by Davis, Dee
"Are you standing then?" She held out a hand and Cameron took it.
"Yup. I feel a bit wobbly, but that's to be expected. I haven't had anything but broth since I got here."
"Aye, and lucky ye were to get that, ye ungrateful oaf."
"Oh, Grania, I'm sorry. I wasn't complaining. Honestly." Great, he'd managed to insult his only friend.
"Dinna fash yerself lad, I was but teasing ye. Perhaps tonight we'll dig up a wee bit o' meat for you to gnaw on."
They laughed together, their camaraderie restored.
After awhile the old woman said, "She needs ye, lad. Ye must know that."
Cameron sobered and sat on the edge of the bed. "She? You mean Marjory? I hardly think so. Besides, I don't think I'll be here long enough to help anyone. Sooner or later, I'm bound to remember everything, and when I do, I expect I'll be heading back where I belong." He sincerely hoped it would be that simple.
"And how do you know this isna where ye belong?"
"Because it isn't home, Grania. Even I know that much. Somewhere out there, I have a home, an identity. All I have to do is remember."
"Maybe 'tis best if ye dinna."
"No, I can't accept that. I will remember. Which means that making attachments here would be foolhardy."
"I've the feeling, lad, that ye've trouble making attachments no matter where ye are."
"Nonsense." The single word put an end to the conversation. But it was a lie. Unfortunately, he was afraid Grania's comment was right on the mark. Which left him somewhere to the left of nowhere.
CHAPTER 5
The plan was to get out of the bed, head down the stairs, and out to the courtyard. Grania had said that fresh air would do him wonders, and the idea had taken hold. Unfortunately, the progress wasn't matching the motivation.
Part of the problem was the damn skirt. Kilts might seem simple in theory, but in reality he'd take a pair of 501's any day. Untangling himself for about the twenty-fourth time, he sat on the bed, wondering what in hell he'd done to deserve all of this. Maybe he'd been a bastard in his previous life, and this was the punishment.
"Having a little trouble are ye?" Allen Cameron stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a devilish smile on his face. "Ye never did have the patience for the thing."
Cameron looked at the man who called him brother, searching his mind for a memory, an emotion, but there was nothing. Allen was as much a stranger as Marjory. Wrapping the wool around his waist one last time, he fumbled with the tail, grateful when Allen moved forward to pull it up across the shoulder.
"Thanks," he mumbled, embarrassed at his ineptitude. "I can take it from here."
Allen moved back, hands in the air. "Have it yer own way."
"I haven't really had much time to practice. Grania has been helping me." He almost kicked himself for the words. Memory loss or not, he should surely remember how to wrap himself in a plaid.
Allen's eyes narrowed. "I dinna fash how ye can let that woman touch ye. She's a witch, that one."
"I asked for a doctor."
"What did ye say?" Allen's frown deepened, and Cameron knew he'd made another mistake. "Ye hate the crazy bastards more than I do. When ye broke yer arm, ye practically skewered the mon who tried to fix it."
Cameron shook his head, fumbling for something to right his mistake. "I only meant that a doctor would be better than a crazy woman." He smiled at his brother in what he hoped was a conspiratorial manner, and was rewarded with a skeptical look. Allen wasn't buying. There was shrewdness under all that hair.
"Aye, I suppose it's a bit like being stuck between the devil and a banshee."
"And the point is, I've survived." Cameron said, still struggling with the damn plaid.
Allen tugged at the top, then deftly pinned it into place. "Ye should have brought Aida. She's got a sure hand when it comes to dressing a body."
There was subtext here he was missing, but there was no way to decipher it. "Who's Aida?"
"Yer mistress." Allen frowned. "Dinna ye remember anything?"
"That seems to be the question of the day." Cameron tried but couldn't keep the anger from his voice. "And unfortunately the answer is always the same. I can't remember anything." Not about his life, not about Ewen's. It was as if he'd been dropped into the second act of a play without knowing his lines. Hell, without knowing the story.
Allen slammed a beefy fist against the wall. "They've done this to you, and by the saints, I'll see that they pay for it."
"Who are you talking about? Marjory? She had nothing to with what happened."
Allen moved closer, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I wouldna be so quick to let her off the hook, brother. I saw the place where you fell. Had our men examine it carefully. I'm convinced it wasna an accident, Ewen."
He fought a wave of dizziness. "You're sure?"
Allen nodded. "I canna say who was behind it for certain, but ye know as well as I who would best benefit from yer death."
"Marjory?" He was more than aware of the fact she despised him, but the idea that she'd try to kill him seemed ludicrous. "I can't believe she'd stoop to that."
"She's a Macpherson." Allen spat, as if it explained everything, but of course it didn't.
"And we hate each other." Cameron lifted a hand in exasperation. "That's already been made abundantly clear. What I don't know is why."
"Because Manus Macpherson killed our mother." Allen's features locked into harsh lines, his hatred radiating off him with almost palpable heat.
"Marjory's father?" Cameron let the news settle. It certainly explained a lot. The forced marriage for instance. But somehow it didn't sync with what he'd observed about the Macpherson household. There was obviously more to the story.
"Aye. I canna believe you dinna remember." Allen's frown was fierce.
"Look, Allen, I wish I remembered too. It's not like I haven't tried."
Again his look was skeptical. As if he didn't believe a word. And Cameron wondered just exactly what the brothers' relationship had been. Cordial certainly. United against common enemies, but still a far cry from friendly. "If I were you," Allen was saying, "I'd trust no one."
An apt sentiment. Cameron studied the man before him, wishing he could read minds.
Allen met his gaze, his own hardened. "Father would no' forgive me if anything happened to you. I'll deliver ye safe and sound or die trying. And I'll no' let a bit o' skirt like Marjory Macpherson get in the way."
"Father's close?" Cameron chose to ignore the implication of Allen's words, concentrating instead on applying a name to the menace that seemed to surround them all. Torcall Cameron. To hear Marjory talk, the man was next in line to the devil himself, but, in truth, Cameron hadn't any idea who he should believe. His brother or his wife.
Like most things he suspected the answer was somewhere in the middle, and until he knew the whole truth, he wasn't making any judgments.
"I've just had a message. He's through the pass and should be here on the morrow."
"Does Marjory know?"
"No' from me." Allen shrugged. "'Tis no' my place to tell her. Although her kinfolk will no doubt send word that he's near."
"And when he arrives?" Ewen's father's arrival seemed to represent some sort of catalyst. A cataclysmic one, if Cameron had to call it.
"When he arrives," Allen said, his expression grim, "Marjory Macpherson will pay for all that she's done."
*****
Cameron sat on the bench, eyes closed, leaning back against the cool stone tower wall, letting the afternoon sun warm his face. Allen had helped him down the stairs, then gone off to check on his men.
It was a beautiful day, but it was hard to enjoy it. Not with all the information swirling around in his head. It seemed that not only had he woken up to find himself inside another man's body, he'd also landed into middle of a feudal war. Ewen Cameron at the heart of it.
And Marjory. The thought of her made his blood heat, despite the things Allen had said of her. It wa
s difficult to believe she'd want to kill him. No matter how much she despised him. Yet, Allen was his brother, and he'd been certain the landslide was intentional.
A conundrum if ever there was one. Add to that the fact that he couldn't remember who the hell he really was and it increased from conundrum to calamity. Possibly a deadly one.
Which of course left him with the primary question. Who the hell did he trust?
What he needed was a way out. Or more realistically a way home. But was that even possible?.
He was feeling much better, the lumps on his head greatly reduced in size and the drummers seemingly departed for their next concert stop. But that didn't mean he was up to the trek back to the mountain. If he even could find the place again.
Still, the little voice in his head insisted, leaving was worth any risk, if he got back where he belonged. The blonde's face flashed through his mind, as if underscoring the thought. He had a life, and it wasn't here. He couldn't let these people and their problems get to him. Not Grania, not Allen, and certainly not Marjory. He had nothing to offer any of them. And even if he did, he wasn't certain he'd offer it.
A cold thought, surely, but a man had to protect himself. People weren't to be trusted.
He frowned, wondering where the hell that thought had come from. Not exactly a Pollyanna moment. He laughed at himself, surprised at how bitter he sounded, and for the first time it occurred to him that maybe he hadn't been all that happy in his old life.
As quickly as the thought came, he pushed it away. Good or bad, he needed his own identity. Any thoughts to the contrary were the result of listening to Grania with her endless predictions and enigmatic ways.
If he believed in such things, he'd have to agree with Marjory's assessment that Grania was touched in some way. Or maybe they were all enchanted. A Grimm's fairy tale run amok.
Definitely not his style.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes, surprised to find Marjory Macpherson perched precariously on a rickety looking wooden ladder in front of a shed just across the way. She was obviously content to ignore him, and just at the moment the fact suited him just fine.
He couldn't help admiring the soft curve of her backside. It was something just this side of mouth watering, and he was happy to note that his borrowed body responded like any red-blooded male to the sight of a beautiful woman.
Even a deceitful one.
Marjory barked something at a man standing below her at the foot of the ladder, and, with a fatalistic shrug, the guy passed her what looked to be a handful of straw. As she reached for it, the ladder shook ominously, but held, and Marjory began to weave the straw into a hole in the shed's roof.
An accident waiting to happen, if ever there was one. But far be it from Cameron to try and share the information with Marjory. The woman was prickly at best, and since the moment in his room when they'd practically electrified the tower, she hadn't so much as acknowledged his presence. Besides, if Allen was right, she was more than cantankerous. She was an enemy. Possibly a deadly one.
He blew out a breath, and dismissed all ideas of intervening. The building wasn't high and he didn't think a fall would result in serious injury as long as someone was there to catch her. She'd be just fine without him. And he'd be better off without getting involved. Entanglements only resulted in pain.
And he'd had enough of that for a lifetime.
Again he frowned, wondering what it was he was remembering—or not remembering. Frustration crested then died as he slowly forced a breath. He had to remain calm. Hold onto his wits.
"I see you're up and about." Fingal Macgillivray towered over him, eyes narrowed and assessing.
Cameron struggled to remember what Grania had said about the man. A captain, she'd called him. Marjory's right-hand man. Which meant he wasn't a friend of Ewen's. "More or less." Cameron looked up at the Scotsman, holding his gaze, striving for a nonchalance he didn't feel.
To his surprise, the man sat down next to him, his expression still guarded. "Ye really dinna know me?"
"Only what Grania has told me."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Ach, the old woman is more daft than no'. I dinna trust her ways or her wisdom."
Cameron shrugged, not willing to comment, any chance for a peaceful moment alone evaporating before it could begin.
"I honestly thought you were dead." The man's tone was neither apologetic nor gloating, neutrality sitting well with him. Fingal might be a warrior, but it seemed he had a diplomatic side as well. "I wouldna have left you there had I thought you were alive."
"Really?" Cameron studied the man opposite him. "I sort of got the feeling you would have done more than that if you hadn't thought I was dead." It was a risky thing to say, but he had a feeling honesty was the right currency with this man. Friend or foe.
Fingal's lips curled into a faint smile. "But since I thought ye were dead, the thought canna have occurred to me."
Nicely side-stepped. "Well, why don't we suffice it to agree that I'm alive and that I'm not exactly the man I was."
"I can see that yer breathing, but as to the change, I'll no' believe it until I've proof."
"That I'm different?"
"That yer not using circumstances to try and play Marjory for a fool."
Cameron laughed. "I doubt that anyone could play Marjory Macpherson."
Fingal crossed his arms over his massive chest. "Mayhap, but that wouldna stop some from trying."
There was a warning there, and Cameron wasn't fool enough to ignore it. "I've no interest in hurting her, Fingal." There was truth in that. Unless Allen's accusations proved true.
The older man looked sharply at him. "Maybe no' now. But when you remember."
The words hung between them, leaving Cameron uncomfortable. It was tempting to tell the man he wasn't Ewen Cameron, that his memories if they returned would have nothing to do with Crannag Mhór or Marjory Macpherson, but he couldn't take the chance. Not yet. Maybe never. This world was a harsh one, and they didn't suffer fools lightly. A man claiming to be from the future would certainly not inspire confidence, let alone trust.
"Maybe I won't remember."
"Nay." Fingal shook his head slowly. "Torcall Cameron will no' allow it. Ye'll remember. Of that I'm certain. It's what ye choose to do with the memories that remain to be seen."
It seemed Grania had competition in the enigmatic department. Wonderful. Cameron leaned back against the stone wall, and they sat in silence for a while, each left to his own thoughts, until a commotion off to the left caught their attention.
"Get out of here right now you wicked beasties. Out I say. Out."
The female voice carried from around the corner of the tower, the screech followed by a caterwauling that could only come from enraged bovines.
Cameron turned to Fingal, eyebrows raised in question.
"My sister, Aimil."
Cameron inclined his head. The commotion continued.
"Angus Macpherson, come get these animals out of my garden before they destroy it completely." The disembodied voice carried through the courtyard to the man by the ladder. He yelled something up at Marjory and ran toward the voice.
Fingal and Cameron both rose from the bench, swallowing back their mirth, momentarily joined together in camaraderie.
"An-gus." The single word came out as an indignant wail.
"Sounds to me like Angus may need rescuing more than the animals."
With a terse nod, Fingal headed off in the direction of the ruckus. Cameron was just thinking of following when he heard a cracking sound from the other direction. Spinning around, he turned in time to see the ancient ladder split in two as Marjory tried to climb down.
Adrenaline kicked in and Cameron raced to the building, ignoring the jarring pain in his head. Marjory struggled for a handhold on the roof, managing finally to dig her hands into the sod, leaving her precariously swinging back and forth from the edge of the thatch. Cameron was torn between genuine concern and amusement. He cho
ked back a laugh.
Marjory glared angrily down at him. "Dinna just stand there gawking. Do something."
"Is there another ladder?"
"Nay." The word broke off abruptly as her hand slipped from the roof, broken pieces of sod raining down on his head.
Cameron reacted instinctively, reaching out with both arms to catch Marjory as she tumbled downward. Given his current condition, even her slight weight was almost more than he could handle, but he held his ground and pulled her safely against his chest.
The reaction was instantaneous, pheromones and chemistry causing an ignition so strong it threatened to rob him of breath, which was ridiculous considering he wasn't even certain he liked the woman.
Their eyes locked, her breathing timed with his, almost as if they shared one heart.
"Are you all right?" he whispered, fighting to control the emotions raging through him. There was just something about her, something that touched him on an intrinsic level he couldn't control.
She nodded her head, her eyes searching his face, almost as if she were memorizing its lines and planes. Or maybe she was learning them.
Either way the idea was insane. He didn't know her, she didn't know him. And even more pertinent was the fact that she believed he was a man she despised, possibly enough to kill him. Loosening his grip, he broke eye contact, breaking the spell.
Marjory frowned, as if surprised to find herself in his arms. "I'll thank you to put me down, now." The breathless undernote in her voice assured him that he hadn't imagined the combustion, although it couldn't negate the sharp regality of the order.
"Look, your highness," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the tone as much a reaction to the way she made him feel as to her words, "if I hadn't caught you, you'd have fallen right on your lovely little ass, which unless I'm badly mistaken would have hurt like hell."
"Well, I'm perfectly fine now, as you can plainly see. So, I ask you again to unhand me."
"Fine by me." He opened his arms, unceremoniously dumping her onto the ground. She scowled up at him. He smiled benignly. "Next time, I'll let you break your neck."
