by Davis, Dee
He shook his head viciously, purging his mind of all thoughts of her. He would play his role, nothing more. He'd help her convince Torcall to go back to Tyndrum. Once Torcall was gone, Cameron would find his way home or die trying.
With that thought, he threw back the covers. He needed the sanctuary of his own room. Striding across the stone floor, he threw open the door. Sunlight filled the room. He squinted, rubbing his temples, feeling the full effects of last night's ale.
What he needed was a little more sleep. He'd face the music after that, when his head had stopped its rendition of jungle drums. He slipped between the curtains and fell into the bed, grateful for the cool darkness.
"I thought ye'd ne'er arrive."
A slim, naked body, rolled on top of him. Warm breath caressed his cheek. Long golden hair brushed against his shoulders. Hard nipples pressed against his chest.
"Thinking of you in there, with her, has only made me want ye more," Aida purred in his ear.
Cameron shifted, rolling away and sitting up, unceremoniously dumping his mistress back onto the bed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Aida sat up, too, her lips curved in a calculated pout. Cameron had seen that look before, but couldn't remember where. "I told ye, I was waiting fer you. When ye dinna come to my chamber, I decided to come to you here. But ye were in there—with her. So I decided to wait. Give ye a reward after a night with that."
She jerked her head in the direction of the door to Marjory's room and then smiled, a slow sultry smile meant to turn a man's bones to jelly. Arching her back, she stretched like a cat, her breasts thrust out invitingly. She rubbed her hands along the length of her body, a suggestive caress that ended with her hands between her thighs.
Cameron had to admit it was a provocative display, but something in him was more disgusted than enticed. "Look, Aida, I've had a long night and what I need right now is a little sleep." She ran a finger down his chest, the corner of her mouth turning up with anticipation. He groaned in frustration. "Alone, Aida."
Her eyes narrowed. "Are ye telling me ye dinna want me anymore?"
Actually, he was telling her that he had never wanted her, but that wouldn't do. No good letting word get back to Torcall that he had rejected his mistress. Even with his memory loss, that was too far out of character, a sure sign that something was wrong. "No, I'm telling you that I don't want you right now. I'm exhausted. Okay?"
She continued to watch him, but her face relaxed. She stroked his cheek. "I'll be waiting fer ye, and I promise it will be much better than lying with that cold hearted she-witch yer married to." She let her hand drop to his crotch, caressing him through the thin woolen material of his underwear.
He covered her hand with his. "I said, later."
She gave one last stroke. "As ye wish, but ye canna deny that a part of ye wants me to stay."
Smiling seductively, she pushed back the bed curtains and stepped out onto the floor. The sunlight illuminated her body and Cameron had to admit it was magnificent, but his admiration lacked desire. He simply did not want this woman.
The door to Marjory's room opened with a thump.
"Ewen, are you in there? I brought you something to eat." Marjory stood in the archway holding a tray of food. He watched helplessly as she took in the scene. Aida standing by the bed in all her glory. Him, in bed, nearly naked. She swallowed convulsively, color draining from her face. Biting her lip, she backed up a step. "I…I dinna know you were…you had…I mean…I thought…" She stopped, evidently unable to say more.
Aida turned to face Marjory, defiant in her nakedness. "Cat got yer tongue then, dearie. Ye canna be surprised to find that yer husband prefers a more experienced woman. Surely ye canna think he would give up someone like me for the likes o' you?"
The tray crashed to the ground at Marjory's feet. Tears filled her eyes as she bent and began frantically trying to pick up the scattered food.
Cameron felt sick. "Marjory, wait…" He leapt from the bed, surprised at the strength of his feelings, his desire to comfort her, to set things right. He pushed Aida aside and knelt beside Marjory, trying to help her. She pushed his hands away, her eyes meeting his. The pain reflected there tore at him.
"I dinna need your help." He watched as she pushed all emotion from her face, replacing it with a mask of studied calm. Slowly, with dignity, she rose, tray in hand. "And I dinna care what you do or who you do it with." She turned to face Aida, her disdainful gaze tracing a path from golden head to bare feet. "I'll just leave this here." She put the tray on a table. "And maybe the two of you can enjoy it after…after you've enjoyed each other."
The ice queen was back. With a glacial nod at the two of them, she turned and went back into the other room, quietly closing the door behind her.
"There was no need to embarrass her like that, Aida. It was bad enough that she walked in and found you here."
"'Tis yer chamber and yer business who ye have in it." Aida snapped, tossing her head, completely unrepentant.
"Yes, but this is her house."
"And yours. Are ye taking her side against mine, then?" Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him accusatorily.
This was too complicated. He was trying to protect Marjory, but in doing so he had hurt her himself, basically defeating the whole purpose. He sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Look, Aida, I'm not taking anyone's side. I'm too tired to deal with this at all right now. So be a good girl and get dressed and get out of here. All right?"
A petulant frown marred her lovely features, but she obeyed his request, pulling an embroidered shift over her head. "Fine. I'll go. But I'm telling ye, Ewen Cameron, ye belong to me, no matter who yer married to. Dinna forget it." She bent and kissed him, her lips lingering in the hope of an invitation to stay. When he didn't respond, she flicked her hair behind a slender shoulder and flounced from the room.
Cameron lay back on the bed, totally exhausted. Women were obviously the same in any century. And a man would basically be wise to stay clear of them all.
*****
An hour later, Cameron stood in a corral of sorts swinging a claymore. He wasn't certain how exactly to use the thing, but there must be something to muscle memory for instinctively he thrust and parried, sometimes hitting the straw-filled target in the middle of the pen, sometimes not.
He'd seen the practice ring from his bedroom window, and given everyone's penchant for drawing swords it seemed a good idea to familiarize himself with the weapon. Unfortunately, the damn thing weighed a ton, and even with Ewen's considerable mass, he was still listing sadly to one side or the other with each swing.
Still, despite his ineptitude, it was as good a way as any to let off steam.
"Yer holding it too high." Fingal Macgillivray stood at the edge of the enclosure, one foot braced on a crossbar.
Everyone was a critic. Cameron shot the man a leave-me-the-hell-alone look, but Fingal only grinned. "It's throwing off yer balance. Pull it in tighter to yer body, and center yer weight on the balls o' yer feet."
Instinctively, he followed Fingal's advice, surprised at the difference it made. The key here was evidently to let his body rule his brain. He took a couple more swings then lowered the weapon and walked over to where Fingal stood.
"You look like the devil himself this morning." Fingal raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Seems an odd time for practicing with a claymore."
"I felt a need to stab something." Cameron tried but couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.
"Looks to me like ye missed more than ye hit," Fingal observed. "Could be all the drinking last night."
"Yup." He nodded. If the man guessed what else he'd been up to, he'd probably skewer Cameron for breakfast. Best to keep that part of it to himself. "You were wise to abandon the party when you did."
Fingal shrugged. "I'm no' against drinking mind ye, 'twas just the company that was no' to my liking." He studied Cameron, waiting no doubt for a sign of displeasure. A defense of Torcall and crew. But he wa
s too tired to play the game. And just at the moment he didn't give a damn anyway.
"They can grate on a man's nerves, I'll grant you that." Which was an understatement when he thought about what they'd asked of him last night. But he wasn't prepared to go that far in denouncing what was supposed to be his kin. "Are they up and about yet?"
"Nay, they're still sleeping it off."
Cameron looked up. Judging from the sun, he'd guess it was a little after noon. "Well, it was a late night." Actually he'd guess he'd fallen asleep closer to dawn. Maybe if he was lucky, the other Camerons would sleep the day away or, better yet, wake up and decide to go home.
He started toward the weapons shed to return the claymore, surprised when Fingal followed. They were hardly friends. Still, for what it was worth, it was nice to have company. They passed an outbuilding of some kind, and Cameron noticed a huge skin covered object leaning against a wall. Curiosity aroused, he stopped. "What's this?" The thing was man sized and reminded him of a turtle shell, without the turtle.
"'Tis just a curach."
"A what?" Cameron turned back to Fingal in time to catch his bewildered look. "If I've ever seen one of these before," he paused, meeting the older man's gaze, "I don't remember it now."
Fingal's eyes narrowed for a moment, then relaxed as he shrugged. "It must be terrible no' to be able to remember things. A curach is a wee boat."
"You mean this thing is sea worthy?" He looked at the turtle shell skeptically.
"Well, now, I'd no' say sea worthy, but it will certainly keep you afloat in the loch."
"Is it hard to handle?" Cameron pulled the small boat away from the wall. The inside was hollow, made of wood and what looked like wicker. A wooden bench of sorts ran across the center.
"Nay, you just use the oar." Fingal motioned to a long wooden paddle leaning against the wall. "To be honest with you, I've no' been in one since I was a lad. My brothers and I had one. We used to race it across the loch at Moy."
The thing looked like a poorly constructed canoe and a misshapen one at that. Cameron wasn't entirely sure he could manage it, but he needed to get away from here and the curach provided an ideal method for escape. "Would anyone mind if I borrowed it?"
"I doubt it, but what would ye be wanting it for?"
"I'm going to go fishing." Cameron felt a release of tension at the thought. Time to get things in perspective. Time to work Marjory Macpherson out of his system. Fishing was the perfect answer. He might suck at swordplay, but he could fish.
"Fishing? Whatever for? We dinna need food, and besides there are men here to do that. You needn't go." Fingal helped Cameron lean the boat back against the wall.
"I'm not going so that I can provide food."
Fingal looked puzzled. "Then why?"
Cameron shrugged. "For fun." He started walking toward a wood pile stacked against a storage shed, already trying to think of a way to construct a fishing pole.
"Fun? Yer going fishing for merriment? Seems to me Aimil's right. Ye are a wee bit touched in the head. Perhaps bed would be a better place fer ye." Fingal kept pace as he walked.
"Nope. Just a little relaxation, and I think fishing is just the ticket. Besides, Fingal, a man has to have his little eccentricities." Cameron handed him the claymore, then squatted down by the pile, extracting a long thin branch and inspecting it like he would a pool cue. Satisfied that it was fairly straight, he stood up, cast it back over a shoulder and then flicked it forward several times.
"Perfect. Now all I need is a some string and a hook and I'm set. You want to come with me?" He actually didn't want company, but Fingal looked fascinated.
"I'd love to, if for no other reason than to find out just exactly what yer up to." He frowned. "But I canna. I've work to do."
Cameron heaved an inward sigh of relief. "Next time, then."
Fingal nodded and set off toward the stable. Cameron watched him go, then turned to find the blacksmith. Surely he would have something that could pass for a hook.
*****
"Marjory, are ye in there, lass?" Aimil's voice drifted through the closed door. Marjory rolled over, turning away from the sound. She frantically tried to erase signs of her tears, but she was too late. She felt the bed dip as the older woman sat on the edge.
"Come now, lamb, tell Aimil what's ailing ye."
Marjory felt a hand in her hair, smoothing it with a gentle caress. The sign of affection undid her and she sat up, throwing herself into Aimil's arms. "You were right, I should have listened to you," she sobbed.
"Right about what, love?" Aimil's voice was low, soothing.
"About him."
"Him who?"
"Ewen." Just saying his name made it all come back. She'd been so happy this morning. Waking in his arms had been wonderful. She had hurried downstairs to get his breakfast, eager to spend the day with him, to simply be with him.
"Ah. I was afraid this would happen. Has he hurt you?" Aimil pulled back, looking into Marjory's eyes. "Did he…."
"No, no, nothing like that," she assured the older woman, surprised by the strength of her desire to protect him.
"What then?"
"He...he spent the night here. 'Twas so…" she released a sigh, "so, beautiful. But then this morning he…I…"
"Take yer time, mo chridhe, tell Aimil."
Marjory took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. "I came to bring him the morning meal and found the chamber empty. So I took the tray in there." She pointed to the connecting door. "And he was with Aida."
Tears filled her eyes again as she relived the humiliation. Aida, naked and obviously ready to climb into Ewen's bed, and Ewen sitting there, waiting for her. It was her wedding night all over again, except this time her heart was involved as well as her pride. She fought the notion, but couldn't deny the truth of it.
"I wish I could tell ye the news surprises me, but it doesna. I warned ye against believing the man had truly changed. He hasna and he willna. 'Tis naught but a trick. The sooner you accept that, the sooner ye can get on with yer life."
Marjory wiped her eyes. "If only it were that easy, Aimil. The man is my husband after all. 'Tis no' as if I can get rid of him altogether."
"Dinna worry yourself, lamb, things have a way o' taking care o' themselves, just ye wait and see." She patted Marjory on the shoulder. "Come now, dry yer eyes. No use letting the man know how much he's hurt ye."
Marjory swallowed her pain, pushing it deep down. Aimil was right. She wouldn't let a man like that matter to her. She'd had a moment of weakness that was all, nothing that couldn't be forgotten. All she had to do was put him out of her mind. She climbed out of the bed, Aimil hovering worriedly. "'Tis all right, Aimil. I'm fine. 'Twas my pride and nothing more." Liar, her heart cried. "I'll be down directly."
"If yer sure?"
Marjory nodded and the older woman hugged her.
"Yer like me own child, Marjory. I'll never let the likes o' Ewen Cameron harm ye. I promise ye that, mo chridhe."
"Thank you, Aimil, but I can take care of myself. I'm a grown woman after all."
Aimil beamed. "That ye are, me girl, that ye are." With a final pat, she turned to go.
Marjory kept her face serene until Aimil was gone. Then, with a small cry, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. It was easy to tell herself Ewen didn't matter, that he hadn't the power to hurt her, but unfortunately her heart wasn't listening.
CHAPTER 12
Cameron leaned against the handle of the narrow wooden shovel. If there were worms in the garden, they were evidently on a coffee break. He'd been digging for what felt like an hour without locating a single slimy one. Maybe it was the wrong time of year. Maybe he wasn't digging deeply enough. Actually, he didn't seem to know a damn thing about finding worms.
One more shovelful and he was going to give up. He'd head for the kitchens. Surely there was something there fish would eat. Hell, he really didn't care if he caught anything. It was just the normalcy he soug
ht. Something removed from the harsh reality of fifteenth century Scotland.
He ought to be out searching for a way home. Wherever the hell that was. But just at the moment, even that was too much to deal with. He needed something to ground him, something that he knew how to do, in any body.
He stuck the shovel into the soft brown earth, carefully turning the dirt so he wouldn't disturb the plants. All he needed to add to an already bad morning was to incur the wrath of Aimil Macgillivray.
"And just what do ye think yer doing, Ewen Cameron?"
Speak of the devil. He looked up from the pile of sod he was carefully examining. "Looking for earthworms."
"I'll no' have ye speaking yer addled gibberish to me. Say it to me plain."
"I'm looking for something to bait my fishing line."
"Yer fishing line." She repeated his words slowly, as if saying them would make them make sense.
"Yes, my fishing line. It goes with the fishing pole."
"Seamus warned me, ye were talking crazy."
The blacksmith had made it clear what he thought of fishing, in fact, what he thought of all recreational endeavors. It seemed the people at Crannag Mhór weren't big on leisure time activities.
"I'm well aware of Seamus' views." Cameron dumped a handful of soil back to the ground. No worms there. He stood up, brushing his hands against his legs to knock off the remaining dirt.
"I'll have ye know, I've no time fer yer playacting. Ye may be able to fool Marjory, but ye canna fool me." The older woman crossed her bony arms across her chest and glared at him.
"Look, Aimil, I don't know what Marjory told you, but there's been a misunderstanding. When she cools off a bit, I'll explain it to her. In the meantime, I'm going to go fishing." He walked over to the shed and replaced the shovel, only to turn and find her blocking his way, a speculative look on her face.
"Fishing is it? Are ye sure 'tis no' a rendezvous with yer whore?"
Cameron groaned. God save him from women. "I am going out in a boat to the center of the lake to be by myself. There will be no one with me, not Aida, not Marjory, not anyone. Do you understand?" He spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word.
