Page 5 of Wild Highland Rose
Again, Cameron searched for recognition, but there was nothing. Enemy or friend, these people were strangers to him, the idea far more frightening then the monstrous swords they held.
The woman was sitting up now, her gaze locked on him, her expression guarded. Pushing aside the first giant's offer of help, she scrambled to her feet, and moved toward Cameron, tipping her head first to one side and then the other, as she studied him.
"You're supposed to be dead." Her voice was low, the timbre velvety. It raked across him like a warm breeze, sending his senses reeling.
"That seems to be the consensus." Cameron glanced toward the two men, noticing they'd been joined by others, all sporting swords and kilts. Apparently he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in the middle ofBraveheart. The only thing missing was the blue war paint.
Not a comforting thought, and not something he wanted to examine right now. The situation was puzzling at best, downright frightening at worst. And the truth was this wasn't the time for a meltdown. As if in contradiction to his thoughts, his head spun, black spots swimming across his line of vision.
"I saw you fall." Giant number one had moved closer. "There's no way you could have survived." He looked toward giant two for confirmation, and though it looked as if agreement was not in his nature, the man gave a brief nod, his gaze still locked on Cameron.
"Fingal, 'tis obvious that he has survived," the woman said. "And nothing we wish to the contrary will make it less than so."
Another vote of confidence. It was pretty obvious he wasn't going to be voted Mr. Popularity in this crowd. Cameron opened his mouth to tell them he wasn't who they thought he was. That in fact as far as he could tell, he wasn't anyone at all, but another look at the still drawn swords changed his mind. Best to find out the lay of the land before committing to anything.
Maybe there was a way out of this Scottish version ofDeliverance, a hospital around the corner, or a nice cold beer. Something that fit into his concept of reality.
"We'd best get you back to the holding. It'll be dark soon." The first giant, the one they called Fingal, took a step toward him, and involuntarily Cameron stepped back. "Allen, he's your brother, perhaps you should help him."
Brother.
The word washed over him and he waited for emotion, some connection to the big man striding toward him. But he felt no sense of belonging or recognition. The man was a stranger. Again he moved backward, this time following his instincts. The other man's expression changed, his eyes narrowing in confusion and something else. Wariness possibly. It seemed there was intelligence under all that hair.
"Marjory," Fingal said. "Perhaps you should be the one to help your husband."
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, a look of loathing crossing her face. "I'm sure he has no need of me." Despite her words, she moved to take Cameron's arm.
Her skin against his started pheromones firing.Husband? Yet another revelation. He should have been put off. After all he had no memory of the woman, and she certainly hadn't bothered to hide her disdain for him. But his body wasn't listening to reason, and an absurd sense of elation swirled through his head.
He turned to say something, to explain that he had no brother, and certainly no wife, but before he could open hismouth, the ground rushed up to meet him, the world going suddenly black.
2
"According to Grania, he's no' anywhere close to dead." Marjory paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, waving her hands to emphasize her words. Not only was her husband not dead, he apparently had every intention of living a long and full life. The man was invincible. "With rest, she says he'll make a full recovery."
"Well I canna say the news pleases me, but at least it should pacify Torcall Cameron. And quite possibly stop Allen's rantings about a plot on his brother's life." Fingal lifted his tankard, shooting the younger man an angry look.
Allen and his clansmen were seated at a table on the far side of the great room, clearly a separate camp from the boisterous Macpherson men sitting closer to the dais. Their presence was a reminder that although in name she was still the mistress of her domain, in reality it was controlled by her husband.
Husband. The word settled bitterly in her throat. "I wish he would have died. At least we'd no' have the sword hanging over our head."
"Nay." Fingal shook his head. "Twould be buried in our backs."
"At least then we'd have done with it." She tried but couldn't keep the anger from her voice.
"Would that I'd have secured the fact then." Fingal's face filled with remorse and Marjory was immediately regretful.
"'Tis all right. You couldna have known he still lived. The man probably has a pact with the devil himself. And you're right, Ewen's resurrection may calm Torcall. At least until I can talk to my grandfather." Fingal exhaled slowly, the act telling. Marjory's stomach tightened. "You have news?"
"Aye, the messenger arrived an hour ago." He met Marjory's gaze, his eyes troubled. "Yer grandfather is away from Moy meeting with the king. It'll be at least fortnight before he returns. Probably longer. Until then, I'm afraid we're on our own. Although we could send word to your cousin Iain."
Marjory waved a hand in dismissal. "He's only just married. I canna ask him to come now. Besides, without grandfather's approval, there's no' much he can do. We're better to try and hold things on our own."
"I'll abide by your wishes." Fingal dipped his head in submission, but Marjory knew it was an empty action. Her captain loved her as a daughter, and he'd fight to the death for her, but he wasn't the kind of man to acquiesce to a woman. If he followed her wishes, it was only because he agreed with them.
"I've lived with Ewen these last two years." Marjory gave Fingal a weak smile. "I suppose I can manage a wee bit longer."
"If Torcall has his way, it'll be longer than that, and well you know it."
