by Davis, Dee
Cocking his head to one side, he concentrated on the musical sound, forcing his feet to move toward it, one slow step after another. Coming around a little stand of birch trees, he saw the creek. It wasn't big, but a couple of rocks had blocked the water's progression making a small pool.
Moving gingerly, he managed to skirt the rocks and kneel by the stream's edge. Cupping his hands, he filled them with water and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing more than his parched throat.
Below him the water sparkled in the dappled light, something at the bottom of the stream catching his eye. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached in and pulled it out, balancing the tiny knife in the palm of his hand.
The handle was ivory in color and striated with gray and black. Animal horn, the still functioning part of his brain whispered. The blade itself was brass or some similar metal. It was flat on one side and intricately carved on the other, sort of loopy curls and circles.
He looked around for its owner, but the clearing remained empty. Upon closer examination, he realized the knife had been in its watery home for more than a few days, its edges worn smooth by the rushing water, mineral deposits beginning to mar its intricate design. He started to throw it back, then hesitated.
Perhaps it would come in useful.
Not certain what to do with it, he searched his body, rejecting the belt in favor of what appeared to be a purse. There was no doubt a more masculine term, but his brain either didn't know it, or had buried it along with other pertinent information, like what the hell he was doing here in the first place.
Lifting the flap, he eyed the contents dubiously, discarding what looked to be a hunk of petrified oatmeal. He hated oatmeal.
Dropping the little knife in the now empty pouch, he flipped it closed, feeling as if the effort had cost him the last of his strength. The drummers, abated momentarily by the water, had returned in full force, and fighting nausea, he dropped down on a large rock, closing his eyes, the enormity of the situation suddenly overwhelming him.
An eagle screamed in the distance. And he marveled at the fact that he knew it was an eagle. Certain parts of his mind seemed to be working quite well. Which meant the injury to his brain was localized. Specific to only his memory.
Forcing his eyes open, he checked the discovery by naming the items around him. Birch trees, river rocks— granite and sandstone. Across the stream he recognized wild roses mixed with the purple of thistles, as well as the waxy green leaves of a rhododendron.
He knew that the material of this kilt was wool, and that he'd suffered hematomas. Obviously, the blows to his head had caused some sort of trauma. Hopefully temporary trauma. Although the little voice in his head whispered that there was no such thing. Lying back against the lichen covered rock, he ignored the voice, preferring, for the moment, the sanctuary of ignorance.
Eventually, he'd have to get up and face the music. Try and figure out what had happened to him and why, but right now the rock was warm and, if he held very still, the drums were only a faint staccato.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift.
What he needed was a little shut-eye. Just a few minutes and then he'd be on his way.
*****
Marjory walked through the gorse damning Ewen Cameron. The man had been the devil himself or at least the spawn of the same, and if she'd had her way she'd not be trekking through the mountains trying to find his body.
The sky threatened rain, the clouds so close to the ground now she could almost touch them. The weather in the mountains was always fluid, calm one moment, stormy the next, without so much as a by-your-leave in between. Pulling her plaid close around her, she stopped for a moment on an outcropping of rock, letting her eyes drink in the valley.
The lands of Crannag Mhór stretched below. The tower itself, situated on its islet in the loch, glistened white against the blue-black of the lake, the turrets already disappearing into the gathering mist. She breathed deeply, letting the cool mountain air fill her lungs.
This was her home, and she'd not let a Cameron take it away from her. Living in hell had always been a small price to pay for preserving her heritage.
Fingal stopped beside her, his large hand heavy on her shoulder. "We'll find a way, Marjory. We always do."
She nodded, comfortable with the fact that he could read her mind. Since her father's death it was Fingal to whom she turned. Fingal in whom she confided. At least about most things.
She forced a smile, looking up, comforted by the fierceness in his eyes. Fingal would protect her with his life, and she'd return the favor without pause. But, even so, there were things she could not share with him. Things she kept locked away tight in a dark corner of her heart.
"It's no' far now." He moved back, his gruffness meant to hide his emotion, but she knew him too well. "Just 'round the bend."
As if to underscore the point, Allen appeared from behind a jutting spray of rocks, his face twisted in anger. "He's no' there."
Fingal frowned, his hand automatically reaching back for his claymore. Marjory laid a hand on his arm, leaving it there until she felt him relax. "Maybe this is no' the place." They moved forward, flanked by two more Macpherson men. "Sometimes the mountain plays tricks." Crannag Mhór was an isolated place, many of its crannies and crags inaccessible to those who didn't know it well.
Fingal shook his head as they came to the foot of the cliff, rocks and debris clearly indicating a recent landslide. "This is where he fell."
Allen growled low in his throat, eyeing the older man. "What have ye done with him, then?"
"I've done naught." Fingal roared. "I left him here same as you."
Again Marjory stepped between the two men. She glared at Allen. "You know as well as I that there are wolves in these mountains. Anything could have happened to him." She narrowed her eyes, daring Allen to argue with her.
He glowered at her, holding her gaze for one beat and then another, and then with a snort, he turned away, walking over to his men, the division between the two groups, Cameron and Macpherson, symbolic of the ever widening gulf between the clans.
Ignoring both, she headed toward the burn. Solitude was always the best for thinking, let the men deal with the disappearance of Ewen's body. Fingal was always saying she lacked the sensibilities of a lady. So she'd use the fact to her advantage.
The flowers of summer were in fierce bloom, their color vibrant even against the mist. If it weren't for the fact that her dead husband had gone missing, she'd have stopped to revel in the beauty of the mountains. Her mountains. But there was no time for idling. She had to come up with a plan, and without a body it was going to be that much more difficult.
Coming out of a small stand of birch she walked toward the stream, and a large rock. A favorite thinking place since she was a child, it afforded the perfect view across the valley. Except of course when the mist hugged the ground. Then it was more like a cloister. Silent and safe.
As if in answer to her thoughts, a breeze rose, its gentle touch lifting the fog, revealing something lying across the rock. Something bulky. With baited breath, she crept forward, using the undergrowth to quiet her steps and shield her from view.
The mound began to take shape, and she recognized it for what it was. A body. She'd been right about the wolves. Steeling herself, she crept forward, torn between a desire to run back to Fingal and the macabre need to know for certain that it was him.
With a trembling hand, she pulled back a tree branch for a clearer view. It was indeed Ewen. Relieved, she released the branch and stepped into the clearing.
Suddenly, the body shifted. Marjory stopped mid-step, her heart jumping into her throat. She screamed as the body rose, the face all but obliterated by crusted blood. Flinching, she held out a hand, and shut her eyes tightly, certain that she was in the presence of the dead.
"What the hell?"
The voice was garbled, but definitely human. Alive. Marjory braced herself and opened her eyes. He stood there, st
aring at her as if she were the ghost, his left hand fumbling to open his sporran.
Involuntarily, she took a step backward, her head spinning, her hand still out as if to ward him off. It seemed the devil had alluded death yet again.
*****
Cameron closed his eyes and then opened them again, stupidly staring down at the young woman who had collapsed at his feet, out like a light. She was a tiny thing, her features as delicate as her frame. Ethereal was the word that came to mind.
He knelt beside her, trying not to jar his aching head, and lifted her wrist, automatically feeling for her pulse. It was rapid, but strong. Releasing her hand, he pushed the hair back from her face, surprised at how soft it was.
"Unhand her, or I'll slit your throat." The voice came from off to his left, and Cameron was certain that the owner meant every word.
He rose quickly, his head spinning with the action, hands raised in what he hoped was still the universal gesture of surrender. Pivoting slowly, he turned to face the voice, and immediately felt a shudder of alarm. The man before him was roughly the size of an oak, built every bit as solid, and he held the largest sword Cameron had ever seen.
Their eyes met, and the man blanched, the sword wavering for a moment. "Ye're a dead mon." His tone held a mixture of fear and awe, and with his free hand he managed the sign of the cross.
Cameron, hands still held high, took a step forward, and the man swallowed, but to his credit held his ground, the sword steady now.
"Be gone, spirit." The man waved his weapon threateningly.
Cameron, more than aware of his mortality, stepped back. "Your friend needs help." He spoke slowly, as if to a child. The man's English was garbled at best, and although Cameron understood him, it was obviously not his native language.
The sound of his own voice startled him, the tone deeper than he remembered, more guttural. Almost as if he, too, were speaking something other than English.
Ridiculous thought.
"Move away from her, Cameron."
The man knew his name. The thought was somewhat less than comforting, and Cameron searched his memory for some hint as to who he might be. He lowered his gaze to the sword. Obviously not a friend.
"I said move." The giant barked again, edging forward slowly, his narrow-eyed gaze fierce.
Cameron did as suggested, watching as the man inched toward his friend. "She's only fainted," he volunteered. "I checked her pulse and she's fine."
"Ye've no right to touch her." This last was hissed between gritted teeth. The big man bent down to touch the woman, who was beginning to stir.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God." Another giant rounded the corner, crossing himself in the same way as the first. The tangle of red hair, both on his head and face, left only a white swatch of face visible.
Again, Cameron searched for recognition, but there was nothing. Enemy or friend, these people were strangers to him, the idea far more frightening then the monstrous swords they held.
The woman was sitting up now, her gaze locked on him, her expression guarded. Pushing aside the first giant's offer of help, she scrambled to her feet, and moved toward Cameron, tipping her head first to one side and then the other, as she studied him.
"You're supposed to be dead." Her voice was low, the timbre velvety. It raked across him like a warm breeze, sending his senses reeling.
"That seems to be the consensus." Cameron glanced toward the two men, noticing they'd been joined by others, all sporting swords and kilts. Apparently he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in the middle of Braveheart. The only thing missing was the blue war paint.
Not a comforting thought, and not something he wanted to examine right now. The situation was puzzling at best, downright frightening at worst. And the truth was this wasn't the time for a meltdown. As if in contradiction to his thoughts, his head spun, black spots swimming across his line of vision.
"I saw you fall." Giant number one had moved closer. "There's no way you could have survived." He looked toward giant two for confirmation, and though it looked as if agreement was not in his nature, the man gave a brief nod, his gaze still locked on Cameron.
"Fingal, 'tis obvious that he has survived," the woman said. "And nothing we wish to the contrary will make it less than so."
Another vote of confidence. It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to be voted Mr. Popularity in this crowd. Cameron opened his mouth to tell them he wasn't who they thought he was. That in fact as far as he could tell, he wasn't anyone at all, but another look at the still drawn swords changed his mind. Best to find out the lay of the land before committing to anything.
Maybe there was a way out of this Scottish version of Deliverance, a hospital around the corner, or a nice cold beer. Something that fit into his concept of reality.
"We'd best get you back to the holding. It'll be dark soon." The first giant, the one they called Fingal, took a step toward him, and involuntarily Cameron stepped back. "Allen, he's your brother, perhaps you should help him."
Brother.
The word washed over him and he waited for emotion, some connection to the big man striding toward him. But he felt no sense of belonging or recognition. The man was a stranger. Again he moved backward, this time following his instincts. The other man's expression changed, his eyes narrowing in confusion and something else. Wariness possibly. It seemed there was intelligence under all that hair.
"Marjory," Fingal said. "Perhaps you should be the one to help your husband."
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, a look of loathing crossing her face. "I'm sure he has no need of me." Despite her words, she moved to take Cameron's arm.
Her skin against his started pheromones firing. Husband? Yet another revelation. He should have been put off. After all he had no memory of the woman, and she certainly hadn't bothered to hide her disdain for him. But his body wasn't listening to reason, and an absurd sense of elation swirled through his head.
He turned to say something, to explain that he had no brother, and certainly no wife, but before he could open his mouth, the ground rushed up to meet him, the world going suddenly black.
CHAPTER 2
"According to Grania, he's no' anywhere close to dead." Marjory paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, waving her hands to emphasize her words. Not only was her husband not dead, he apparently had every intention of living a long and full life. The man was invincible. "With rest, she says he'll make a full recovery."
"Well I canna say the news pleases me, but at least it should pacify Torcall Cameron. And quite possibly stop Allen's rantings about a plot on his brother's life." Fingal lifted his tankard, shooting the younger man an angry look.
Allen and his clansmen were seated at a table on the far side of the great room, clearly a separate camp from the boisterous Macpherson men sitting closer to the dais. Their presence was a reminder that although in name she was still the mistress of her domain, in reality it was controlled by her husband.
Husband. The word settled bitterly in her throat. "I wish he would have died. At least we'd no' have the sword hanging over our head."
"Nay." Fingal shook his head. "Twould be buried in our backs."
"At least then we'd have done with it." She tried but couldn't keep the anger from her voice.
"Would that I'd have secured the fact then." Fingal's face filled with remorse and Marjory was immediately regretful.
"'Tis all right. You couldna have known he still lived. The man probably has a pact with the devil himself. And you're right, Ewen's resurrection may calm Torcall. At least until I can talk to my grandfather." Fingal exhaled slowly, the act telling. Marjory's stomach tightened. "You have news?"
"Aye, the messenger arrived an hour ago." He met Marjory's gaze, his eyes troubled. "Yer grandfather is away from Moy meeting with the king. It'll be at least fortnight before he returns. Probably longer. Until then, I'm afraid we're on our own. Although we could send word to your cousin Iain."
Marjory waved a hand in
dismissal. "He's only just married. I canna ask him to come now. Besides, without grandfather's approval, there's no' much he can do. We're better to try and hold things on our own."
"I'll abide by your wishes." Fingal dipped his head in submission, but Marjory knew it was an empty action. Her captain loved her as a daughter, and he'd fight to the death for her, but he wasn't the kind of man to acquiesce to a woman. If he followed her wishes, it was only because he agreed with them.
"I've lived with Ewen these last two years." Marjory gave Fingal a weak smile. "I suppose I can manage a wee bit longer."
"If Torcall has his way, it'll be longer than that, and well you know it."
"One day at a time, Fingal." She forced her smile to be more sincere, aware that Allen was watching.
"Well, I still say the process could be hastened a bit if you hadna offered the man Grania's services."
Grania was the local healer. An old blind woman, she had a way with the sick that defied logic. But Marjory was grateful for her gifts. Indeed, without Grania all those years ago, many more Macphersons would have perished after Torcall's attack.
"I canna fault your thinking, Fingal. But 'tis one thing if the man dies in an accident and quite another if we are responsible for his death. I willna lower myself to the level of the Camerons. There is such a thing as honor. And the Macphersons are an honorable clan."
"Aye, 'tis true, more the pity." Fingal threw himself down in one of the chairs by the fire.
Marjory smiled at him fondly. He almost overwhelmed the chair, and it was a large one. Fingal was well over forty summers, but he looked like a man half his age. His thick, russet hair was free of gray. He was a warrior through and through.
She sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. If God kept count of good deeds, then Fingal was certainly in line for sainthood. She flinched as he belched loudly. Not that he embodied her idea of a saint. She shook her head at her own flight of fancy and sat down on a bench.
