by Davis, Dee
Marjory'd been training for battle almost since the day her parents had died, preparing herself for a fight she'd no hope of winning. She sighed and released Alainn. With a pat on the rump, she shooed the mare into her stall. Closing the gate behind the beast, she reached into her pocket for a handful of oats. Alainn nuzzled her hand, greedily eating the offered treat.
"I've no time for play pretending, Fingal. No' with Torcall Cameron practically breathing down our necks." She purposely kept her back to Fingal, her hand absently stroking the mare as she nosed about Marjory's skirt in search of more grain.
"Mayhap." Fingal shrugged. "But with his son alive and well, perhaps he'll no' be quite so ready to raise a sword."
She turned around to face him, watching his eyes for signs of his true thoughts. But at the moment his gaze gave away nothing, his face remaining impassive. "I hope you're right. I've sacrificed much to keep Crannag Mhór safe."
"Aye, ye've been brave, lass. There can be no doubt o' that." Fingal stroked his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. "Eleven years in exile at Moy, and then four years married to that bastard." He tilted his head toward the tower where her husband lay sleeping.
"'Twas well worth it. And as much as I'd like to see Ewen dead, I'd no wish it at the cost of the holding. Torcall Cameron is a fearsome enemy, even in peaceful times. I wouldna want to face him over the death of his son."
"He may have caught us by surprise once, Marjory, but I dinna think he'd be able to defeat us so easily now."
"Maybe no, but what he didna accomplish, the rest of Clan Cameron would."
Fingal opened his mouth to speak but Marjory held up a hand to stop him. "I know what you're thinking and I agree, if Clan Cameron were to attack us, my grandfather would certainly retaliate but, the truth of the matter is, by that time we'd be long dead and no' care who was attacking who anymore. I'll no' risk Crannag Mhόr for anything, Fingal. You of all people should know that by now."
"It all comes down to that, does it no'? Ye'd fight for this land and its safety, but no' for yer own happiness." Fingal pushed up from his reclining position and stood in front of her, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "Sometimes, Marjory Macpherson, I think ye have love for nothing except this tower and its lands."
Marjory started at the depth of his insight, but met his gaze firmly with her own. "Stones and hills canna die on you, Fingal. They'll be here long after we are gone. And best I can tell you, a body has never been hurt by a piece o' ground." Marjory took a step back from him, turning to look out the stable door at the blue-gray of the mountains ringing her valley. "'Tis all I have left, Fingal. And he would want me to protect it, no matter the cost."
Fingal came up to stand behind her. "Are you speaking of your father, Marjory? I dinna think you have it right then, lass. I canna believe Manus Macpherson would ever want a daughter o' his to spend her life in a loveless marriage, to a Cameron no less, merely to protect a piece o' land."
Marjory straightened her shoulders, tightening her face into a mask of indifference. "Ach, foolish talk, Fingal. What's done is done. Anyway, what use have I for love? I've got all that I need right here. And I'm doing what Father asked of me."
"And what would that be, lass?"
"I'm preserving his legacy." Marjory closed her eyes, hearing again her father's words, reciting them aloud as though saying them with him. "Protect all that I've worked to accomplish, Margie, my girl. 'Tis your birthright. 'Tis all I've left to give you now. Make me proud, daughter. Never forget that yer a Macpherson of Crannag Mhór." Marjory stood in silence, lost in the memory of long ago.
"I canna speak for the dead, Marjory, but I dinna believe this is what he meant for you to do." She felt two hands tighten around her shoulders and then, just as quickly, release her. She heard his retreating footsteps, but didn't turn to watch him go.
Instead she found herself wondering what would have happened if things had been different. If her father had been here to protect her. If her mother had been right about angels, and Marjory's wish upon the stars had come true. What if there had was someone out there just for her? Someone who'd love her. Cherish her…
How foolishness to want something completely unobtainable. Her parents were dead, and she was a married woman. What hope for love was there from a Cameron, and a half-witted one at that? Marjory laughed at herself, and with a last pat for Alainn, headed for the tower.
It was time to face her ailing husband.
*****
"Truth be told, ye were dirty enough to warrant ten baths." Grania reached out to steady his elbow as Cameron stepped from the oak cask that served as a bathtub. Even though he knew the woman couldn't see him, he was relieved when she handed him a length of cloth meant for drying.
"I feel like a new man." The comment was nothing more than a polite response, but the minute the words were out, he realized just how accurate they really were. More than he wanted to contemplate actually, and certainly more than he wanted to share with Grania.
He walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge. Clean and shaven, he definitely felt more human, but the fact did nothing to lessen his increasing sense of unease.
The morning sunlight hadn't done anything to relieve the gothic gloom of the room. And with the cold harsh light of day there was no denying that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Something about the world he was currently inhabiting didn't jive with his sense of self. Or maybe more relevantly his sense of century.
The pieces of the puzzle simply didn't add up to a logical whole. And the illogical options were a bit more than his beleaguered mind was willing to consider. Maybe there was an explanation. Something involving the relative normalcy of cults or historical reenactment. Anything that didn't involve a journey through the Twilight Zone.
The theme song echoed menacingly through his head, and with a sigh he walked over to the bed, dropping onto the mattress, trying to ignore the fear clawing at his gut.
"I've let ye overdo it." Grania clucked, her voice if not exactly comforting, at least a known quantity. Cameron lay back, closing his eyes, the drummers in his head returning with a vengeance.
"What ye need now is a wee bit 'o sleep"
"What I need now are answers," he snapped, immediately regretting the anger that colored his voice. Opening his eyes, he struggled to sit up, ignoring Grania's attempt to help. The woman meant well, of that he had no doubt, but rest was the last thing he needed. It was tempting to voice his thoughts, to share his fears with her, but some inner sense of preservation urged caution.
"There's no' much I can tell you." She sat unerringly in the chair by the bed, her expression inscrutable.
Ignoring her obvious reticence, Cameron pushed for more. "Well for starters you can tell me about Ewen Cameron."
The woman paused, then sighed. "Yer no' among friends here."
It was a cryptic answer at best, but it was a start. "Something to do with the woman who called me husband." A vivid memory of the blue-eyed beauty filled his mind, his body reacting as if she were present in the room.
"Aye," Grania conceded with a nod. "There's no love lost between the two of ye."
"And the man with her, Fingal. Is he an enemy as well?"
"He's loyal to your wife, and would see you in hell before he'd allow her to be hurt."
"And he believes I want to hurt her?"
"'Twould not be impossible." Again she seemed purposefully vague. As if she too had secrets to keep.
"Why? What has this Ewen done to deserve such distrust?"
If she noticed his use of third person, she made no comment. "'Tis no' my story to tell. When you're strong enough you can talk with Marjory, herself."
"Something tells me that won't be as easy as you're making it sound."
"It's no easy to gain her trust, I'll grant ye that." The old woman smiled. "She's kind of like the highland rose. Beautiful and prickly on the outside, but if ye can get to the flower itself, 'tis sweeter than any other."
As analogies wen
t it was kind of sappy, but Cameron had the feeling it was accurate. Marjory Macpherson was indeed easy on the eyes, and he'd already seen evidence of her thorns. Still, if breaching the thorns was his ticket to understanding what the hell was going on, he was more than game. "I'm not sure she'll talk to me, but I'll make nice with Marjory if it means getting answers."
"I've the feeling yer more than capable of cajoling a body 'round to yer way of thinking, once ye put yer mind to it." There was a hint of mischief in Grania's face, as if she was orchestrating some grand scheme or another.
Despite himself, he smiled. "I've the feeling it's you who gets her way more often than not. This whole thing would be a hell of a lot simpler if you'd just tell me what I need to know."
"I told ye, it's no' my story to tell." Her smile was serene and final.
Whatever the truth, he wasn't going to get it from Grania Macpherson.
*****
Marjory pulled open the chamber door ready to do battle, but stopped dead in her tracks. Ewen was sitting in the bed, his head turned toward the window, the morning sun streaming through the opening, illuminating his features, highlighting the golden perfection of his chest.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she tried unsuccessfully to swallow. She'd never seen him like this before. And despite her hatred, she couldn't deny the masculine beauty of his body. It was almost as if it had been sculpted, a living breathing statue. Her fingers tightened reflexively as she imagined the velvety feel of his skin, the sinewy strength of his arms wrapped around her.
The thought should have been unthinkable.
But it wasn't.
It was almost as if she were looking at a stranger. A man she'd never met before. His face, now devoid of hair, was softer somehow, and breathtakingly handsome. Her heart responded to the visage by threatening to break from her chest.
He turned then, almost as if he'd known she was there, his eyes locking with hers, their bodies communicating on a level she'd no idea even existed before this moment—this man. She froze, her hand tightening on the door handle, her mind trying to make sense where there was obviously none.
This was her enemy.
"So ye've come to see my patient." Grania materialized from the far side of the room, the movement startling Marjory back to reality.
She forced a smile, turning her gaze toward the old woman. "I'd no' intended to interrupt. And obviously," she gestured towards Ewen without daring to glance again in his direction, "I've come at the wrong time."
All she wanted now was to escape, to avoid the man and the strange feelings the sight of him evoked. A strong chest and a clean shaven face were only surface changes. Nothing could change the man that he was, or his kinship to her parents' killer.
"Nonsense, child. I've all but finished here. And the man is no' going to bite."
"I wouldn't be so certain." There were all kinds of ways to torture someone and Ewen Cameron was no stranger to any of them. "I really just came to make certain he was well cared for." Despite herself she shot a glance in his direction, surprised to see amusement twinkling in his eyes. Jerking her gaze back to Grania, she felt herself grow hot, although she took comfort in the fact that the sensation was more than likely caused as much by anger as embarrassment. Ogling a Cameron was something less than acceptable and the mere thought that she'd fallen prey to his masculinity set her blood to boiling.
"Yer husband has need of ye, child." Grania's voice was soft, her words as usual enigmatic. Sometimes Marjory wondered if the woman was fey. "'Twill do you good to have a talk."
Marjory couldn't think of a thing she wanted to talk to Ewen about, but there was steel in the old woman's voice, and Marjory knew from long experience that arguing was worthless. Better to give in. Truth was, Grania Macpherson always got her way.
Grania moved closer, her hand on Marjory's arm, her voice almost a whisper. "He remembers nothing of his past. Nothing at all."
She stared at the old woman, trying to digest her words. "He's addled then?"
"Nay," Grania shook her head. "He's no' simple. But the fall seems to have robbed him of his identity. He'll need someone to put things right."
"Well, it canna be me." Marjory spoke louder than she'd intended, and Ewen's eyes narrowed, his features sharpening with the gesture. All sign of vulnerability vanished, cloaked in an instant, his face a blank mask.
"I can speak for myself, you know." His voice was hoarse, the cadence of his speech different. As if he had trouble with the words. She shot a questioning look at Grania.
"He'll be right as rain in no time. And I suspect his memory will return, eventually. But until then, he's got questions, and I told him that ye were the best one to answer them."
"I've no desire to help him with anything." Marjory hissed, dismayed to find that, in fact, that's exactly what she wanted.
"Well I want to talk to you," he said. "So come over here. Grania's right, I won't bite." Ewen was still frowning, exasperation coloring his voice.
She wouldn't put it past him to bite. Especially if it helped get him what he wanted. But at the moment he looked somewhat harmless, and Grania seemed determined for the two of them to talk. So ignoring the flutter in her stomach, she moved closer.
"You canna remember anything?" She tried but couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice. She'd never heard of such a thing. Except perhaps from someone very old, and Ewen was anything but frail.
He shook his head, then settled back into the bed as Grania bustled around him, straightening the bedclothes and fluffing his pillows. She was pampering him, and the idea of it rankled.
"There now, you just rest." Grania crooned, her hand caressing Ewen's brow.
Marjory felt warm inside, as if she was watching something she shouldn't. Her hand involuntarily rose, as if to smooth his cheek. The motion pulled her from her thoughts and she felt hot color wash across her face again. She deliberately slowed her breathing. By the saints, she was growing as dimwitted as her husband.
She pulled herself back to reality, only to find Ewen staring at her, eyebrows raised in amusement. Grania was nowhere in sight. She'd been so far gone, she hadn't even noticed the old woman leave. Narrowing her eyes in what she hoped was a haughty glare, she prayed silently for deliverance.
Ewen motioned her to the side of the bed, his gaze intense. She shook her head, but her feet, obviously with a mind of their own, moved forward and then deserted her, forcing her to sit on the edge of the bed, beside the odious man.
"Your name is Marjory." It was a statement, but his inflection made it clear that he wasn't convinced of the fact.
"Has been since I was born, and well you know it. You may have fooled Grania, but I'll have none of your games."
Something she would have sworn was disappointment washed across his face, but it disappeared before she could be certain. "This is far from a game. I have no idea who any of you are. Hell, I'm not even certain who I am." There was a hint of fear in his voice.
She'd never seen Ewen vulnerable. It touched her. Without thinking, she reached over to cover his hand. "'Twill come right soon enough. In the meantime, you must rest."
"I've had enough coddling to last a lifetime." He pulled his hand away, frustration cresting in his eyes. It was amazing how easy it was to read emotion in his face. She told herself it was only because the beard was gone, but some part of her insisted that it was something more. "What I need right now is a telephone."
Marjory studied his face. He seemed sane enough, disregarding his new penchant for cleanliness, but she had no idea what a telephone was. Perhaps Grania was wrong and he had gone simple. "I dinna ken what you're speaking of. I think that perhaps this fall has left you a bit weak in the head, husband." She wasn't quite sure what had made her add the last word. It was just that he looked so different. A far cry from the man she despised.
"I am not crazy," he roared, for the first time sounding more like himself. "I just don't remember anything. Obviously the trauma of my head injuries ha
s brought about some form of retrograde amnesia." He collapsed against the pillows and closed his eyes.
Marjory ran a hand across his brow. No fever. But still he was speaking gibberish. He gently captured her hand with his and opened his eyes, the amber turning dark, intense.
"I am not losing my mind. I swear it," he said softly. The vulnerability was back, tugging at her heart, making her want to help him. A trick her mind urged. Cameron skullduggery. This man was not to be trusted.
"Well you canna prove it by me. First you're dead, and now you're touched. I dinna ken how all of this came to be, but I can promise you once your father arrives there'll be hell for someone to pay, and that someone will no doubt be me."
His brows drew together in a frown. "You?"
"Aye." Marjory stood up, crossing her arms as if to create a barrier between them. "There's no love lost between your father and I."
"And you hate me as well." Again it was a statement not a question, but this time it was clear that he was certain of the fact.
"I thought you couldna remember anything?" She'd been right. This was nothing more than a trick. "I should know better than to believe a Cameron. If my grandfather wasn't away serving the king, I'd have him here to dismember the lot of you. As it is, I should have left you to die on the mountain."
"What king?" The color drained from his face, leaving only his eyes dark and burning.
"King James, of course. Surely you can't be so addled you've forgotten your king."
His eyes widened, and then he slowly released a breath, as if something more was draining out of him, something defeating. "Tell me what year this is." The words were no more than a whisper.
She frowned at him, trying to understand what could possibly have caused his pain. "'Tis the spring of fourteen hundred and sixty-eight."
It was as though she'd struck him with a claymore or stabbed him with her dirk. What little color remained was gone in an instant, and she feared his very life was draining away. Without thinking of the consequences she rushed to his side, her warm hand clasping his cold one. "You're no' well."
