Page 41 of Wild Highland Rose
"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 was 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 acurach."
"A what?" Cameron turned back to Fingal in time to catch his bewildered look. "If I've ever seen one of these before," hepaused, 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. Acurachis 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?"
