by Davis, Dee
He watched the heat rush to her cheeks, not certain the emotion that inspired it. What was it about this woman? Every time they were together he had to fight a desire to either beat her or kiss her senseless. And under the circumstances, neither seemed a valid option.
"Where, may I ask, did you get my sgian dubh?" she asked with a frown, all emotion safely banished, no doubt to some far icy corner of her heart.
He struggled for comprehension, her words not making a lick of sense. "Your skeen what?"
"Sgian dubh." She said it slowly, but the repetition didn't help. She sighed. "The little knife in your hand."
Cameron looked down, comprehension dawning. "This is yours? I found it in the pool."
"When?" She shook her head, her look disbelieving.
"Just after I awoke in the woods. Before you found me. I wanted a drink, and when I knelt beside the water, the knife was there."
"Is no' possible," she scoffed. "Yer brother took that knife from me years ago. It couldna have been in the stream all that time."
"It looks as though it'd been there quite some time, actually. See for yourself." He held out the knife, and she snatched it from his hand, almost as if she were afraid he'd pull it away again. "I take it it's important to you."
She nodded, still staring at the tiny blade in her hand. "'Twas my mother's."
"I see." He didn't see anything at all. But it was obvious that she wasn't of a mind to explain.
As if to emphasize the point, she sheathed the knife in a loop on her belt and gave him a frigid smile. "Not that I'm ungrateful for what you did," her words lacked conviction, "but what were you doing wandering around out here on your own?"
"I could ask the same thing of you."
Marjory squared her shoulders, eyes flashing again. "I happen to be the mistress of this valley. As such, I come and go as I please."
"Well, as far as I can remember," he grimaced, "and I'll grant you that's not far, I am free to come and go as I please, too. And before you so rudely interrupted my wandering, as you called it, I was trying to find a way out of this valley and back to where I came from, wherever the hell that is." He paused for a breath, anger heating his face. "And that, my dear wife, would mean that I would be escaping you, permanently."
He turned and started back in the direction of the burn, frustration churning in his gut. The woman was maddening. Though alluring. And not his wife. Hell, she wasn't even a friend. Which meant he had no ties to her and no reason to stay here. No reason at all. Which made it all the more confusing that a part of him wanted nothing more than to do just that.
Without looking back, he continued to crash through the brush with no regard for his exposed skin. He hardly felt the scrapes and scratches as he pushed forward toward the stream. Damn the woman, what was it about her that got under his skin? He should have let Allen have her.
Except of course that he wouldn't have done something like that. No matter how things had been between Marjory and Ewen, and no matter what her father had done, no woman deserved that. No matter the century. A low hanging branch gouged at his head. He cursed, but continued walking. At this rate, he'd be at the landslide site in no time.
"You're going the wrong way."
He turned at the sound of her voice, groaning in frustration. "Are you following me?"
Marjory stood by a small evergreen, its branches a perfect backdrop for her delicate beauty. Cameron caught his breath at the sight.
"I'm no' following you. I came after you. There's a difference. I dinna want you to get lost." She tried, in vain, to look nonchalant.
Cameron smiled, pleased for reasons he couldn't quite put a name to. "You did follow me."
"Very well, have it your way then, I followed you, but only to tell you you're going the wrong way. The pool lies over there." She pointed back the way they had come.
"And why, may I ask, should I trust you? If Allen is to be believed, you tried to kill me."
"Allen is a fool. If I'd wanted you dead, you wouldna be standing here blathering blethering at me."
"And why should I believe that?"
"Because I've never lied to you. There is no love lost between us, but I've never told you anything less than the truth."
"I beg to differ. You're lying now."
Marjory colored furiously. Anger making her eyes shoot fire. "About what?"
"About the reason you followed me."
"You really are insufferable."
Cameron gave her a mock bow. "I seemed to have learned from a master."
"So, tell me then, why do you think I followed you?"
Cameron smiled at the frustration painted across her face. "You are following me, Margie, my girl, because you don't want to be alone."
She blanched, her face suddenly devoid of all color. "What did you say?" Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it.
"I said that you don't want to be alone."
She stared at him. "No. I mean, what did you call me?"
Cameron frowned, trying to remember. "I don't know. Obviously something that upset you."
"You called me Margie." She sank to the ground, looking incredibly small against the backdrop of trees and foliage. Her face, if possible, turned even whiter. "Margie, my girl."
He dropped to his knees beside her, reaching to rub her cold hands in his. "If I did, I certainly didn't mean anything by it." He continued rubbing her hands. "I was just being sarcastic."
"My father was the only one who ever called me that." She spoke as if she were lost in memory. Tears filled her eyes. She seemed to have forgotten he was even there. "'Twas his special name for me. He'd laugh and ruffle my hair. 'Who loves you best, Margie, my girl,' he'd say. 'Who loves you best?'" Her tears were falling in earnest now.
She wiped them away with the back of her hand, valiantly fighting to pull herself back together. He eased down beside her, keeping her hand in his. Not really certain why, only knowing that he wanted to take the pain away. He waited for her to say more, but she remained silent. Taking a deep breath, he decided to risk her wrath.
"When did your father die, Marjory?" Cameron waited for the storm to erupt again, but Marjory's answer was quiet.
"'Twas just over fifteen summers ago." She looked up at him, her eyes full of pain. "Your father murdered him."
CHAPTER 7
The sentence hung between them in the glade, the words almost tangible. It explained a great deal to Cameron—Marjory's fear of Torcall Cameron, her disdain for Ewen and even her repressed feelings. His admiration increased. He didn't know too many women who could marry their father's murderer's son, and still maintain a fairly sane existence.
Although to be fair, if what Allen had said was true, then Ewen had married his mother's murderer's daughter. He shuddered at the thought. Two innocent victims caught up in what seemed to be a very barbaric world.
Without thinking, he tightened his hand on hers, but she wrenched away, tears shimmering in her eyes, her body language signaling clearly that the conversation was over. Except that he didn't want it to be over. For the first time since he'd awoken on the side of the mountain, he felt a connection with someone, and no matter how fleeting, he wanted to preserve it.
"Talk to me, Marjory."
"About what?" she spat, anger flashing in her eyes. "Your father killing mine?"
"He's not my father." The words came out before he could stop them.
"Nay. You just dinna remember him. 'Tis no' the same." There was regret in her voice, and he watched as her anger deflated. "You're still a Cameron."
"So what, you hate me because of my name?"
"I dinna hate you." She sighed.
"You almost sound like you wish you could." He watched the emotions playing across her face and wished he could erase some of the pain.
"'Twould be easier." Her smile was faint, her eyes still troubled.
"Yeah, but worthwhile things are seldom easy." Their gazes met and held. "Tell me what happened, Marjory. I need to understa
nd."
She shook her head. "I canna. 'Twill surely tear me apart."
"No more than it's already doing."
She considered his words, then blew out a slow breath, her tears glistening in the dappled light. "Your father and my father had a longstanding feud. I canna say why. My father would never discuss it, but I know 'twas a bitter war between them. Torcall had been imprisoned by some Macphersons on the other side o' the mountains. I dinna know how long they held him, but when he was released, my father added extra guards at the pass leading to the valley.
"I o'erheard him discussing it one night with my mother. Something about revenge, but they heard me and were careful never to talk about it in my presence again." She paused.
He reached for her hand, absurdly grateful when she didn't pull away. "Go on."
"The extra guards made no difference. Torcall managed to get into the valley anyway. He arrived at Crannag Mhór with an army of men. They stormed the tower. Father made mother and I go to our quarters. We huddled in my chamber listening to the sounds of the battle outside the door. There's a connecting door between my chamber and my parents'." Her gaze collided with his. "You're sleeping in their chamber."
"I'm sorry." He wasn't certain what he was apologizing for, but he meant the words just the same. "How old were you? "
"Eight summers." She leaned against him slightly, staring straight forward, lost again in the past. "I was so afraid. My mother tried to reassure me, but you could hear women screaming outside in the courtyard. I don't know how long we sat like that. Hours maybe. Then we heard my father's voice in the next chamber, calling my mother's name.
"Mother pushed me back against a wall and hurried to join him. I pressed myself against the rough stones." She shivered uncontrollably, and he wrapped a protective arm around her. "They pressed through the thin fabric of my nightshift. They were cold and their dampness seeped into my body, but I willed myself to stay absolutely still.
"It was dark. All I could see were shadows. Everywhere shadows. The doorway was a dark patch, yawning open, leading to my parents and the battle. I wasna strong. I wished with all my heart that the door would stay closed and that the evil on the other side would go away without harming me.
"I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldna. I was a Macpherson. It wasna a time for crying. Father had told me once that I was the bravest girl in all of Scotland. I was determined to make him proud.
"I had my sgian dubh. It had been a birthday gift from mother, for eating no' protection, but I knew it was the best defense I had. If the Camerons forced their way into the chamber, I would be ready. I could defend myself." She straightened as though ready to fight an imaginary foe.
"The ringing of steel grew louder. It was getting closer. I shifted into the corner, trying to fight my fear. It gnawed at my gut and made my hands sweat.
"Someone screamed. My mother. They were in the outer chamber. I tried frantically to find a place to hide, but there was nowhere. I clutched the sgian dubh and inched forward, trying to be brave, but shaking like a leaf in the wind. I dinna think I've ever been so afraid.
"I watched in horror as the door swung slowly inward, the flicker of torchlight from the adjoining chamber momentarily blinding me. I closed my eyes and then after counting to ten, I opened them. There was a figure in the doorway, standing motionless, his face hidden by the shadows.
"I opened my mouth to scream, but at the last moment recognized the familiar bulk of my father. I released my breath. I dinna even know I'd been holding it. I ran toward him in relief only to stop again, watching helplessly as he fell to the floor. The light washed over his face and body. All I could see was blood. Everywhere blood. I threw myself down beside him, calling his name, running my hands across his face. His eyes were empty. He couldna see me. He was gone.
"I remember looking up and through the door at the crumpled heap of white linen that was Mother. Her life blood was ebbing away. I couldna move. I just sat there, holding my father's hand.
"There was a movement in the outer chamber. I wasna alone. A man, barely more than a boy, stood in the doorway, his great claymore dripping with blood. His eyes were narrowed and filled with a feral blood lust that sent shivers of panic knifing through me. I moved my hand slowly to the floor, feeling for my wee knife. I found it near my father's head. Using his body as a shield, I grasped the knife and slipped it into the folds of my nightshift.
"The boy moved forward, his lips drawn back over his teeth. He looked like a cat, a young and vicious mountain cat. He moved closer, close enough for me to see that blood spattered his face and hair. His eyes were filled with hatred. I dinna think I'd ever seen hatred like that before.
"He called to me. 'What have we here? A Macpherson brat?' And then he took another step toward me. He looked like a devil, an evil grin lighting his face. I held on to my knife. If only he would step closer. I knew in my heart I dinna stand a chance against this monster, but for my parents' sake I vowed to make him pay at least in some small measure for what had been done this night.
"He advanced again. Only this time, he dropped his claymore and began to hitch up his shirt. I felt bile rising in my throat. He looked so strange, almost hungry, like he was going to devour me. Another man entered the chamber, speaking to the boy. 'What are ye wasting yerself on that skinny child fer?' he said. 'There are lasses to be had in the buttery with far more to offer than this wee scrawny thing.'
"I stared at the huge man in the doorway and backed up a step. This was the man who had killed my family. Torcall Cameron. I was certain of it. I canna say exactly what happened next. I remember feeling rage burning in my gut and spreading through my body. I flung myself at him, my sgian dubh held high.
"But the boy grabbed my hands and, before I knew it, I was swinging in the air. He laughed at me. 'Yer right, Father, I've no use for one as skinny as this.' I struggled to get down, but his grip was like a vise. His next words, I'll never forget. He said that for such a wee lass I had fire in me. Then he said, ''Tis almost a shame we'll have to kill her. I'd have liked the opportunity to sample her in a few years.'
"Torcall laughed with his son. 'Have ye nothing on yer mind but wenching, lad? Leave the brat. She'll likely die anyway. There's no one left here to care for her. Come, we've work to do. Vengeance is served.' The boy wrenched the sgian dubh from my hand and with a shove sent me sprawling into a corner. My head hit the wall, and I slid to the floor, trying with everything I had to hold onto consciousness. The last thing I remember seeing is a Cameron bending over my mother, searching her body."
Cameron leaned close, horrified at her story. "Was it me?" he whispered, caught up in the story, his mind reeling with the enormity of it all. "The boy?"
"Nay." She said, her gaze meeting his. ""Twas Allen. You were away fostering that summer."
Suddenly it all made sense. Why Ewen had been chosen as the sacrificial lamb. He hadn't been a part of the atrocities of that day. He alone could come to Marjory with a clear conscience. Although there would still have been blood on his hands.
Cameron tried to tell himself that Allen's story was probably equally horrifying. These were obviously barbarous times. But in the face of Marjory's agony, it was almost impossible to remain neutral. His stomach hurt, feeling physical pain for the young girl who had lost her childhood in an instant.
Marjory sat frozen in silence for a moment then burst into gut-wrenching sobs. Cameron smoothed back a wayward strand of her hair. "It's all right now. It's all right." He pulled her onto his lap, rocking her gently in his arms.
She was a mercurial thing, one minute all spit and fire, the next a tormented child. They sat like that for what seemed an eternity. She sobbed into his shirt while he patted her ineffectually on the head and whispered nonsensical words of comfort. Finally, the sobbing slowed to a few hiccups.
"Are you feeling better?"
A nod against his chest signaled the affirmative. She pushed back, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. "I dinna know wha
t came over me. I've never told anyone that. No' even Fingal."
Not meeting his eyes, she moved out of his lap and settled on the ground beside him. Cameron wasn't sure she realized it, but her hand was still linked with his.
"I shouldn't have told you," she whispered, her hands twisting in her lap. "You're a Cameron. "
"Right now just let me be a friend." He said the words and realized he meant them. He wanted her to trust him. It probably wasn't fair, considering he wasn't going to stay, but the feeling was there nevertheless.
"You really dinna remember any of it?" She searched his face, looking for answers he couldn't give.
He shook his head, hoping his assurance would be enough.
She sat for a moment, absorbing the sincerity of his words. "I see."
"You don't believe me, do you?" He couldn't say he blamed her. He didn't really believe it himself. Much easier to accept the fact that he was a murdering bastard, than to accept that he was from another place and time. Still, at least with the latter, he kept his honor.
For all that was worth.
She pulled her hand from his and stood up, putting physical distance between them, her face purposefully blank of expression. "Nay, I dinna say that. I just find it hard to believe that your mind is so gone that you canna remember anything about your life."
"I may not be able to prove what I'm saying, but that doesn't mean it isn't the truth."
"So you've said." Her tone was dismissive. She was obviously regretting her lapse of control, and some part of him responded with disappointment.
He stood, too, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Please don't be angry."
She shook her head, and stepped back, watching his hand fall to his side. "I'm no' angry. I've just had enough soul baring for one day." She looked up through the branches of the trees at the sky. "Whatever it is you're looking for out here, I dinna think you'll find it today. Nightfall is coming and you dinna want to be out in these mountains after dark." With that, she turned resolutely and started walking back in the direction of Crannag Mhór.
Cameron stood for a moment in the quiet of the woods, his mind still locked on visions of Marjory with her dying father, her childhood vanishing in an instant. Her hatred had carried her this far, keeping her breathing, helping her to face each day.
