Chapter Six

There was no denying the thrill of freedom Ailsa knew whenever Tavis left Torr Cinnteag. With her brother gone, there was a precious quiet in the air, the weight of his watchful gaze lifted, allowing her to feel unencumbered, almost light. She relished it—the chance to wander as she wished, to linger over the small tasks and visit with those in and around the keep without him worrying over her every move.

And yet, invariably, as the hours ticked by, certainly if he were gone for any length of time, days or weeks, a pervasive disquiet would inevitably set in. Without Tavis’s constant presence, Torr Cinnteag somehow felt...exposed, as if something vital was missing from its stone walls. His absence cast a shadow, not because she depended on him to feel safe but because his presence was such an integral part of what made the keep feel safe. And though his vigilance sometimes bordered on stifling, she understood the strength behind it, the command he brought to their home.

Today, however, she was nearly giddy with her brother’s absence. If Tavis were here, she would never be allowed to assist Cole with any search for his friend. But, in order to help Cole, she would have to abide by certain rules. Tavis would fuss when he found out—little ever escaped him at Torr Cinnteag, thanks to his ever-watchful soldiers, whose clacking tongues and keener ears might rival a flock of sharp-eyed ravens, and Anwen, her maid, who never failed to report to Tavis things she deemed worthy of his consideration. Nothing stayed hidden for long, and no tidbit of news or rumor went unreported. Ailsa knew her best chance to escape her brother’s censure was to arrange the particulars of the rescue to Tavis’s liking. She would need her maid present and a suitable number of guards to accompany them. Tavis would lock her in her chamber if she ever dared to venture outside of Torr Cinnteag by herself—and with a man who was a stranger to them and who was so much a mystery.

It took her twenty minutes to track down Cole Carter’s clothes. Curiously, she found them in the rectory’s larder. Supposing that Margaret or Mary might have considered his clothing strange, and possibly soiled from his journey, either of the cautious maids might have been the one to hang them about the larder to air out. Ailsa suspected this might have had something to do with a vague belief that the garments might have been imbued with foreign energy or bad luck—both Margaret and Mary subscribed to such foolishness—and had hoped the coolness of the larder might have cleansed them properly. His shoes were there as well, sitting innocuously on the packed-earth floor just inside the door.

Ailsa wrapped up everything tidily and returned to the chamber he occupied. Meaning to allow the undressed Cole Carter to maintain his pride, she rapped at the door and announced she would leave the bundled clothes and his boots just outside the door.

“Come to the courtyard when ye are ready,” she called through the door.

With that done, she set off to find Anwen and Dersey and make further arrangements for the day.

Fifteen minutes later, Ailsa arrived in the courtyard, accompanied by a protesting Anwen.

“Enough to be done indoors where it’s warm,” Anwen was squawking in Ailsa’s ear, “and here ye are, wanting to traipse around the countryside looking for a man ye dinna ken—as if the cap’n could nae manage the search hisself.”

Ailsa did not respond to Anwen’s grousing, knowing that the maid would complain also in the middle of summer, arguing that the sun was too strong, or that flowers attracted bees, or that no sane person would be traipsing about in such heat. To Anwen, any weather was an inconvenience, and any task outside her usual routines was cause for concern.

“And what’s more, it’s nae just that we’re wastin’ the day, but a full party we need to keep after ye, makin’ sure ye’re safe! And for what? A stranger—"

“A person who might be in danger,” Ailsa interrupted gently. “A person in need is one worth helping. Is it nae our duty, as decent folk, to see to those who may be lost or in danger?”

Anwen harrumphed and asked, “Aye, ye’re nae one to let one in need go wanting, but would this have anythin’ to do with currying favor with the decadent man?”

It didn’t, not really. But God, how Ailsa wished she’d never described her feelings about the look of Cole Carter to her maid. Ignoring Anwen’s question, she asked instead, “Were it one of our own, would we nae be pleased for any kind stranger who helped them?”

Anwen sighed dramatically but fell silent, though Ailsa could feel her maid’s disapproving gaze at her back as they continued through the courtyard.

Dersey hadn’t been any easier to convince, the old captain grumbling in much the same manner as Anwen—what a pair! Ailsa’s argument that it was the decent thing to do hadn’t carried so much weight as when she’d said she would simply arrange the effort herself and go without him.

But Dersey was among those gathering in the courtyard, he and half a dozen men as she’d requested. Horses were ushered out from the stables, their hooves kicking up small clouds of dirt and snow as they were led to waiting soldiers.

Ailsa weaved her way through the throng of men and horses, moving toward the chapel at the south side on the courtyard, and the rectory behind it. She donned her gloves as she went, having grabbed those along with her heavier, hooded mantle and her sturdier, warmer boots. She didn’t get very far before she spied Cole Carter emerging from the small door of the rectory that opened into the bailey.

He did not see her immediately. He’d just stepped outside and stood in profile, dressed now as he had been when first she’d seen him yesterday, just before he collapsed. Ailsa stared with some bewilderment at his clothing. The material of his close-fitting cloak was bright and unlike any fabric she’d ever known, seeming too thin to be of any protection against the cold. Because she’d seen the items hanging in the larder, she knew there were several tunics, having delivered three items with sleeves. She’d judged the several thin layers odd, and utterly inappropriate for the harsh Highland climate, where layers were thicker and more functional. And yet, he did not now appear to be cold. Compared to the footwear she was accustomed to seeing, Cole Carter’s boots, tied with multi-colored laces and having unusual smooth and shiny soles, wrought a curious frown from Ailsa, who wondered if they were made by artisans rather than craftsmen, or invented entirely by magic. Being both intrigued and perplexed by the unfamiliar shapes, textures, and the questionable functionality of his clothing, Ailsa interpreted his appearance as something mysterious, which naturally compelled her to consider his own implausible explanation, that he’d come from another time.

Though she continued toward the chapel, her steps had slowed considerably at the sight of him.

Cole Carter took in the courtyard scene with slow, sweeping glances, his expression shifting as the scene unfolded before him. Ailsa noted the subtle creasing of his brow, the way his gaze lingered on the fur-clad and helmeted men and restless horses as though he were trying to comprehend their presence in front of him. His mouth opened slightly, suggesting the need to question what he saw, but it closed again, and he remained silent.

But then he spotted her, and Ailsa’s heart flipped quietly as his expression lightened immediately, showing what she gauged as relief as he began to walk toward her with a purposeful stride as he closed the gap.

Ailsa recognized straightaway the almost mesmerizing contrast in his movement compared to those around him. Hale and hearty now, he moved with a confident, unhurried stride, his frame loose and ready. She noted the powerful build of his shoulders and his thighs in his strange, snug breeches, and at the same time saw that he lacked the stiff, burdened posture of men used to bearing the weight of armor. He walked with a casualness that was as foreign as it was captivating, his stride easy and fluid, yet perfectly controlled.

As Cole approached Ailsa, the relief she thought she’d noticed seemed to evaporate. He cast swift glances around the courtyard again and then over Ailsa’s shoulder, where Anwen followed. His jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He did not stop at a polite distance but came very close to her, causing Ailsa’s pulse to race.

He leaned close and kept his voice low. “This really is...1302?” he asked, with just enough caution to imply he was aware of the strangeness of the question. Taking a step back, he met her gaze. His eyes held hers, full of uncertainty but also a faint flicker of hope that she’d understand what he was grappling with.

Caught off-guard by what seemed a genuine bewilderment, Ailsa nodded wordlessly, and glanced around the courtyard, wondering what might seem strange to him. What did his world—some unimaginable future —look like? Born in 1995, he'd told her, which seemed as distant and mysterious to her as anything on the edge of a dream. Just as he gazed at the familiar sights of the bailey with an air of disbelief, she felt her own curiosity spark at the thought of this strange, far-off century, where all she knew and trusted would likely not be found.

As quickly as these thoughts came, she shook them off, silently chiding herself for even allowing the smallest flicker of belief in his wildly improbable tale. The idea of a man from another time—born nearly seven hundred years into some distant, unthinkable future—was nothing but an absurd fancy, she reminded herself sternly. In all likelihood, his recent illness, wrought by exposure to the harsh elements, had left him muddled, susceptible to fevered imaginings.

“But all will be well,” she assured him with as much sincerity as she could muster. “Dersey and the lads have assembled now and the search for yer friend will commence.”

Dersey had wrangled half a dozen lads, among them a few who were hopelessly enthralled with Ailsa. Rory, Colin, and Cian regularly vied for her attention with transparent eagerness. She did not encourage their interest, but she wasn’t above making good use of it if it suited her purposes.

The lad, Somerled, was present as well in the bailey, seated atop a borrowed palfrey. He showed no particular interest in Ailsa, the stranger in their midst, or the mission, but hummed a low tune, swishing his blade through the air above his head, more amused by his clever slashes than anything else.

"This beats drills, at least," he said to no one in particular.

Anwen snorted. "Aye, if ye’re looking to avoid useful work," she said tartly, her sharp tongue cutting through the morning’s chill. Unlike Ailsa, she didn’t spare Cole even a flicker of admiration. If anything, her narrow eyes seemed to weigh him as one might a three-legged goat, considering him more troublesome than he might be worth.

Another soldier, Domhnall, kept his gaze fixed on Cole, the watchful suspicion in his dark eyes an unmistakable contrast to the others. While he said nothing, his posture betrayed an unwarranted dislike of Cole Carter, as though waiting for the stranger to confirm his opinion. Domhnall could be troublesome, and she hoped he would cause her no grief today.

Ailsa moved toward the chestnut mare that had been brought for her. She placed her foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle with ease, the spirited horse tossing her head as if she, like Anwen, protested the idea of a long winter ride. Ailsa arranged the long folds of her mantle to cover her hose-clad legs, exposed by her position astride. Beside her, Anwen mounted a gentle, sturdy palfrey, her grip on the reins firm, her expression tight with displeasure.

Cole remained afoot, studying the lively horse brought to him by the stable lad. He looked at it skeptically, his attention divided between the saddle and the animal's shifting hooves. He hesitated, glancing up at Ailsa. “I can’t ride a horse—or rather, I never have.”

Ailsa blinked, momentarily speechless. Never had she known a man, not infirm or otherwise disabled, who was unable to ride. A flicker of doubt coursed through her, wondering if he jested, but his blue-eyed gaze seemed sincere.

Just then, Dersey approached, his discontented frown deep, suggesting he’d overheard Cole’s outlandish confession.

“What’s this?” Dersey’s gruff voice carried, his gaze shifting from Cole to Ailsa with obvious impatience.

Dragging her incredulous gaze from Cole, Ailsa hastily introduced them, having forgotten until now that they’d not properly met. “Dersey, this is Cole Carter, the man ye brought from the forest yesterday.”

Cole covered the space between him and the mounted Dersey, reaching up his hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice firm.

Dersey stared at Cole’s extended hand as if afraid it might produce a weapon from thin air, scowling as he circled his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Without a word Cole took a step backward, lowering his ignored hand. While Ailsa was embarrassed by Dersey’s mute hostility, Cole seemed unphased, more captivated by Dersey’s weathered face and imposing stature, his eyes bright with interest rather than intimidation.

“Anyway, thanks for what you did,” Cole said and turned his back to Dersey, effectively—and haughtily, Ailsa thought with a hint of a smile—dismissing the older man.

“Ailsa, I appreciate this, I really do,” Cole said, drawing her full attention, in part for how easily her name came to his lips, “but I don’t think this will work. I can’t ride a horse, and I wouldn’t expect you or these men to walk with me. I don’t mind going out on my own. If you can just point me in the right direction, either where you found me or where I might have come from...?”

“Canna ride a horse, he says,” came Anwen’s voice behind Ailsa, her tone derisive.

Ailsa’s fingers tightened on the reins of her own mount, unprepared for the unexpected pang that came with the thought of him leaving. She couldn’t fully explain it, but something in her balked at the idea of letting him search alone. If he found his friend, she had the unsettling notion they might not return to Torr Cinnteag—and that idea filled her with a strange, wordless disquiet.

“Nae, ?tis dangerous to go off on foot, and alone,” she determined. “Ye’ll ride double. We’re safer on horseback, sir.”

She turned and stared expectantly at the men waiting to accompany them, annoyed to find that each of them had found something suddenly fascinating to inspect on the ground or in the distance, deliberately avoiding her gaze and clearly uninterested in offering a ride to Cole Carter. Though Cian faced her, wearing a wince that suggested he was not keen at all with the idea of sharing the saddle with Cole Carter, Rory and Colin kept their gazes averted.

While even Anwen frowned with displeasure over the obvious slight, Ailsa rolled her eyes with frustration, and faced Cole again, directing her mare to sidle next to him. “Climb up. Ye can ride with me.” She removed her foot from the stirrup so that he might use it to mount.

“Och, Sweet Mary,” Anwen squeaked in dismay.

Domhnall spoke up as well, his tone curt. “He will nae!”

Dersey groused vehemently, “We can spare the horse—he’ll have to learn to ride as we go.”

“The laird would nae take kindly to— Jesu , lass,” added Cian, aghast at the very idea.

They’d each spoken in their own Scots’ language, but Ailsa wouldn’t have imagined that Cole Carter didn’t understand their objections based on their harsh tones.

She addressed Cian specifically, in English, ignoring the others. “If ye fear ye canna protect me from a lone male who is scarcely recovered from his weakness...” she began with feigned innocence.

At her side, Cole objected to her characterization. “I’m not weak,” he insisted, mildly offended.

Ailsa shot him a disgruntled look, willing to sacrifice his pride to make her case.

When no one offered any other objection, and after a cautious glance at Dersey, Cole shoved his foot into the stirrup and grabbed hold of the pommel in front of her, hauling himself up behind Ailsa. He landed with a bit of a bounce and Ailsa scooched forward in the saddle, hoping there was enough room for him. Even as she imagined she should have expected it, she stiffened when Cole’s hands landed on her hips, his fingers curling lightly into the fabric of not only her mantle but the léine beneath it.

Ignoring the fact that her cheeks were no doubt flushed once again with a furious blush, Ailsa turned what she hoped was an innocent gaze onto Dersey. “Shall we?” she asked.

The captain’s lips were thinned so dramatically they were lost entirely inside his beard. “Be the death of me, ye will,” he muttered. But he moved forward, taking the lead of the small party as they moved out through the gates of Torr Cinnteag.

Anwen, a proficient but awkward rider, fell into step beside Ailsa and Cole and made no secret of her inspection of him.

“Ye speak English well enough, Anwen,” Ailsa reminded her. “If ye’ve a question for him, ask him.”

“Nae query have I at this time,” replied Anwen imperiously, as if to impart that she would reserve judgment.

“We’ll start where we found Sir Cole yesterday,” Ailsa called out to Dersey, “and work from there to the south.”

“Aye, I ken what I’m about,” was called back.

“He’s not too keen on this mission,” Cole guessed, his voice close to Ailsa’s ear.

She swallowed against the tumult raised by the warmth of his breath tickling her flesh and hair. “In truth, he harbors a natural and relentless aversion to strangers.”

“Your brother seemed to share a similar dislike.”

“Tis nae to be taken to heart, sir, as in this—”

“Just Cole. I’m not...well, there’s no need for the sir .”

Ailsa thought quickly enough that this was likely true. A knight, deserving the sir , would have great experience on horseback. “Very well. But please dinna take offense to their lack of a warm welcome. ?Tis rare that strangers find their way to Torr Cinnteag, and then even more uncommon that they dinna bring trouble with them.”

“As I told your brother and if I recall correctly, as I said to you when I first saw you, I don’t mean any harm. I’m not dangerous.”

Oh, but he was, of course, but not in the way he implied or as Tavis and Dersey, and possibly Anwen and some of the Sinclair soldiers, feared.

Changing the subject, Ailsa inquired, “But what were ye and yer friend—”

She lost her voice and her thoughts as Cole extended his hand from her side, wrapping it around her middle. As he did so, he tightened his grip briefly, adjusting his position until her back was pressed against his chest. While staring straight ahead, Ailsa’s eyes widened and her body became rigid.

“Sorry,” he offered almost immediately. “I felt like I was about to tumble off the horse’s rear end. This is better.”

Ailsa swallowed, holding her breath. She wasn’t at all certain this was better.

“My friend’s name is Tank,” Cole said then, as if he’d not created so much tumult within her by wedging himself so familiarly against her. “That’s his nickname, anyway. Hank Morrison, known as Tank.”

Ailsa cleared her throat. “Very well, and what were ye and Tank doing that ye were separated and so far inside Sinclair land?”

She felt him glance around, as if gauging who their audience might be. He lowered his voice, and again his breath wafted warmly against her ear. “We’re simply tourists, visiting Scotland. We were out on a hike—Tank wanted to climb that mountain. But...something happened, everything got really weird.”

“What do ye mean?”

“The air was funny—I don’t know, like just different, but it wasn’t too heavy or too light. I can’t describe it, but suddenly, though I could see Tank—he was standing just a few feet away —he sounded like he was under water. Or in a barrel, really far away. It was hard to hear him. It makes no sense, I know. And then I lost my...I blacked out. And when I woke—it must have been hours later—I couldn’t find him anywhere. I wasn’t in the same place, wasn’t up on the mountain anymore. But nothing was familiar, and there were no tracks. Tank was just...gone, like he vanished into thin air. I spent half the day looking for him, and then as it got dark, I was trying to find the road we’d come in on, or any road. I wanted to get emergency services out here, a search party, but I never found any signs of...civilization. Nothing. You were the first person I saw in more than twenty-four hours.”

While he’d spoken, Ailsa had glanced frequently at Anwen, deciding that she was trying to eavesdrop but could not. Cole kept his voice low and with his face so close to her head, she believed the sour look Anwen wore said only that she couldn’t hear anything being said.

“I don’t know how much longer I’d have survived out there if I hadn’t run into you,” Cole continued. “So yeah, I’m really worried about Tank.”

“We’ll find him, I’m sure,” Ailsa said, but she wasn’t sure at all. The countryside around Torr Cinnteag was unforgiving, brutal and inhospitable. As much as Cole seemed ill-prepared for it, she wasn’t sure his friend would be much better able to survive it.

Cole was quiet for a few minutes before he spoke again. “Ailsa, some of these soldiers look pretty young. And you’re telling me it’s 1302, and they’re wearing swords pretty comfortably. Should I assume those swords aren’t just for show? That they’ve killed people? Even though a few of them don’t look old enough to vote?”

Ailsa glanced around at their escort, at Colin who was possibly already ten and seven. And Rory and Somerled, who might be a year or two older than that. They were the youngest, but certainly old enough to have slain another as needed.

“Aye. Mayhap without a war, they’d nae have killed another already,” she said, shrugging, “but possibly, they’re alive today because they did.”

“War?”

Ailsa frowned over the simple question. “Aye, the war.”

“There’s a war going on? Sorry, I preferred science and math to history in school. I don’t remember half of what we learned about world events in this time.”

“We are at war with England, sir—er, Cole,” she said, a wee bit prickly, part of her assuming that he only feigned ignorance to further his pretense. Pretending ignorance about such a costly and devastating war was simply beyond the pale. Ailsa's lips tightened, her temper flaring at the audacity of his question. The war—the war that had torn the land apart, that had claimed so many lives—was something no one in these parts could ignore, and she didn’t care at all for how nonchalantly he asked about it. Nonetheless, she was forced to qualify her answer. “At the moment, however, there is a truce. That is the only reason my brother is in residence. He’d been gone for more than two years until last February.”

“Jesus,” Cole breathed, a bit of wonder tainting the sound. “And these guys here—even these kids—they fought as well?”

“Aye. At Falkirk and Stirling Bridge—”

“Okay, those I’ve heard of,” he said with some excitement, seemingly happy to recognize something. “Well, admittedly, only since Tank and I had come to Scotland, but we did visit the Stirling memorial.”

“From where did you come?”

“From home. New York.”

“York?” She bristled. “Ye said ye were nae English.”

“I’m not.” He paused and blew out a breath, one of frustration “New York is in America. Although, I guess it’s another couple hundred years before that’s discovered.”

Ailsa laughed unexpectedly, which she supposed was done to conceal her confusion. “Discovered? What was discovered?”

“America, another country. You know what, let’s not get into that now. That’s another discussion for another day.”

Sensing he was becoming agitated, Ailsa remained quiet for a while.

The search took the group along the rugged path between the hills and the edge of the forest, their horses picking their way over rocks and uneven terrain. The snow, having stopped falling the day before, had begun to settle, but the trail Cole had left had already been trampled by the bustle of the Sinclair army’s departure earlier that morning. They had little to follow but the remnants of disturbed earth and crushed grass, barely enough to discern any signs of direction. The landscape stretched before them—rolling hills, patches of heather, and the occasional stand of birch trees whose bare branches creaked in the cold wind.

They traveled for several miles, crossing a small stream and ascending a wooded rise, from where the valley below unfolded in shades of gray and brown. A few birds flitted through the trees, their calls sharp against the stillness of the morning. As they pushed further, the trees gave way to open moorland, where the ground was boggy and treacherous. There were no signs of Cole’s trail here or any others, only the occasional print of critters and larger beasts.

At length, they had to consider that their search presently was fruitless and that the further away from the keep they went, the more they were exposed to danger.

As it was, Domhnall and Colin had been arguing about just that—continuing or halting the search—for the last few minutes. Domhnall wanted to give up while Colin suggested generously that they could at least carry on the few more miles to the larger crags.

“Ye two bicker like old hounds tied to the same post,” Anwen pronounced about their discussion.

When Dersey finally called a halt to the search, Ailsa felt a reluctant sense of agreement. It was clear they had come as far as they could. Had they found even the faintest trace of the man called Tank, there might have been reason to press on, to scour the land for any other sign of him, however small. But with no trail, no indication of Cole’s friend at all, the effort was really nothing more than a frustrating, hopeless endeavor.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said quietly to Cole as she turned the horse around as did the others, “that we could nae find your friend.”

“Me too. I don’t suppose it would be possible to search again tomorrow?”

Ailsa winced, knowing it would indeed be difficult to cajole both Anwen and Dersey a second time. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised him.