Chapter Five

As promised by the remarkable Ailsa—who he could not stop thinking about—the woman named Margaret returned, this time accompanied by a silent and stoic man, assumed to be one of those castle guards Ailsa had mentioned—also remarkable for carrying a sword and dressed just as peculiarly as everyone else he’d met. Margaret delivered a tray of bread and cheese, the latter unlike any variety he was familiar with, being soft but then kind of chewy and sharp in flavor.

They did not linger, and Cole’s clothes had not been returned to him, despite his request—he was angry that he hadn’t thought to ask the same of Ailsa, who thus far had been the friendliest and the most reasonable. As he ate, he let his mind wander, puzzling over what Torr Cinnteag could be and what could have happened to him. He didn’t remember hitting his head, but somehow, here he was...in some remote commune? A feudal reenactment village? A cult? He had no idea, but something felt very off.

Hours passed and though he wore only his underwear, the fur blanket was surprisingly warm, which kept him in bed for much of his wakeful time. Strengthened by the little bit of food offered and the bitter ale, Cole stood and checked the door, finding it unlocked. Because he had no clothes, he only cracked it open, but did not leave the room. Outside the door revealed only a narrow corridor swallowed in blackness. He investigated the bed, curious about how it seemed to sag so much, and found that it was constructed only of ropes strung taut across sturdy rails. There was no boxspring, and the mattress, such as it was, seemed to be nothing but a giant pillowcase filled with feathers and straw. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Cole imagined it would be if one spent more than one night on it.

Though he had no precise idea of time, the darkness and the stillness outside the window suggested sometime after midnight. With little else to do, he tried to sleep.

He was woken up next to the door banging open, which roused him instantly, same as the alarm inside the firehouse would when a call came in.

Cole shot up to a sitting position, heart hammering, as a towering figure filled the doorway, a wild, fur-clad character straight out of Game of Thrones , or an ancient Highland warrior as depicted in more than one statue encountered in his travels across Scotland over the last week.

The man was built like a bear, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a heavy, weather-beaten face partially hidden beneath a dark, unruly beard. Layers of furs draped across his shoulders and chest, looking as if they'd been skinned and stitched together by hand, the pelts still rough, the edges ragged. His boots, massive and rough-hewn, laced up over thick calves, and looked decidedly homemade, crisscrossed with leather ties that seemed almost primitive. A thick belt at his waist held a long, vicious-looking dagger, and incredibly, a long sword was attached to his hip. There was an air of absolute command in his stance, as if he had authority over everyone and everything in the room. Even as the man’s piercing blue eyes suggested he might be Ailsa’s brother, everything about him spoke of another time.

Cole couldn’t shake the feeling—one he’d steadfastly resisted for the last twenty-four hours—that he was living inside some medieval fantasy, and the longer he traded stares with this imposing stranger, the more he started to fear that wasn’t far from the truth.

Visited by this impressive man and feeling particularly vulnerable—essentially tucked in bed and wearing only his underwear—Cole’s most pressing concern was, what the hell was going on ?

While the man continued to study him studiously, Cole heard himself blurt out, “Christ, what year are you living in?”

The man’s response, delivered in a thick voice and accent, was a scathing, “English, are ye?”

Believing that the animosity against England was mostly a thing of the past to a great part of the population, Cole resisted rolling his eyes. But he did correct the man. “American. I’m a Yankee,” he added sarcastically, wondering if the label would be as distasteful to this guy as "English" seemed to be. After all, he’d come across places in the world where Yankee wasn’t exactly a compliment.

“How did ye come to be at Torr Cinnteag?” The man asked, coming to stand at the foot of the bed, his thick, caterpillar brows lowering to a glower.

“I was lost, separated from my friend,” Cole answered, confused by the sense he got—from Ailsa as well—that his trespassing was a huge crime.

The man fired more questions at him, one after another. Knowing he’d done nothing wrong, that he’d truly been lost and nearly desperate for the cold, Cole kept his answers short.

“Yer name?”

“Cole Carter.”

“Do ye spy or scout for an army or lord?”

“What? No.”

“To whom do ye owe yer allegiance?”

“My allegiance?”

The scowl deepened. “Do ye bear allegiance to either an enemy clan or to the English king?”

“No,” Cole answered, bewildered by what seemed evidence of a medieval mindset.

“Why do ye travel with nae weapon? And lacking proper attire?”

“I don’t...generally carry weapons—”

“Ye are a man of God?”

“I’m a Catholic, if that’s what you mean. What’s with the inquisition?”

Ignoring Cole’s curiosity, the man pressed on. “Do ye bring illness? Disease?”

“I do not,” Cole ground out, annoyed now, but not in much of a position to do anything about it—he was nearly naked, and this guy had a sword, and Cole had a crazy suspicion it was not only decorative.

“Do ye fight?”

“What do ye mean?”

“Do ye fight?” The man repeated, a larger hint of irritation darkening his tone. “Ye’re a braw man. Do ye use the sword? The bow? A hammer? Or do ye rely on yer fists?”

Christ, had he stumbled into some kind of underground Scottish fight club? Did something like that even exist? His head swam with strange possibilities. Were people being “rescued” in the wilderness here only to be thrown into some archaic trial by combat? More and more, he began to wonder if he were only hallucinating from dehydration or the cold. None of this made any sense—why would anyone expect him to know how to wield a sword or a bow? He was barely hanging on to a vague thread of logic that this was some elaborate dream, but a voice at the back of his mind whispered that this was real.

“I’m not looking for a fight, man. I was lost and dangerously cold, and...and admittedly, I’m eerily confused—”

“Ye frighten easily?”

Cole snarled at the man. “I don’t. I’m pissed about what you’re doing here, obviously trying to intimidate me, but I’m not afraid. I haven’t done anything wrong, I have no bad intentions, so unless you’re some cult leader trying to test me or meaning to detain me, I’d appreciate it if I could have my clothes back, and I’ll be on my way.”

He needed to get out of here. Something was definitely wrong with everyone he’d met here at Torr Cinnteag. A bunch of freaks, taking his clothes and wanting him to fight—well, not everyone. He couldn’t bring himself to lump Ailsa in with the rest. Ailsa was no freak.

“Yer clothes will be returned, though they serve little purpose. Nae guid here o’er the winter,” said the man, with an arrogance that was starting to annoy Cole. “Yer boots remain, and I’ll want ye to speak with the tanner about their construction. Ye appear earnest,” he decided, and then qualified, “or mayhap a fool. Time will tell, aye?”

Cole scowled darkly at the man. What the hell did that mean? “Seriously, man. I just want to get going. If I could just have my—”

“Ye’ve seen, have ye nae? Ye canna survive the forest, nae the mountains, nae at this time of year.”

Cole huffed his annoyance. “Well, I can’t stay here until spring. Doesn’t anyone drive into...town? Or some bigger city? Where is Torr Cinnteag? We hadn’t gone that far from Fort William.”

“We, ye say?”

“Yes. I was with a friend. Hank Morrison.” He was unwilling to express any weakness, but his concern for Tank overrode his own pride. “I’m worried about him. He was out there with me when...when we got lost.”

The man eyed him suspiciously, almost as if he were trying to decide if Cole were making this up, or more broadly, if he should trust anything Cole said.

Cole returned his stare, fury rising for being suspected of...of anything. Jesus, was this how they treated Americans in this part of Scotland?

“More snow comes, and if there is a man out there,” he said, inclining his head toward the door, “he’s likely lost to the elements by now.”

More annoyed by the guy’s imperious manner, and his dismissive attitude toward Cole’s rights and the prospect of Tank’s survival, Cole tried to turn the tables and began to question him.

“And who are you?” He asked, a bit of arrogance infused in his tone, as if the man were beneath him. It was a tough sell—again, sitting in his underwear, unable to stand.

A slow and deliberate smirk materialized on the man’s weathered face, as if he were amused by Cole’s attempt to shift the tide of their exchange. Squaring his shoulders, which made him appear larger, more formidable, the man finally introduced himself. “Tavis Sinclair, I am. Mormaer of Torr Cinnteag, laird of all the Sinclairs, beholden to nae man but the king of Scotland, whoever shall wear the crown, and to God above. And ye,” he said pointedly, his seemingly natural frown easing, “are nae the first stray my tender-hearted sister has brought to us.”

Not sure what he should make of that statement, or the reason it might have been mentioned, Cole did not respond before the door opened, and another man, similarly dressed in fur-covered woolen garments, tall boots, and wearing a sword at his hip, entered the room.

The man eyed Cole suspiciously as he approached Tavis, whispering something in his ear, to which Tavis bent and listened. His features sharpened into hard lines as the man spoke at his ear. When the man finished speaking, Tavis gave a single, decisive nod before casting a brief, appraising look at Cole.

“Ye’ll stay here, under watch, until we’re certain what to make of ye and yer vague tale.”

My tale? Cole thought, his own displeasure matching Tavis Sinclair’s.

Before Cole could respond, Tavis gave a low command to the man who’d entered, and with one last enigmatic look, he strode toward the door. The second man threw a hard, silent glance in Cole’s direction, which Cole supposed was meant to scare him, before he followed Tavis from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

This place is insane, Cole thought as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. If he didn’t figure out what was happening soon, he was liable to lose his mind—or worse, end up as some pawn in whatever strange game these people seemed to be playing.

Cole considered again the strange change in the atmosphere, when everything changed, and how nothing was as it seemed, or as expected since then. Shit, had he traveled back in time? Had he somehow, miraculously, stumbled through a worm hole?

Christ, listen to yourself.

This was real life, not some sci-fi book or movie. This wasn’t some elaborate virtual reality experience, and he sure as hell wasn’t dreaming. Every moment here was too vivid, too jarringly real. But if this wasn’t the past, or a hallucination, or some kind of medieval cult...then what was it?

He shook his head, frustration gnawing at him as he tried to make sense of the endless, strange details that surrounded him. The clothes, the swords, the archaic way they spoke—everything seemed to be something that might have been found on a history channel special or in an epic Hollywood movie.

Cole took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the rising panic.

What the hell was happening?

***

Ailsa rarely felt compelled to see her brother off when he left Torr Cinnteag, but this morning she made a point of being present. The courtyard was crowded with men preparing to leave, as Tavis was to be accompanied by several units of the Sinclair army. Busy barking out orders to his men, Ailsa hoped he didn’t leave her with any commands, specifically that she not visit the weary traveler she’d brought home and who presently kept a chamber in the back of the chapel. If Tavis expressly forbade her, she would have no choice but to obey. But if he neglected to do so, she might just have an excuse to pay Cole Carter another visit.

Though she appreciated her brother's intentions, his overprotectiveness was an ever-present burden, one that often frustrated her. Today, with him leaving to meet the MacLaes—likely to negotiate her marriage, she was painfully aware—Ailsa couldn’t help but wonder: if Tavis succeeded in seeing her wed, what would he do with all the time he now spent worrying over her? How would he bear not having complete control over her actions, her choices, her daily life?

She sighed softly as she made her way through the throng of men and horses toward her brother, her thoughts straying toward and staying with Cole Carter. Recently, her brother’s plans to secure a match for her had filled her with growing apprehension but she found that her concern over this matter had paled considerably in the last twenty-four hours, being overshadowed by thoughts of Cole Carter.

She sidestepped the swish of a horse’s tail as she passed and supposed one—any living, breathing female—would be hard-pressed to prevent her thoughts from straying toward Cole Carter. Repeatedly.

The man was unlike nay she had ever met. Foreignness aside, he was the most incredible man—person, mayhap—she’d ever encountered. She found it impossible to tear her gaze from him. Fancifully, she’d equated his voice to be similar to the feel of velvet skimming over naked flesh. The brilliant blue of his eyes was beyond striking. And though in all her twenty-one years she’d never had her head turned by a man’s figure—and living in proximity of an army of several hundred, she’d seen many—she’d been rendered frozen and speechless at the sight of Cole Carter’s bare chest yesterday.

In a moment of lingering awe, she’d said to Anwen that the man was decadent. She’d used that word. Decadent .

Her statement, which she’d instantly regretted, had sent Anwen into a near apoplectic shock. The maid’s eyes had widened dramatically, her mouth had hung open to the count of ten, and she’d stammered a string of unintelligible words before chastising Ailsa soundly and coherently, threatening to tell Father Gilbert of her sin of lust.

Ailsa had hardly been chastised but had insisted firmly that it was simply a matter of appreciation of natural beauty.

After that, she’d taken hasty leave of Anwen, leaving the maid alone with her visible skepticism.

Tavis had his back to her as she approached, checking his horse’s gear and fastening the flap of his saddlebag.

“Tav,” she called softly. Her use of the familiar nickname earned her his attention immediately. He turned, his expression softening as his gaze settled on her.

“Ye dinna usually see me off,” he remarked, his tone warm but slightly suspicious.

“I wanted to this time,” she replied, stepping closer. “Please be careful.”

Tavis's brow furrowed slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll nae face any danger with the MacLaes,” he assured her. “Their mormaer passed last summer, and the son who’s taken his place is a reasonable man.”

“That may be so, but danger is everywhere and are ye nae the one who proclaims that to me?” Ailsa countered. “The safest place for ye is here, at home.”

“I’m nae much use to ye or anyone else if I stay here all my life,” he said with a wry smile, but his tone turned serious as he continued. He narrowed his gaze at her, studying her. “Ye ken I might well return with the promise of a betrothal—ye to Alastair MacLae?”

“I ken,” she acknowledged, aiming for indifference. “I understand my role, brother.” She abhorred it, but she knew she had little choice in the matter.

“I’ll nae betroth ye, nae wed ye to a monster of any kind, nae to a man unworthy of ye.”

Ailsa hesitated, his words settling uncomfortably in her chest. The problem with Tavis’s vow was that she wasn’t sure he truly understood her—not as a person, not as his sister, not as someone with hopes and fears of her own. How could he possibly decide what she was worthy of, when he seemed to view her more as a chess piece than a flesh-and-blood woman?

Another, separate concern was that Tavis’s idea of what constituted a monster was far different from Ailsa’s.

The fact that he was intent on engaging her to Alastair MacLae said either that Tavis didn’t know her at all, or worse, that he simply didn’t care, and that he valued an alliance with the MacLaes more than her safety or her dignity. Alastair MacLae, it was no secret, was a man with predatory eyes, a man whispered about even in the kitchens and halls of the Sinclair keep. Ailsa had heard the hair-raising stories: of women cornered in dark hallways and kitchens, forced into silence through threats or worse. There was talk of one young maid who had vanished from his household altogether, her absence chalked up to family matters no one could seem to verify. And there were others—maids who’d been summoned to his chambers and returned pale and hollow-eyed, unwilling to speak of what had happened but clearly changed by it.

Presently, Ailsa forced a smile and reached for his forearm, patting it gently. “Just come back safely,” she said, her voice steady.

He nodded, his expression softening further. “Aye, and so I will.”

As Tavis mounted his horse, Ailsa stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself.

The Sinclair banners fluttered in the cold morning breeze as the party began to move.

She didn’t wait long after her brother and the dozens of soldiers had cleared the gate before she turned and went toward the chapel, undeniably, childishly giddy with eagerness to see Cole Carter again.

***

The floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet as Cole paced the small room, one hand holding the fur blanket around his shoulders, the other raking through his hair. Morning light spilled through the narrow window, its brightness doing nothing to banish the chill in the air or the confusion gripping him.

His thoughts chased each other in circles, none offering answers. He still had no idea what kind of place this was, where he’d wound up, and his worry over Tank was growing by the minute.

He stopped, pausing near the window to listen to the unfamiliar sounds. Outside, he could hear faint voices carried on the wind and the occasional clatter of hooves, the latter seeming to grow distant.

A knock at the door startled him, spinning him around. He turned, tightening the blanket around him. “Yeah,” he called, his voice raspier than he’d intended.

The door opened slowly, revealing Ailsa. Her gaze swept over him—barefoot, disheveled, and wrapped in the fur like a makeshift toga—and she arched a delicate brow.

“Good morning,” she said, a slight smile softening the wariness he thought he saw in her gaze.

“Morning,” he muttered, adjusting the blanket with a flicker of self-consciousness. Realizing that the fur draped over his shoulders left his legs—and far worse, his crotch—exposed, he decided it might be wiser to prioritize modesty. With a quick motion, he let the fur slide down, rewrapping it securely around his waist, much like a towel after a shower.

“I thought I might check on ye,” she continued, stepping farther into the room and letting the door close behind her. “Ye seemed...adrift, yesterday. Are ye feeling better?”

He hesitated, the weight of his bewilderment pressing against the fragile dam holding back his panic. Was he feeling better? Not even remotely. But he couldn’t bring himself to say that aloud, not yet. “Better,” he lied, forcing a faint smile.

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Good. And are ye warm enough?” She glanced around the small room. “Och, I said to Margaret to return your clothes. She has nae?”

“She has not.”

“Ye are hungry as well, nae doubt?” She asked and then bit her lip, awaiting his response, suddenly more shy.

“Yeah, I am, but Ailsa...” he paused, something of greater concern than his hunger itching at him. It would sound ridiculous, but he couldn’t not ask—he needed to know. “Ailsa,” he began again, his voice tighter than he intended, “I have to ask you something—and it’s going to sound ridiculous, but...”

She waited, her expression softening, arching a brow. “Aye.”

He hesitated, rubbing a hand over his face. His pulse hammered. He met her cautious blue-eyed gaze and simply spoke the words. “What year is it?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Year? ?Tis thirteen hundred and two. Why would ye—?”

Cole didn’t hear the rest. Her words hit him like a blow, and his legs buckled. He staggered back over to the cot and sat, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Panic clawed at his chest, and he gripped the fur at his waist with one hand and the edge of the bed with the other, his fingers rigid and curled, trying to anchor himself.

“Sir?” Ailsa moved and was at his side in an instant. Her voice was tinged with concern. “Are ye unwell?”

He waved her off weakly, squeezing his eyes shut. “No—yes—I don’t know. Just...give me a second.”

The air in the small room felt impossibly thick, the walls pressing in. He fought to stave off the rising tide of panic, the sting of tears threatening to betray him. God, he hadn’t cried in years, and now—now of all times—he couldn’t lose it.

“Sir?” she probed gently, kneeling before him.

Cole lifted his gaze to her, wondering what his expression looked like that caused a small gasp from her.

“1302?” He repeated. “You’re not lying to me? You’re not joking?”

Ailsa shook her head, and a few strands of her hair slipped from beneath her hood, falling across the rich fabric of her cloak. Cole’s attention was riveted by her, specifically her cloak.

The fabric was heavy, coarse but well-woven, and faintly textured in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. It lacked the smooth perfection of modern textiles, seeming handmade, with small irregularities at close inspection. The stitching, too—rough, uneven, but clearly done with care—looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit, not around her body. The fur lining the collar and possibly the interior, looked imperfect—real—not like the faux fur that was familiar to the twenty-first century.

Absently, he reached out, hesitated, then let his fingers brush lightly at the wool at her shoulder.

Ailsa’s brow furrowed in confusion and it seemed she held her breath, but she didn’t stop him. He dropped his hand, staring at the fur wrapped around his own waist. It was supple but raw, the kind of hide more likely to come from a pelt cured by hand than anything mass-produced.

The panic surged again, mingled with a reluctant, dawning realization. Nothing around him belonged to the world he knew.

His throat tightened. “What the hell?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

He scowled fiercely and rubbed both hands over his face, his fingers digging hard into his flesh and eyes.

He stayed like that for a long moment. Even when he stopped trying to rub disbelief from himself, he sat with his hands over his face, trying to make sense of it.

“What troubles ye?” Ailsa asked quietly after at least a full minute had passed. “Perhaps if ye speak of it, I can help.”

Despite himself, Cole barked out a laugh. He dropped his hands, one of them returning to the fur, meaning to keep that in place. He met Ailsa’s compassionate gaze.

How the hell could she possibly help?

He laughed again. “Here’s the kicker—yeah, I’d love to run this by someone, but...Christ, there’s no way in hel—er, sorry, no way on earth you would ever believe me.”

Ailsa responded without hesitation. “But if ye say something true, why should I nae believe ye?”

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

And then laughed some more. “It’s that easy? Okay. Fine. Here it goes. And this is the truth—I’m from another time. I mean, I was born in the year 1995, and somehow, impossibly, I’ve been brought back in time to...now.”

She stared at him, for a moment looking like he no doubt had a moment ago, utterly confounded.

And then she flashed a nervous but still gorgeous smile and rose from her haunches. “I understand now,” she said mildly. “Ye’ve said that to show me how na?ve I am to imagine that people tell the truth at all times. I only meant that ye dinna personally strike me as one who told fibs. I am nae entirely gullible, though.”

Wilted by defeat for a moment, Cole allowed his shoulders to slump. He did, however, announce that he’d proven his point. “There, I have told the truth, and you have found it impossible to believe so how am I...?” He stopped and blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t even know what questions to ask, what discussion to have, who to talk to about this.”

Ailsa returned his stare and bit her lip again. “I find Father Gilbert’s counsel to be most effective. Aye, he’s critical and does nae spare one’s emotions, but he counsels wisely, listening with a benevolent ear and advising most cleverly.”

“You think I should speak to a priest about this very strange...” he paused, waving his hand, searching for the right word, “ unholy thing that I’ve somehow done.”

Cole had never been overly religious, but whatever had happened to him didn’t feel like something God would have had a hand in. In fact, it felt like the exact opposite—unnatural, maybe indeed unholy. Time wasn’t meant to bend or break, wasn’t meant to send people spinning backward through the centuries. There was something off about the whole thing, something that made him feel like he was messing with forces beyond what any human should touch. If there was a divine plan, surely it didn’t involve throwing a man into the past like a rag doll.

Cole considered the impossibly beautiful Ailsa and the very evident doubt of her expression.

“You don’t believe me,” he guessed.

Tilting her head to one side, she asked, “Believe ye? About yer...predicament?”

“Yes, my time-traveling predicament.”

“I...” she began with great hesitation. Evidently, she would attempt to spare his feelings, and refused to outright say she thought he was nuts, or that he lied.

“You said I only needed to speak the truth, and you would believe me and here you are, in the same conversation, expressing an offensive disbelief.” He hadn’t intended to speak so sharply, but the weight of his bewilderment and the edge of rising panic bled into his tone. While he was captivated by her, his own predicament did override any interest in Ailsa. He didn’t want to alienate her—he needed her help.

“Ailsa, is there any way I can get my clothes back? The big guy—he said his name was Tavis—”

“My brother,” she supplied.

“Yeah, well, he said he would return them but he hasn’t”—huge BS, by the way, taking his clothes away from him, over which Cole was really pissed about, but he wasn’t going to argue that with Ailsa—“and I need...well, I can’t stay here in my underwear. I need to leave. I need to find Tank.”

“But ye are nae well enough—”

“I am,” Cole insisted. “I’m fine. I was definitely rundown by cold, hunger, and exhaustion, but I’m fine now. I thank you for what you’ve done for me, but I need to find my friend.”

“Ye...ye will need my help with that as well, I believe.”

“Yeah,” Cole conceded, never having felt so helpless as he did at this moment. “Yeah, I do.”