Chapter Nine

Not knowing what else to do after Father Gilbert and Ailsa left, and with the courtyard nearly empty, Cole led Tank to the small room he’d been given at the back of the chapel. Tank followed, his broad shoulders brushing the edges of the narrow hallway as they walked. But as they passed the open door to the chapel itself, Tank stopped short, his jaw slack as he stared into the dimly lit interior.

“Unreal,” Tank muttered, his voice low and reverent.

Cole glanced back, recognizing the same awe he’d felt when he’d first peeked inside. The chapel, though simple, was steeped in an otherworldly atmosphere that brought home the extraordinary concept of being in another time.

The interior was constructed of rough-hewn stone, the walls cool and damp to the touch, their uneven surfaces bearing the marks of crude tools. Wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, darkened by years of smoke from the iron sconces that held flickering candles. The chamber smelled of wax, damp earth, and faint traces of incense, lending the space a weighty, spiritual feel.

At the far end, an altar stood, draped in a coarse woolen cloth embroidered with a simple cross. Above it, a tall but narrow stained glass window let in a thin stream of winter light, casting a pale glow over the rough-hewn crucifix affixed beneath the window. Benches made of unpolished wood lined the nave, their surfaces worn smooth by countless worshippers over the years.

Tank shook his head, his usual unshakable demeanor replaced by something close to wonder. “Feels ancient,” he said as he backed out of the chapel.

Inside Cole’s borrowed room, while Tank now took in these sparse surroundings, Cole asked for a full accounting of what had happened to him. Sensing his friend needed warmth as much as he needed to talk, Cole bent at the fireplace, stoking the fire and adding another clump of peat. “I’m listening,” he said, straightening as the flames leaped higher.

Tank joined him at the hearth, extending his hands toward the growing warmth. For a moment, he stared blindly into the fire, the flickering light casting sharp shadows on his face. “Like I said, I woke up—had to have been out for a while ?cause I was covered in snow—and started looking for you,” he began, his voice low. “Problem was, nothing looked familiar. I didn’t pay enough attention to my surroundings at first, so I had no clue which way I was going.” He flexed his fingers toward the heat, a frown tugging at his lips. “I realized pretty quick I’d been walking in circles. After that, sorry to say, dude, finding shelter became priority number one. I holed up in a cave for two nights. Spent all day searching—for you, for food, for anything. Came up empty.” Tank shook his head and shrugged at the same time. “Then I heard them. Weirdest damn noise—didn’t even recognize it at first. Turns out it was a group of riders, galloping like bats out of hell. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Naturally, I ran the other way. But I was weak—too weak to outrun them.” He paused, his jaw tightening, the memory clearly unsettling. “When they caught up, they pulled swords—freaking swords. I had no idea what kind of medieval crap I’d stumbled into, but I knew I wasn’t going down easy. I fought back—what else could I do? Then everything changed when that kid got hurt, and I helped him. But it’s all good—well, me and them are good since I helped rescue that kid. But otherwise...everything else...”

Cole nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Briefly, he relayed his own tale, how he’d wandered near the castle and was discovered by Ailsa and another woman, but then had passed out. He advised what little had transpired since then, and then asked of Tank, “When did you start to suspect you...?”

“That I wasn’t in the twenty-first century?” Tank finished for him, his tone calm but tinged with unease. “Not right away, not when Sinclair and his army found me. But it didn’t take long after that. Just...everything. The way they dressed, the way they talked. The fact that they rode horses and carried swords instead of driving trucks and packing rifles. And the stuff they talked about—wars, feuds, kings...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It didn’t add up. Got me wondering.” Tank turned slowly, his eyes sweeping over the room. “But, Jesus...” he murmured.

“What?”

“I can’t—that is, I never...” He swung round a baffled frown toward Cole. “Would you ever have imagined?”

Frustration and confusion twisted inside Cole. He felt like they were missing something obvious, some logical explanation that hadn’t presented itself yet. “But it can’t be possible,” he insisted, desperation creeping into his voice.

And then, reminiscent of a happy scientist discovering something thought not to exist, Tank exclaimed in a whisper filled with awe, “It is, though. We’re here, living it, so it must be.”

Cole stared at him, concerned about Tank’s state of mind, what seemed now a dawning appreciation for what they’d accidentally, unknowingly done.

They discussed the possibility and probability for another entire minute, Tank willing to embrace it as real, while Cole fought with every fiber of his being to have it explained more realistically.

But then Cole recalled what he’d been doing at the moment Tank had ridden through the gates.

“Oh, shit,” Cole said suddenly. “I forgot—I was helping some guys repair the castle wall. You good here? I might guess a maid will come with food—they did when I first came, or rather when I woke up.” He glanced toward the slim window, which showed that it was still light outside, but graying a bit. “Actually, it might almost be time for dinner, which they have inside the castle.”

“I’m weak as shit,” Tank admitted, “but I can’t just sit around. He harrumphed a short but amused chuckle. “Castle repairs, huh? Who’d have thunk?”

“Kept my mind occupied,” Cole advised, justifying his own actions.

“That’ll do,” Tank reasoned. “Let’s go.”

The two men returned to the castle wall as the late afternoon light began to fade. Half the stones for the repairs were already in place, stacked and mortared inside the crevice that had been dug out. Tank, imbued with natural authority and not one to watch idly if he thought something could or should be done better, questioned the use of mortar, wondering if it would freeze rather than dry properly. Otherwise, still weak from days without proper food, Tank only casually directed the effort, leaving the heavy lifting to Cole, Davey, and the others.

“Good placement, but that gap’s going to need more mortar,” Tank instructed, pacing along the higher ground. He gestured toward a spot where two stones didn’t quite meet.

Cole nodded and stretched out his hand for the wooden bucket filled with mortar, and got to work on the area.

The entire job was completed less than thirty minutes later, and Tank offered his hand to pull Cole from the ditch while two of the Sinclair men filled and packed what remained of the ground they’d removed.

A young maid approached, her brown skirts brushing the ground before she stopped a few paces away, drawing Cole and Tank’s attention. She gave a polite curtsy before speaking, her hesitant English very thickly accented.

“Sirs,” she began, her gaze flicking nervously between the two strangers, “the laird requests your company at the head table for tonight’s meal.”

While Cole and Tank exchanged a silent communication that seemed to question the reason behind this, the maid added, “He awaits ye now.”

Cole quickly recovered, nodding at her. “Thanks. We’ll, uh, clean up and head that way.”

The girl gave another quick curtsy before turning and retreating back toward the castle.

“Probably wants to keep us where he can see us,” Tank said.

“Yep,” Cole agreed.

They returned to the room at the back of the rectory and set about making themselves presentable. A ewer of water sat beside the basin on a low wooden stand, delivered earlier that morning by a servant, same as yesterday. The water was cold by now, but neither man was in a position to complain. Cole splashed the frigid liquid onto his face, shaking off the chill as he used a rough cloth to scrub away the grime of the day’s labor. “Medieval luxury at its best,” he muttered, running damp fingers through his hair to smooth it down.

Tank chuckled faintly, but his movements were sluggish as he took the basin next. “Beats freezing in a cave,” he admitted.

Cole glanced down and swiped at a bit of mud and dirt on his jacket. “I’d rather not go to dinner looking like I was just dragged through a sewer.”

From behind the cloth as he washed his face, Tank said, “I just spent twenty-four hours with an army on horseback and I can assure you, there was little evidence of high grooming standards.”

Cole grinned, accepting this was probably true, and the two men made their way to the hall. From the chapel to the door to the castle was seventy-five steps, Cole counted, just long enough—and cold enough—that he wished he’d had a towel to dry his face. The dampness on his cheeks seemed to amplify the cold, making it feel as though shards of ice were pricking his skin.

Once more, the hall was dimly lit by flickering torches along the walls and a few braziers that struggled to push back the growing shadows of the evening.

But it was not exactly dinnertime, Cole realized, as only Tavis and three of his soldiers occupied the hall presently.

“Shit,” Cole cursed quietly without moving his lips.

Tank had the same ominous feeling. “Hmph. Interrogation first, it seems, and then supper.”

“Might be,” Cole agreed as they moved cautiously forward.

At the dais, Tavis Sinclair sat flanked by three of his officers, their painted liberally with curiosity and mistrust as they observed the newcomers. The laird’s sharp gaze followed Tank and Cole as they crossed the hall.

“Come,” Tavis called, his voice firm and commanding. When they reached the dais, Tavis leaned back in his chair, his piercing eyes narrowing as he studied them. “Strange men,” he said finally, his voice low but laced with suspicion. “Ye arrive, both of ye, with nae clear explanation. Ye dress, speak, and carry yourselves like nae men I’ve ever kent.”

Neither Cole nor Tank moved. Cole spoke first. “As I’ve said, and as it seems Tank has proven, we mean no harm. We were simply...lost.”

“And we appreciate your hospitality, Sinclair,” Tank added. “As soon as we’re able, or as the weather permits, we’ll be on our way.”

Considering their unusual circumstances, Cole wasn’t sure that was exactly true, or possible.

On their way? To where?

“But where were ye going? Ye hide something, I trow. I dinna ken what it is, but I ken ye are hiding something. What brought ye into my demesne?”

Cole’s mind briefly went blank, wondering what a safe answer might be. But what did he know about good excuses for trespassing in medieval Scotland?

“Looking for work,” Tank surprised him by answering. “The war has taken everything from us—our home, our family, even the land we worked. We’ve nothing to return to and no money to our name. We hoped to find honest work up north, rebuilding, repairing—whatever needs doing.”

Cole resisted the urge to turn and gape at Tank, even as he suddenly wondered who his friend was right now. A quick-thinking inventor of tales, it turned out.

Holding Tavis’s gaze steadily, Tank continued. “If we’ve overstepped by being on your land, we meant no disrespect. We were only hoping to survive, to find a way forward.”

Tavis raised a hand, suggesting he didn’t want to hear any more. He studied both men a moment longer before saying in a low and slow voice, “Ken this: ye are being watched. Guards have been posted round the rectory. If ye step out of line—if ye so much as breathe wrong—ye will be imprisoned. Or worse.”

“Understood,” Tank replied promptly. “But have no fear, Sinclair. You won’t have any trouble from either of us.”

Cole decided he didn’t care for Tavis Sinclair. He seemed too much in love with his power, as if he reveled in intimidation. Maybe it was simply part of his medieval lord’s mentality, but Cole didn’t like it. On the other hand, he could appreciate that he and Tank must be suspicious characters to any or all people they’d met.

Though he appeared still skeptical of them, Tavis sat up and indicated the chairs on either side of him. “Ye will dine here tonight but mind your place. Do naught to draw more eyes than ye already have.”

Cole and Tank exchanged brief glances, and Cole thought that like him, Tank was trying to keep unease from showing in his expression.

“You got it, chief,” Tank said agreeably before he and Cole rounded the table from the same side, approaching Tavis. Tank went behind Tavis, taking the chair to the laird’s left.

Cole was prevented from sitting directly on Tavis’s right by the hand swept over the arm of the chair there.

“?Tis where my sister presides,” he announced regally, pointing to the next chair. “Ye sit there.”

Cole had no problem with that, being removed from too close a proximity to Tavis, and then knowing that he would be able to enjoy Ailsa’s company this evening.

Cole had just resigned himself to the awkwardness of sitting at the head table when the hall began to fill with people arriving for the evening meal, their chatter and footsteps breaking the tense atmosphere. He noted something he hadn’t last evening, that people came not only from the main door to the hall, but from other passageways inside the keep.

Admittedly, he only noticed this because Ailsa was one of them, coming from an arched doorway to the right of the main table. She was followed by that other woman, Anwen, who was a curious person as she wore an expression that looked like she was constantly smiling, but her manner—at least so far that Cole had noticed—was neither welcoming nor particularly friendly. Cole watched as the robust Anwen cast her gaze over Tank as she walked past, wearing for a moment a new and different expression as she curled her lip in what looked like strong disfavor.

Little did he dwell on it, though, the maid and her silent disapproval, his gaze settling instead on Ailsa, who had changed for dinner as she’d done yesterday. He was as certain now as he’d been earlier, as he’d been yesterday and in every moment he’d spent in Ailsa’s company since he’d met her, that he’d never encountered a woman more beautiful. Her long dark auburn hair, loose and soft, fell around her shoulders and framed her face perfectly. She had those striking blue eyes—bright, clear, and impossible to ignore—that seemed to catch the light just right. She moved with an easy kind of grace, her skirts swishing faintly as she walked toward the table, and for a moment, Cole forgot where—and when—he was. She wasn’t just beautiful—though she was that, unquestionably—but she carried herself so confidently, so calm and steady, like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

When her eyes flicked his way, he felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but Ailsa had a way of holding his attention without even trying.

Strange, how so much of his awkward discomfort evaporated the moment she sat down next to him. He felt an undeniable lift in his spirits, and when she offered him a small smile as a greeting, he found himself returning it automatically.

“Good evening,” he said.

“And to ye,” she replied. With a quick glance at her brother seated at her left, finding him occupied speaking with one of his soldiers who’d come to stand in front of the table, she leaned incrementally closer toward Cole and said softly, “I apologize for having abandoned ye earlier. I kent it better to appease Father Gilbert by acceding to his wishes that I...maintain a distance from ye.” She straightened but quickly leaned closer again and added, almost as an afterthought, “And yer friend, of course.”

“No need to apologize,” he assured her. “I get it, the priest’s misgivings. Better safe than sorry.”

This made Ailsa turn her face rather swiftly toward him, her brows raised. “Will ye give me cause to be sorry, Cole Carter?”

The question hung in the air, layered and open to interpretation. Her intent wasn’t entirely clear, but the way her lips parted slightly, and the way her gaze lingered, told Cole enough. It was a challenge—a cautious probing of his intentions.

“I won’t,” he said firmly. “Not if I can help it. And not ever intentionally.”

As Ailsa straightened, giving her attention to the room, Cole found himself lingering on her words. Will ye give me cause to be sorry, Cole Carter? The question echoed in his mind, not just for its odd phrasing but for the subtle weight behind it. It hadn’t felt like an accusation or even a warning, and yet....

It was as though she’d acknowledged something unspoken between them. Could she feel it too? The powerful awareness of her had been there since the first moment he’d met her—her presence both soft and commanding, her gaze piercing yet guarded. There was no denying it now; he’d been and was drawn to her. But did she feel the same pull, the same magnetic undercurrent that made him notice every shift of her expression, every flicker of emotion in her eyes?

Cole’s chest tightened as a wave of reality crashed over him. What was he doing? What was he thinking ? He had no business imagining or examining a supposed connection with her—or anyone here, for that matter. He was a man out of time, separated from his world by centuries, maybe forever. Every second he spent here only reminded him of how much he wanted to go back to the life he knew: his job, his home, the people he’d left behind.

This... connection with Ailsa, or whatever it was, meant nothing. It was a bad idea to let it grow. He had to keep his focus on finding a way home, not on the way Ailsa’s smile had stirred something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time, or the quiet grace with which she moved, or the way her voice seemed to wrap around his name like she owned it. Those were dangerous distractions, and he couldn’t afford them.

Ailsa’s voice broke through the din of his puzzled reverie as servants began placing platters of food along the table. As she had the night before, Ailsa quietly identified each dish to Cole. “Roast venison,” she murmured, gesturing toward a platter garnished with chunks of meat covered in buttery herbs. “And there—spiced parsnips and onions,” she said, pointing toward another dish—unnecessarily, as Cole could easily identify the familiar vegetable. “They’re a favorite of the laird’s.” When another dish arrived, looking like a rich, golden-crusted pie, Ailsa’s face brightened with unmistakable delight. “Ah, bridies,” she said with some excitement. “Stuffed with minced meat and spices. These are my favorite.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. Though he was hungry, and the savory scent of roasted meat made his mouth water, he found himself more intrigued by Ailsa than the food.

“You must try one,” she urged, pulling the platter forward after Tavis Sinclair had helped himself.

Ailsa served him, generously giving him a much larger portion than she spooned onto her plate.

“Thank you.”

She graciously continued to fill his plate, and he hadn’t the heart to tell her he didn’t particularly care for venison. He knew he’d eat every bite, so as not to cause her any embarrassment, but he definitely wished she’d not been so generous with that serving.

When his plate was filled, Ailsa slid her hand onto the table between them. With a subtle motion, she pulled her hand back, leaving behind a small silver knife. “An eating knife for yer own,” she said softly, and with her other hand, she revealed another knife—the one she’d used the previous night.

Cole blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. Overcome by her thoughtfulness, and still a bit surprised by the absence of forks or spoons, he managed a warm smile. “Thank you, Ailsa. That’s... really kind of you.”

It struck him then how rare it was for someone to do something so simple, yet so considerate. Aside from his Aunt Rosie, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had thought of what he might need and offered it freely.

Having a sense that Tank was well occupied with both Tavis and Dersey on his far side, Cole allowed himself to enjoy dinner with Ailsa once more. However, and possibly her brother’s presence had something to do with it or maybe the priest’s warning, but she made fewer overtures, fewer attempts at conversation, seeming to want to be a part of her brother’s conversation with Tank.

Though disappointing, it was fine with Cole, as it was not his intention at all to bring focus onto himself, or worse, to rile either Tavis’s suspicions or anger. He wasn’t sure if his presence and Tanks had warranted the additional guards in the hall tonight or if the half dozen armed soldiers standing directly in front of the table, their backs to those seated, were simply Tavis’s bodyguards, and only routinely stationed to protect the laird.

At one point Tank’s voice cut through the ambient noise, “So,” he said, “what exactly is going on with this war?”

A hush seemed to fall over the head table and all heads swiveled toward him.

Tavis arched a brow, Ailsa glanced sideways at Cole, and Father Gilbert paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“The war,” Tavis repeated slowly, his voice laced with incredulity. “Are ye telling me ye dinna ken the state of the country? Of war? Or, God’s bluid, the price paid for it?”

Tank cleared his throat, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We...er, we come from a very small village. Hardly ever gets news.”

Dersey, seated next to Cole, leaned forward and sent a sharp gaze to Tank. “A village that kens naught of England’s invasion? Or of the decimation brought to us?”

“And before that,” Tank added quickly, “we were in Spain. That’s where we’re from.”

Cole resisted the urge to groan. Really? Okay, so he wasn’t meant for the stage, that was certain.

Tavis looked neither amused nor appeased. “Spain, is it? A curious path that led ye here.”

Tank shrugged, piling more bread onto his plate. “Long story.”

Dersey shook his head, muttering something under his breath before addressing Tank again. “Long story or nae, ye’re here now, and ye’d do well to listen.” With his eating knife held in a tight grip, his tone was both sharp and somber. “This war has torn the Highlands apart, this house against that house, thousands of ours killed or captured. Crops burned, villages razed. I’ve seen bairns left to die in the snow, their mothers hanged above them. The English march through the south like a plague.”

Tavis nodded grimly. “Dersey speaks true. The Sassenachs ken nae mercy. They’ve slaughtered families, destroyed homes. Those who resist are branded traitors. But Wallace and others fight on, rallying men, even after Stirling Bridge. He doesnae yield, and neither do we.”

Ailsa’s voice was quieter but carried no less weight. “The Sinclairs have suffered, too. We’ve given all we can to support the cause—men, food, coin. It’s never enough.” Her gaze seemed to drift, her expression softening.

Tank’s easy demeanor faltered, the weight of their words settling on him like a physical blow. “I didn’t realize...” He trailed off, uncharacteristically subdued.

Cole decided to jump in, hoping to redirect the focus. “What about your army?” he asked, looking at Tavis. “How do you keep fighting when everything’s been taken from you?”

Tavis took a long sip of his ale before answering. “With grit, lad. And with the knowledge that surrender is worse than death. Three hundred men we’ve given to the war. Three hundred, just me and mine. The truce could nae have come at a better time, but ?twill nae stay—they never do. We’ll be dying again come the spring.”

Father Gilbert nodded. “The English offer naught but chains to those who submit. Freedom is worth any price.”

The discussion continued, with the priest, Dersey, and occasionally Tavis and Ailsa contributing to paint a vivid picture of the relentless toll the war had taken over the years. They spoke of fields left fallow and villages emptied, the brutal losses at singular battles that took the lives of thousands of Scotsmen, and the constant specter of hunger during harsh winters. Stories of betrayal and shifting loyalties wove through their words, along with somber accounts of lives shattered by the conflict.

Eventually, conversation drifted to other subjects, and again broke off into smaller private discussions.

Being lucky enough to be seated next to Ailsa was only a small comfort to Cole. The weight of curious stares pressed on him, and he felt as though every move he made was under scrutiny. The low hum of conversation around the hall only heightened his unease, wondering if he and possibly Tank were the subject of some conversations. As the meal continued, he caught more and more glances, some speculative, others openly hostile, and his discomfort grew. He sat back in his chair and looked over at Tavis, a bit unnerved to find the formidable laird’s gaze already fixed on him.

Tavis Sinclair stared unabashedly at him, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. And though there was no hostility in his expression —no scowl or furrowed brow—the sheer intensity of his eyes was enough to make Cole’s stomach tighten. While he supposed the guy was simply taking his measure, this seemed more an interrogation than merely a glance.

A flicker of something unspoken passed between them, and for the first time since arriving, Cole felt the chill of vulnerability, as if he and Tank might actually be in danger here at Torr Cinnteag. Still, he met Tavis’s gaze head on, refusing to show vulnerability or to appear guilty of whatever Tavis might suspect of him.

Possibly, Ailsa caught wind of the wordless exchange. She sat back as well, creating a barrier between Cole and her brother. She spoke for a few minutes to her brother before turning and giving her attention to Cole.

“Ye are uneasy suddenly,” Ailsa said quietly, her voice just loud enough to reach him over the din.

He gave her a sidelong look, hesitating before responding. “Is it that obvious?”

She smiled faintly, a flicker of warmth lighting her eyes. “Aye. Ye shift like a man expecting an ambush.”

That hit closer to the mark than she might have guessed. Cole looked out over the crowded hall and again found plenty of people staring at him. The Red Wedding episode from Game of Thrones crept into his mind. His jaw tightened.

Ailsa tilted her head, studying him. “What is it?” she asked, her blue eyes alive with concern.

Cole decided to ask outright. He leaned closer to her, keeping his voice low. “Is this some kind of trick? This... supper? To gain our confidence, put us at ease, and then—” He hesitated, but pushed on, “—kill us?” He didn’t know why, but he knew she wouldn’t lie to him. Ailsa would tell him the truth. At the very least, he would see it in her eyes, he was certain.

Ailsa blinked at him, clearly taken aback. For a moment, she seemed stunned into silence. Then, her expression shifted. Shock turned to confusion, confusion to offense, and then to something colder. The veins in her neck pulsed as her jaw tightened.

“We do nae practice deceit, sir,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut. “If my brother wanted ye dead, ye would be so. Certainly, he would nae be breaking bread with ye.”

Cole winced at the whispered hiss of her tone, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “I didn’t mean—”

But Ailsa didn’t let him finish. She straightened her back, her expression unreadable. Whatever warmth she’d shown before was gone, replaced by a cool detachment. She turned her attention to her plate, and though she responded when spoken to, it was only in clipped, polite phrases.

He wanted desperately to take back his question, even as in his mind, it felt justified. His entire world was upside-down, nothing was as it should be, and he honestly didn’t know who or what to trust.

One last quip of, “Ailsa, I am sorry. It’s only my second day in this century,” fell on deaf ears as well.

By the time Father Gilbert arrived to escort him and Tank back to the rectory, Cole felt like an idiot. He replayed the conversation with Ailsa in his head, cringing at his own words.