Chapter Eight

Cole woke to a thin strip of light streaming in through the narrow, frosty window of the small rectory bedroom. The cold had crept in despite the heavy woolen blankets and furs piled on top of him, and though it wasn’t bright white, he thought he saw his breath above him as he stared at the timber ceiling. A surge of disappointment swept through him, and he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Last night he’d fallen asleep hoping that he’d wake up back in his own bed at home, or even at the hotel in Scotland, finding that the last few days had been some long and fantastic dream. But the stone walls, the simple wooden furniture, and the smell of the woodsmoke told him otherwise. This was still...wherever here was. He still hadn’t sorted that out. Or made peace with it.

He swung his legs out of bed and fumbled for his clothes, the same ones he’d been wearing since he got here, the only clothes he had. The jeans felt stiff, and his shirt carried a faint scent of greasy food and the hall’s smoky torches and fire. Last night, having no other choice, he’d turned his boxer briefs inside out. What he wouldn’t give for a washer, or a change of clothes. He might need to figure that out soon, though he didn’t know how on earth he’d manage it here.

Ailsa would know, he guessed.

Pulling on his clothes, he found himself lingering over thoughts of her, recalling snippets of the conversation with Ailsa over supper. Though she seemed a true part of this world, she had something almost modern in her spirit, a quickness and wit that fascinated him. Cole was fairly certain she’d tried as much as he had to hide the curiosity, and he’d found himself captivated by her small, amused smiles and the way she’d catch herself glancing his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. His confusion and anxiety over his situation was huge, but he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed being around her. She was intelligent, a little fiery, but guarded, as if she’d already learned to be careful with the people in her life.

Sighing at the thought of another day spent in a place and time that was so implausible and unfamiliar, Cole grabbed his coat and made his way through the narrow and low-ceiling hallway, stepping into the winter chill outside. He hoped that Ailsa might have worked something out to go out on another search for Tank, but didn’t know how to find her if she didn’t come to get him. Certainly, he didn’t feel comfortable enough to simply walk into the castle looking for her. Or, what? Knock at the door and ask to see her?

Cole sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets as he made his way outside. If he stayed idle too long, his thoughts would keep circling back to the bizarre reality of where—or when —he was. His thoughts were still tangled enough that he knew he’d better do something useful today until or unless he did run into Ailsa; he needed busy work. Back home he was better able to manage any concerns or uneasiness, usually with a hard run that left his lungs burning or a heavy session at the gym to clear his mind. When life on the field got intense or after a long, grueling shift at the firehouse, he’d always had an outlet. And on the worst days, he’d throw himself into a home project—something he could start and finish with his own two hands to remind himself he was capable, in control.

But here, none of those escapes were available. There was no punching bag, no gym, no projects to tackle. The best he could do now was to find something physical, something that would burn up the tension threatening to gnaw at him.

Almost immediately, he noticed a small group of men standing by the outer wall. He approached the group bent over the corner of the castle, trying to figure out what they were doing. The discussion among the five men was not in English so Cole could only guess what they were about, but when he was close enough, he saw that the base of the castle was in need of repair, some of the stone having fallen away. His approach drew the attention of the group, turning one pair of eyes after another, several of them filled with cool suspicion or outright hostility, the least of which was seen on the young guy he recognized from yesterday’s search party group, Davey, who greeted him with a head nod and not half the wariness of the others.

“What’s going on?” Cole asked, inclining his head toward the corner of the castle. “Aside from the obvious, that the castle is crumbling.”

Davey shrugged. “Mayhap heavy rain has re-shaped the ground,” he said by way of explanation, “or the frost, the ice, has shifted all of it.”

“And you guys are supposed to fix it?” He asked, sending his gaze up along the great height of the wall.

“Aye,” replied Davey. “But Dersey dinna say how. We were now discussing mayhap ramming some larger stones into place there.”

Cole winced. He was no engineer, but he guessed that wasn’t going to work. “I think you might have to dig out all that sagging ground and replace that with more stone.” With his hands in his pockets, he shrugged as well, admitting, “But that’s just a guess, though I think it might prove more stable in the long run.”

Davey twisted his mouth in conjecture and consulted the guys with him, repeating what Cole had said, and then speaking in their language, possibly repeating it again for their benefit. A few of them nodded, even as none of them seemed to be pleased with the extra work. Seems they’d have been happy to take the easy route, simply adding more stone to the vulnerable base.

“If you have a shovel, I’ll give you a hand digging it out,” Cole offered. At the blank look of Davey and the others, Cole made shoveling motions with his hands. “Shovel? Dig? Spade?”

“Aye, spade,” Davey said, catching on, while at least one other nodded his understanding as well.

Fifteen minutes later, Cole bent over the smooth-handled spade, stabbing the ground repeatedly to loosen the packed earth. The section of the wall they were reinforcing showed clear signs of erosion, and his task was to remove the area where the ground had washed away. He’d called a halt a few minutes earlier when he realized the others with shovels were digging far too wide a section, risking more unnecessary work than progress.

“Hold up,” Cole had said, stepping into the middle of the activity. Drawing on his experience as one of the older players on the lacrosse team, he slipped naturally into the role of directing and correcting. Using the tip of his spade, he marked two rough lines in the ground. “We don’t need to take out that much. Just this section here.” He pointed between the lines. “Dig inward until you hit the stone, then we’ll pack in another layer of rocks before we cover it all with this dirt we’re pulling out.”

It might all be guesswork, but it seemed a solid enough plan.

The two digging men exchanged uncertain glances, but when Davey translated the plan—delivered with the same easy authority of someone who knew how to manage people as Cole had—they seemed to relax.

Even with the adjusted, smaller section, the work was grueling. The ground was a stubborn mix of clay and dense earth, threaded with shards of slate and chunks of stone. Every strike of the spade jarred his arms, and the cold bit into his hands. Sweat began to gather beneath his coat despite the frigid air, and the steady rhythm of digging was punctuated by grunts of effort and the occasional muttered curse.

It took nearly half an hour to prepare the trench. While Cole and the other two men labored to dig, Davey and the remaining workers fetched the heavy stones they’d need to reinforce the wall.

By the time they’d finished clearing the trench, Cole straightened up with a groan, pressing a hand to his lower back. He wasn’t sure whether it was pride or exhaustion that kept him from complaining out loud, but either way, the work felt satisfying. There was something deeply rewarding about using his hands to solve a problem, even one as foreign to him as shoring up a medieval castle wall.

He turned when he heard the sound of horses approaching, expecting that Davey had made use of a wagon and animals to move the stones. At the same moment he understood the noise was too loud to be only one or two horses pulling a wagon, he heard the gate being opened and turned to see a large group of riders coming into the yard.

Resting a hand on the handle of his spade, his gaze went to the open passage, watching as a group of mounted riders began filing in, their armor and cloaks stirring in the cold breeze. At the head of the procession rode Tavis Sinclair, his posture straight and commanding in the saddle. Behind him, a lean, older man in a dark robe followed—his presence almost austere compared to the armed men surrounding him. Cole realized this must be the priest Ailsa had mentioned, Father Gilbert, though he had little time to dwell on it.

His attention was riveted to someone else—Tank.

There he was, astride a powerful bay horse. Cole’s breath caught in stunned disbelief. His friend looked haggard but whole, his familiar broad-shouldered, canvas-clad frame a strange but welcome sight amidst the sea of medieval warriors. Tank’s face, however, told a story all its own. A livid bruise darkened one cheekbone, and his lip was split and swollen, stark red against his pale skin. At that moment, Tank lifted his hand and scratched at his nose, and Cole saw that his knuckles were scraped raw, as if he’d been in a fight.

Not realizing that he was frozen with shock, Cole watched as Tank dismounted—much more suavely than Cole had, by the way, except there was a stiffness to the way he moved that suggested he’d taken more than a few hits in whatever fight had made him black and blue.

“Tank?” Cole murmured, the word audible only to himself, hardly able to conceive what appeared to be true: Tank was here in the same impossibly foreign time and place, looking like he’d fought his way through hell. Shaking himself free of his shock, Cole tossed aside the spade and climbed out of the trench. “Tank!” He called.

Tank froze and searched the now crowded yard, lost briefly to sight by the number of men and horses between them.

“Cole?”

“Yeah,” Cole laughed, his mood and desperation vastly improved. Impatiently, he pushed men and horses out of his way and finally had a clear path to Tank, peripherally aware of all the watchful gazes, including that of Tavis Sinclair. He didn’t care, though, was so thrilled to find Tank alive.

Tank’s eyes widened and his expression became silently animated. Bruises forgotten, Tank opened his mouth in a huge smile and rushed forward to meet Cole. They embraced heartily, clapping each other on the back, talking at the same time.

“Christ, dude,” said Tank with obvious relief, “I thought you were either dead or left behind.”

“Jesus,” Cole exclaimed. “I was worried sick.”

Cheek to cheek, Tank whispered, “What the fuck is going on?”

“Sadly,” Cole replied, “probably just what you’re imagining.”

“Shit. Really?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” After one more squeeze, the men separated. “Who did this to you?” Cole asked.

Tank scoffed and threw his thumb over his shoulder, where Tavis Sinclair and many of his army stood watching.

“These fine gentlemen,” Tank answered and then smiled devilishly. “Took more than four to subdue me.”

Because Tank hadn’t been killed, and because he himself hadn’t been harmed as of yet in any manner, Cole felt bold enough to address Tavis, who had just dismounted almost twenty feet away. “This is my friend that I’d told you about. You felt the need to rough him up like this?”

Unaffected by the censure of Cole’s tone, Tavis shrugged. “He should nae have refused our efforts to assist him.”

Tank harrumphed once more, though Cole was surprised by how good-natured it sounded. “C’mon, Sinclair. Be honest. You’re heavy-handed with your efforts . Came with a bit more menace than you’re making it sound.” To Cole, he added, “I thought they were trying to kidnap me or something.”

A fleeting glance around the gathered and watchful soldiers showed a few faces looked similar to Tank’s, bruised and swollen. Yep, he’d put up a good fight.

“But all good now?” Cole asked quietly of Tank.

Tank waved off Cole’s concern. “All good.” He searched the crowd and pointed to a young kid who looked as pale as death and was burrowed in more than one heavy fur. “That pimple-faced brat went under, horse and all, into this huge crevice beneath the snow. Good thing I was there, or they’d still be peering down into the abyss, wondering how to get the kid out of there. Anyway, so Mr. Sinclair here understands I’m neither an idiot nor meaning any trouble.” He faced Tavis again and moved his finger between himself and Cole. “We save lives, that’s what we do. We don’t leave a guy behind.”

“We are appreciative of yer selfless efforts, sir,” Tavis acknowledged stonily. “And that is why ye live yet and have been allowed to be reunited with yer friend.”

“What a guy,” Tavis said drolly under his breath. He then glanced around again. “So what is this?” He asked Cole. “Aside from the obvious.”

Unable to help himself, Cole laughed. “Sadly, it is just that: the obvious. A medieval castle.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, without moving his lips, Tank said, “Dude, we need to talk about this—”

“Not here,” Cole advised.

“No, somewhere private,” Tank Agreed. “This is crazy.”

The door to the keep swung open, drawing Cole’s attention as Ailsa stepped out into the yard. She wore no cloak or wrap despite the chill, her posture straight and purposeful, but her gaze was what caught his attention. It swept over the gathered faces, lingering briefly on her brother with what Cole assumed was relief at seeing him returned safely. Tavis acknowledged her with a nod as he swept by her, pausing only briefly to say something quietly to Ailsa.

She did not follow her brother into the keep. Instead, her eyes continued round the crowded yard, this time landing on him. Cole’s breath hitched at the deliberate way her gaze found his, like she’d been looking for him. The small, almost shy smile that curved her lips didn’t fade, and for a moment, it seemed like they were the only two people in the bustling yard. He couldn’t stop the answering grin that tugged at his own mouth, his heart giving a quick, unexpected thud in his chest.

“Christ, who is that?” Tank whispered in awe at his side.

Cole’s smile froze, as awed by her as if seeing her for the first time, same as Tank.

“Be careful. That’s Tavis’s sister, Ailsa, aka off-limits.”

“Hmph, a full-time job for him, I’m guessing.”

“Undoubtedly.”

To both his surprise and delight, Ailsa stepped away from the castle, walking toward them, her gaze skimming over Tank, dressed similarly to Cole.

“Yer friend, I presume,” she guessed as she neared.

“It is,” Cole said. “Apparently, your brother found him in his travels.” He did want that private conversation with Tank, about how it had come about, where Tavis had found him, but it could wait. “Hank Morrison, this is Ailsa Sinclair, sister to the laird, Tavis Sinclair.”

Tank’s usual air of unshakable confidence faltered as he extended his hand, his movements slightly less smooth than usual. “Jesus,” he breathed, likely in response to Ailsa’s beauty. “I mean, a real pleasure, Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic hesitancy that reminded Cole of a bashful teenager rather than a battle-hardened Marine and veteran firefighter. His words almost seemed to carry an ‘aw shucks’ tone.

Cole blinked. Tank— aw shucks? The man who could walk through chaos like it was just another Tuesday and charm anyone in the room had suddenly been rendered nearly tongue-tied. Cole smirked, filing this away for later ribbing. Clearly, even the indomitable Hank Morrison wasn’t immune to a pretty face.

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Ailsa returned, her tone gracious but tinged with curiosity. Her gaze lingered on Tank for a moment, polite but assessing. “Cole was quite worried about ye. In another half an hour, we’d have gone out on our second search for ye had ye nae been delivered to us. Welcome to Torr Cinnteag.”

Tank nodded, his usual composure starting to return, the smile evolving being that practiced one Cole had seen used countless times with countless women. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Appreciate the hospitality.”

Coming almost immediately on the heels of his surprise over Tank’s mildly flustered manner, Cole couldn’t ignore the odd twist of unease that warred with his true happiness at having Tank here with him. Tank was Tank—charming, confident, and, well, notoriously good with women. And Ailsa? Ailsa was...different.

Cole had only known her for a day, but he already felt a pull toward her, something more than just admiration for her stunning beauty or her kindness toward him. He felt oddly protective of her, and he found himself hoping—no, silently willing —his friend to keep it respectful. He knew Tank meant no harm—he’d never cheated on Doreen, but he was single again. But Ailsa didn’t belong in the same category as the women Tank usually flirted with during their nights out back home. She was...more. More real, more innocent, more sincere. And the idea of Tank seeing her as anything less made Cole’s jaw tighten.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Cole felt a pang of guilt. He had no claim to Ailsa, no right to feel protective or territorial. Still, he couldn’t shake it. He wanted Tank to see what he saw—Ailsa’s quiet strength, her easy grace—and respect it, not ruin it with any of his usual antics.

Ailsa surprised him by bringing up—very directly— the secret Cole had shared with her, his suspicions that he wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

As the courtyard emptied, Ailsa leaned forward a smidge toward Tank and lowered her voice. “Do you also believe ye’ve traveled through time, sir?”

Tank stiffened, the question seeming to hit him like a blow. Very slowly, he asked, “What did you just say?”

“I asked if ye believe ye’ve traveled through time,” Ailsa repeated, “as Cole does.”

Tank looked at Cole, his jaw tightening. “What the hell?”

Cole sighed, the weight of his own confusion pressing down on him. “I didn’t tell her—well, I asked her the year. I needed to understand—”

“And I told him it was marked as 1302 presently,” Ailsa supplied helpfully, seemingly unperturbed by Tank’s sudden edginess.

“Thirteen hundred and two?” Tank repeated, his voice low and disbelieving.

“Apparently,” Cole said, when Tank seemed to look at him for confirmation. He was very familiar with Tank’s confusion, which he still grappled with himself. “It makes no sense, obviously, but... look around, it’s also the only thing that does makes sense.”

Tank’s face hardened, a flicker of anger and disbelief crossing his features. “You just believed her?”

Now Cole frowned, defensively of Ailsa, for Tank having just suggested that she lied. “Do you have a better explanation? Look around—at the castle, the people, the clothes. This isn’t...this isn’t right. It’s not our time.”

Tank shook his head slowly, running a hand over his bearded jaw. “No. No, it’s not possible. Time travel? Come on, man. That’s—”

“Crazy?” Cole finished for him. “Yeah, I know. You think I wanted to believe it? You think I don’t still wake up hoping this is some screwed-up dream? But don’t tell me you haven’t considered it, certainly not if you’ve spent even just a little bit of time with Tavis’s army. On horses. Carrying swords.”

Tank’s silence stretched for a long moment, his hands flexing into fists at his sides. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter but no less strained. “I don’t know what is... what happened, but yeah, I recognized that something was different.” He looked at Ailsa and seemed to measure her character with a hard gaze. “You’re not lying about what year it is?”

Ailsa shook her head, her expression softened by what Cole believed was sympathy for Tank’s sudden misery. Very gently, she said, “Ye are both troubled by this. But does the truth nae lie before ye? What ye see and feel—does it nae convince ye?”

“I don’t know what to think. But yeah, I considered it. But...but if this is real...” His voice trailed off, his words heavy with uncertainty.

Cole exhaled, his own confusion resurfacing. “If it’s real, Tank, then what? What do we do?”

A gasp from Ailsa drew their attention, but her gaze was focused beyond them, abruptly turning Cole and Tank around, ready to confront a threat.

There stood the solemn man Cole had noticed earlier, the one he thought might be the priest Ailsa had mentioned.

“Shit,” he muttered, widening the man’s already startled gaze, leaving Cole to assume the man might have overheard their quiet conversation.

“Ailsa, lass,” the man said calmly, his speech ten times more English than either Cole’s or Tank’s. “Come to me.”

Away from Cole and Tank, Cole guessed he meant.

“Father Gilbert,” Ailsa protested, “these men are nae dangerous. They are—”

“Deranged, would be my guess,” said the mild-mannered man. “A danger in itself.”

Cole took offense. “We’re not crazy,” he insisted heatedly. “We’re...just lost. And just as confused as you.”

“Who’s this guy?” Tank wanted to know, adopting an intimidating pose, the kind one assumed in a bar late at night when some drunk got out of hand. He straightened, lengthening his body to its full height, half a foot taller than the priest, and brought his thick hands together in front of him, cocking his head. Cole almost expected Tank to crack his knuckles in a sinister manner. It was all for show, of course. The priest and Tank had just traveled together with Tavis, so they must have met.

Ailsa stepped between the three men. “Father Gilbert, ye have nae been properly introduced. This is the man we found two days ago, Cole Carter,” she said, speaking quickly as if to ward off a coming fight. “He is returned to guid health and pleased to be reunited with his friend, Hank Morrison.”

The man didn’t so much as blink, though he did pass what Cole considered a sanctimonious gaze over both him and Tank. “And they are not deranged, though both believe they have come from another time?” He asked, not bothering to hide his doubtfulness.

Cole responded, trying to keep his temper in check. He didn’t like the guy’s self-righteous attitude. “Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But it’s true. I was born in 1995 and Tank—” he glanced at him, not quite sure what year he was born, unable to do quick math right now.

“1990,” Tank supplied.

The priest said nothing so that Cole felt compelled to explain what happened, and this time, Tank helped him out with the telling.

“We were hiking—” Cole began.

“It was right back there, where you guys found me yesterday,” Tank added.

“Everything seemed fine, normal,” Cole continued.

“Until it wasn’t,” Tank picked up the story. He questioned Cole, “Did you feel that, too? The way the air changed?”

“Yes!” Cole answered promptly, pleased to have this corroborated, having begun to wonder if he’d imagined it. “It was weird and then you seemed really far away, or like you were moving away—”

“Exactly,” Tank concurred. “Same. We were only a few feet apart, but it was like I was seeing you through binoculars. And then...nothing. I woke up, covered in snow, not exactly where we’d been, though I could see the mountain.”

“Yes. Same. I wonder how close we were, and if I simply went looking in the wrong direction?”

“I thought I’d die from exposure,” Tank said. “It’s fuc—pardon, Father—it’s freezing out there overnight.”

Cole nodded, having endured the same, though apparently one less overnight than Tank. “Jesus, man, I’m so happy you made it, that they found you.”

Tank grinned and nodded. “Dude, I’ve never been so confused or so certain of my own death before that.”

Cole understood completely.

As one, they turned to the priest to gauge his reaction.

“Nineteen hundred?” He questioned softly. “’Tis unnatural.”

Cole seized on this as well. “Exactly. That’s what I said to Ailsa.”

He was treated to a fairly dark glower from the priest, and had the impression the man did not like how easily her name rolled off his lips, how familiar it made them seem.

Ailsa inserted herself again into the conversation, clearing her throat first. “I might suggest—Father Gilbert, do ye agree?—that we nae say anything of this to Tavis.” She glanced at Tank. “Or...is it too late?”

Tank shook his head. “No. He asked a lot of questions—you were there, you know,” he said to Father Gilbert. “I told him I was an American. I assume now he appeared to think I was lying since America isn’t even...discovered yet.”

Cole watched the priest while Tank answered, trying to discern his attitude. “You don’t believe us?” He guessed, and wasn’t surprised. He’d be riddled with skepticism if their positions were reversed.

Father Gilbert didn’t immediately respond, his eyes flicking to Ailsa, who was looking at him with a mixture of concern and hope.

The priest took a deep breath, clearly weighing his words carefully.

“Believe you?” he echoed, his voice thick with skepticism. “That is a hard thing to do, young man.” His gaze hardened slightly. “I have spent my life in service to God, not to whims or fantasies. Traveling through time... is a fantastical thing to claim.”

“But why would we lie?” Tank asked, his voice rough, challenging.

Father Gilbert didn’t look at Tank immediately, his eyes fixed on the ground for a moment, as if pondering. “Lying... no. But what you speak of—what you claim—it does not fit into any truths that I know. It is not natural.” He paused, his voice softening, “And yet, Scotland is a land full of strange happenings and tales—some may say cursed, others enchanted. But even so...” He sighed and met Cole’s eyes. “There was a rumor, not long past, of a woman who married a northern laird. Word spread of her... dealings with demons, witches, and her ties to another time.” The priest shook his head as if to dismiss the thoughts, but the unease remained in his voice. “I thought it madness, then. But now...” He trailed off, glancing over to Ailsa, as if to gauge her reaction. “I’m not a fool,” Father Gilbert continued, his voice taking on a more cautious tone. “I have seen enough in my years to know that there are things—unexplainable things—that can happen in this land. Whether you believe in them or not, there are mysteries here, and to dismiss them outright would be foolish. But that does not mean I believe everything I hear.” He folded his hands together, eyes narrowing. “However....”

Cole leaned forward, pressing, “However?”

Father Gilbert hesitated, his fingers tightening around each other. “If your story is true, then you are in grave danger. The laird—Tavis—would not entertain such madness. He might rather guess you are spies or agents of the English. And if not that, he might decide you are cursed and bring ruin to this keep.”

Cole felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. “So what do we do?”

Father Gilbert’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You say nothing of this...time-traveling nonsense. If you must offer an explanation, you tell him you are from Spain. Far enough away to explain your strange ways and mannerisms, but not so far as to draw suspicion.”

“Spain?” Tank muttered, exchanging a look with Cole.

“Yes, Spain,” Father Gilbert said firmly. “It is the safest, most plausible option. And if you are wise, you will keep your heads down and draw as little attention as possible.”

Cole nodded slowly, the priest’s words sinking in. “We’ll be careful. You won’t even know we’re here. And you’ll keep our secret?”

Father Gilbert hesitated again, his gaze piercing. “For now. But mark my words—if I suspect you mean harm to this place or these people, I will not hesitate to act.”

Cole exchanged a glance with Tank, and the two men nodded slowly. They were still caught in a web of confusion, and apparently one of danger, but the priest’s warning made sense.

Father Gilbert turned to leave but hesitated, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Ailsa. “And you, lass, are no fool. You know your brother’s nature. His protectiveness over you burns hotter than any fire in any hearth. If he sees you lingering too often in the company of strangers—these strangers—he will take notice. And when he does, it will not end with mere questions. It will bring scrutiny they evidently can ill afford.”

Ailsa opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a hand to stop her. “Do not mistake my meaning. I do not doubt your intentions, only your foresight. If you care for their safety—and your own—you must tread carefully, meaning you must distance yourself.”

Cole shifted uncomfortably but said nothing, sensing the truth in the priest’s warning. Ailsa’s lips pressed into a thin line, her chin lifting slightly in defiance, but she didn’t argue.

Satisfied that his words had sunk in, Father Gilbert straightened and pulled his cloak tighter around him. “Come along, lass.”

Again, Ailsa looked as if she wanted to argue, but eventually bowed to the priest’s command, sending a half-smile to Cole and Tank before she followed Father Gilbert into the keep.

Cole turned and met Tank’s wide eyes.

“We have to get out of here,” Cole concluded.

“Yep,” Tank agreed. “Preferably, before we get killed.”