. Originally from England, Gilbert had once studied at the University of Paris before returning to serve as rector in Nether Wallop, Hampshire. Despite his intelligence and dedication, again and again he’d been denied appointments because he’d been born illegitimate. Decades ago, he had met Ailsa’s grandfather at York Minster, during the enthronement of the archbishop on Christmas Day, 1279, and the two had struck up an enduring friendship. When Maraug Sinclair had offered Father Gilbert the role of rector at Torr Cinnteag ten years after their first meeting, the young priest had accepted, eager for a place where his birth would not be held against him.

Though Father Gilbert and Dersey were of a similar age, they could hardly have looked more different. Dersey, with his long, gray-streaked beard and gravelly voice, had a permanent air of irritation. His hair, what little remained, lay thin and unruly atop his head, adding to his rough appearance. Father Gilbert, by contrast, was always impeccably groomed. His clean-shaven face and the neat black hair framing it lent him a certain solemnness, further emphasized by his calm demeanor and thoughtful gaze. Where Dersey’s voice was loud and more often than not edged with impatience, Father Gilbert’s tone was ever soft, measured, and soothing—meant for counsel, not commands.

Ailsa spoke quickly, hoping to cut off Dersey before he could make any damning statements about the stranger. “Anwen and I found this poor man on the road. He collapsed nae long after, but nae before pleading for our help.” She moved closer to Father Gilbert, clutching the sleeve of his woolen tunic in a gesture of desperation. “Dersey insists he should be taken straightaway to the gaol, but Father Gilbert, that’s as good as a death sentence for a man who’s likely committed nae crime. Though it appears he might be English, he seems lost more than dangerous. Ye won’t let him suffer for that, will ye?” She paused, her gaze searching his face. “The chapel chambers, the empty ones, would be far better suited for an innocent man, aye? Ye’ll see to him, won’t ye?” she asked, trusting him to take on the role of caretaker as he so often did in Torr Cinnteag, where they lacked a formal healer.

“Your brother and I travel to Torwechwhy tomorrow, lass,” Father Gilbert reminded her gently, “where we hope to make progress in the peace talks with the MacLaes.”

Sweet Mother Mary, how could she have forgotten? She had been dreading these talks, knowing they would likely include some discussion of marriage—namely hers, to the younger MacLae son, Alastair.

Behind her, Dersey grumbled. “The laird willna go for it, nae that it’s the priest’s decision to make,” he muttered.

Ailsa turned, shushing him sharply. “It’s nae your decision either, Dersey.”

The captain scowled, but Father Gilbert merely raised a hand to restore calm. “Fear not, lass,” he said, his voice gentle. “Our departure does not mean we abandon all goodwill. Naturally, the man should be housed in the rectory. Margaret and Mary from the household can tend to him—but not you, Ailsa,” he added pointedly. “Your brother will object as it is, but he can be placated knowing you’ll have no contact with the stranger. English, you say?”

Ailsa nodded, feeling the weight of defeat settle. “We believe so, from the few words he spoke.”

Father Gilbert nodded thoughtfully. “All the more reason, then, to keep your distance. And perhaps,” he added, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Dersey, “the captain and the laird might be further appeased by stationing a few guards around the chapel. A simple precaution.”

Managing to contain the heavy sigh of disappointment that wanted to come, Ailsa nodded again, conceding to Father Gilbert’s suggestion. At least the man would receive some care, even if it did not directly involve her. “If you will supervise the transport of the man to the rectory, I will summon Margaret and Mary to attend him.”

“I will,” Father Gilbert assured her.

“And I’ll be alerting yer brother of the situation,” Dersey advised at the same time.

The urge to stick out her tongue at the captain was strong but Ailsa resisted. “Ye do that, Dersey,” she snapped. Her skirts twirled around her as she spun and marched toward the keep.

***

Cole woke to the unsettling sensation of being poked and prodded. Blinking against a dim, flickering light, he registered two young women standing over him, both intently focused on his arms and shoulders. They were dressed in old-fashioned, modest clothing that reminded him of the Amish he’d seen back home—high-necked dresses, thick wool aprons, and linen caps covering their hair. One girl, likely no more than sixteen, had a round, freckled face, while the other looked older, maybe in her early twenties, with a dull expression on her long face.

Neither of them, he noted with a flash of disappointment, was the striking woman he’d encountered earlier in the snow.

As the girls continued their inspection of him, muttering to each other, Cole snapped out of his groggy confusion. He jerked his arm away when the older one reached out to touch him.

“What the hell? Who are you?” His words came out sharper than intended, and both girls froze, wide-eyed as he sat up.

It was then that he realized that he was in a bed made up with heavy furs and that he was shirtless, his bare chest exposed to the chilly air in the stone-walled room. Frowning, he lifted the fur blankets, discovering that he’d been stripped down to his boxer briefs. Horrified, he spotted his clothes draped over the arm of the younger girl—his jeans, shirt and sweater, and coat clutched tightly to her chest.

Cole extended his hand, alarmed now by how weak he felt. “My clothes,” he demanded angrily, wondering why they’d felt the need to undress him.

At his barked command, the girls backed toward the door, the younger one glancing nervously at her companion, who tugged at her sleeve to hurry her along. Within seconds, they were gone, leaving Cole alone and pissed, painfully aware of how vulnerable he was, practically naked in a strange room.

As the door closed with a faint thud, Cole let out an exasperated breath, glancing around the small, dim chamber. It was more of a cell, with rough stone walls and barely any furniture—the narrow cot under him, a small wooden table and stool, and a heavy iron candlestick on a ledge in the wall.

He saw no vents, no radiator, no source of heat at all beyond the furs draped over him and a small fireplace, where coals burned but no flames blazed. The only hint of the outside world came from a sliver of a window high up in the wall, just wide enough to let in a thin stream of cold air. The opening had no glass, and through it, he could see that daylight was gone, as there was only the grayness of an evening sky visible.

"Great," he muttered to himself, slumping back against the thin pillows, feeling an unwelcome wave of dizziness. His mouth was dry, and his head ached—symptoms he knew probably meant he was dehydrated. He strained to remember how many days he’d been out there, separated from Tank. At least two, he thought, though it was hard to tell. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything substantial since then, save for a few freezing gulps of stream water.

Minutes passed, stretching into what felt like an eternity in the cold, quiet room. For a while, he watched the candle slowly burn down, noting how much shorter it had become. He wondered if it might be possible to track the passing hours by watching its progress, but he had no sense of how much time an inch of melted wax might represent—was it an hour? More than that?

He was just beginning to nod off, despite the cold discomfort and unnerving weakness, when the door creaked open again. He tensed instinctively, eyes darting toward the movement.

He wasn’t sure how he knew, certainly when the figure remained in the shadow of the open door, the hall beyond pitch black, that this was the woman he’d met earlier, the gorgeous one with the unforgettable face.

She crept carefully into the room, now cast in the warm, flickering light of the lone candle, hardly more than a shadowy figure. Earlier—today still?—he’d been almost instantly captivated by her, how ethereal she’d seemed, so vibrant with life and color against the backdrop of white snow everywhere. A wild mane of dark hair had blown round her face, dramatic against the pale skin dusted generously with freckles and her soft, full, pink-red lips. Her nose had been pink as well, an effect of the cold, but it had been her eyes that had truly struck him—clear and piercing, a startling bright blue that had somehow reached him across the snowy distance. Now, in the candlelight, that blue vividness was subdued, softened to a glimmer beneath her long lashes. What had been bright and intense by daylight was now tempered, her gaze shaded by curiosity and a guarded caution, where earlier there had been more an unfiltered interest.

Feeling an unexpected surge of hope at the sight of her, though he didn’t fully understand why, Cole slowly sat up as she cautiously stepped further into the room, leaving the door open.

Like this afternoon, and like those two girls who’d swiped his clothes, she was dressed in a long gown, one that fell all the way to the floor. He wasn’t exactly an expert on fabrics—or women’s fashion, for that matter—but he could tell her clothes were finer than the others. The fabric looked heavier and more tailored, with a subtle pattern woven into it that he thought might be some kind of plaid or tartan, and her sleeves flared in a way that struck him as... old-fashioned? Definitely not something he’d ever seen outside of a period drama on a movie screen.

The other girls had worn simpler, rougher-looking clothes, like work uniforms in an Amish community or something you'd see at a Renaissance fair, with plain aprons over basic linen dresses. But this one... her dress seemed more elaborate, like it was designed to be worn by someone important.

“I should nae have come,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “But I wanted to see for myself that ye...how ye fared.”

“Who are you?” It was his most pressing concern, afraid she might disappear, leaving him to kick himself for not knowing her name or how to find her again if something even stranger happened that what already had.

She stopped, several feet away from the foot of the bed. The candle was now behind her, putting her face in shadows.

“I am Ailsa.”

“Elsa?” He repeated, struggling to understand her thick accent.

She nodded, but repeated her name, pronouncing it just a little bit differently, so that it sounded like Al-sa .

“I’m Cole,” he introduced himself. “Cole Carter. Did you bring me here?” He asked.

She shook her head. Her dark hair, which earlier had been whipped about by the wind, was tamed now, pulled away from her face in a subdued knot, not a strand out of place. As gorgeous as she was right now, a golden vision, Cole decided he almost preferred that earlier, outdoor Ailsa, and that wild and windswept look.

“I did nae—I arranged it, of course, but I could nae lift ye. The guards did so, conveying ye from the Little Forest to the chapel.” She pointed over her shoulder, where presumably, the chapel was.

No, she wouldn’t have been able to move him. She was petite, possibly five-three at the most, and slim. At six-three and weighing 220, he was at least a foot taller than her, and he would guess more than a hundred pounds heavier.

“Did you say guards?” She had her own personal security?

“Aye, the castle guards.”

Only a few answers had come his way, but he was not enlightened at all, only more puzzled.

He rubbed his hand over his forehead and then through his hair. “I guess I’m more confused than I thought. Castle, chapel, guards—what is this place? Where am I?”

The first part of her response was incomprehensible to him spoken in a rush, words jumbling together. But he did catch fragments and bits of it. “Your brother, I got that. He didn’t want me brought here—you got into a bit of trouble.” Cole shook his head, feeling simple and stupid. “I’m sorry, I’m really struggling to understand your accent. I don’t know what a laird is, or that other—are you saying torsion ?”

“Torr Cinnteag,” she repeated, slowly this time.

“And what is Torr Cinnteag?”

“This is Torr Cinnteag,” she responded, the hint of a smile curving her mouth as she opened her arms to include all the room. “And beyond—the castle, the village, the farms, the land. My brother is laird...um, chief of everything that is Torr Cinnteag.”

All right, they were getting somewhere. Her brother was a big shot, maybe the mayor or whatever Scotland’s equivalent was.

“And what? He doesn’t like outsiders? Helping people? That he gave you shit—sorry, gave you grief for bringing me here?”

She shrugged and downplayed his concern. “?Tis done.”

“You didn’t happen to see another man, did you?” He asked hopefully. “About my size? With darker hair, tattoos, kind of looks like he belongs in a biker gang? He was wearing a bright red sweatshirt and navy coat.”

“Ye were alone,” said the beauty. “And the guards have nae found another within the boundaries of Torr Cinnteag.”

“Within the boundaries? Okay, so how big is this...town? City?”

“Aye, Torr Cinnteag. Sinclair land. Thousands of acres, it is. Ye were nae alone? Lost yer friend as well as yer way?”

“Honestly, I haven’t seen him in more than a day. We were separated when... on the mountain.”

“Ye were separated from Rosie as well?”

“Rosie?” His brows knit, wondering how this woman would know of Rosie.

“Yer wife? Or lover?”

His frown deepened before he made a face that might have been interpreted as, Ew . “Rosie? What? No, why would you—?”

“Ye cried for her, wept her name.”

Mildly offended, Cole challenged, “Okay, I’m sure I didn’t cry. I didn’t weep for anyone. Rosie is my aunt,” he explained. “I mean, yeah, I’m a little worried about her. I know she’ll fly into a panic when she doesn’t hear from me. What did they do with my phone?”

“Phone?”

“My cell phone. Is there wi-fi here?”

Her blank look was eerie, and nearly made the hair rise on the back of his neck. “My phone was in my pocket. I couldn’t get reception out there the last few days...where is my phone?” He asked, a bit of panic encroaching.

“I dinna ken phone .” She moved to the small table across the room, drawing Cole’s gaze. “Here is what was recovered from your person—”

“That’s my phone,” he said, holding out his hand as he recognized it. And then, stricken with frustration over his own behavior, as if he couldn’t move, as if she should bring it to him, he frowned and threw back the covers, swinging his feet over onto the floor. He stood quickly, a little desperate to get to the lifeline of his phone. But he’d moved too quickly and was instantly lightheaded, wobbling on his feet. At the same moment he realized how weak and unsteady he was, he was also reminded that he was wearing only his boxer briefs.

“Shit,” he said, falling back onto the bed, planting his feet on the cold floor beneath him. He took a deep breath, trying to salvage his equilibrium—and his modesty, flipping a corner of the fur over his lap.

A quick glance at Ailsa revealed her lips slowly parting as her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the fur. Oddly enough, at the moment she reminded him of that actress who’d been paired with Orlando Bloom in the pirate movie—what was her name? She’d also starred in Pride and Prejudice . Cole only remembered the title of that one because he’d watched it back in high school as a favor to the girl he was dating (brownie points, he’d been trying to score). He’d approached it with more than a little prejudice, and—if he was honest—pride, considering himself too macho to watch what he deemed was a chick flick. However, he specifically recalled the actress for being easy on the eyes, making the whole thing surprisingly bearable.

Cautiously, Ailsa stepped forward, biting her lower lip, holding out his phone to him, holding it gingerly with two fingers as if afraid it might bite.

The light inside the room was certainly dim but he could have sworn a blush crept up her cheeks as she seemed to studiously avoid eye contact with him, her blue eyes fixed on his chest.

Keeping his gaze locked on her face, Cole blindly reached for the device, his fingers brushing hers as the exchange was made. Ailsa swallowed and took two steps backward.

Cole cleared his throat. “Is there wi-fi?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “As I dinna ken what that is, I fear there is nae.”

“An internet signal?” He asked, having believed that wi-fi was a universal term.

Again, to his great consternation, her expression said she had no idea what he was talking about.

Cole sighed, realizing it didn’t matter. Either the battery in his phone was dead or it had been snow-covered and now broken, but it wouldn’t turn on.

He lifted his troubled gaze from his useless phone to the woman, noting once more first how gorgeous she was, and then how she was dressed. What the hell? Between this cold, dreary room and the lack of heat, the way the few people he’d met were dressed and the lack of internet, or even knowledge of it...if he didn’t know better he might have guessed he had stumbled upon an ancient clan of Scots’ people who disavowed modern conveniences. Either that or he’d somehow found himself in another century.

One idea was as improbable as the other.

“I will have Margaret return with a tray,” Ailsa offered, backing away more until she was near the door. “Like as nae, ye need to eat to regain yer strength.”

He nodded absently, a million more questions swirling in his head.

“Ailsa,” he called as she went to the door.

She turned and arched one dark brow.

“Please don’t...” leave me , he wanted to say, but was reluctant to sound so pathetic. “You’ll come back, right?”

She smiled and Cole’s frustration over his lingering confusion briefly dissipated.

Christ, she was gorgeous.

“Aye, sir. I will return.”