Page 71 of Wild Highland Rose
Deliberately, he took it from her and took a sip. She felt the embers inside her stir and begin to glow. Slowly, she reached for the cup, taking it from him and sipping slowly, her lips touching the exact spot where his had, her eyes never leaving his. She'd never thought drinking could be so provocative.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of color. Aida. Marjory's high spirits plummeted. The woman was sitting at a table in the far corner of the hall, surrounded by men vying for her attention. Marjory knew that they didn't stand a chance. Aida Macvail had eyes for only one man.
She drained the goblet with a long swallow, reaching for the pitcher to fill it again.
Cameron took the cup from her. "Easy, princess. Don't let her get to you." He covered her hand with his. "Remember this afternoon."
"Aye, that I do." She felt her spirits buoy a little at the thought of Aida's ousting from Cameron's chamber. Aida looked in their direction, her pouty lips drawing into a beguiling smile when she realized Cameron was looking at her. She might as well have been calling his name out loud.
"Well, what do you say we continue the show?" He raised Marjory's hand to his mouth, his tongue tracing a slow possessive path along her palm.
Aida's smile faded and her eyes narrowed. In an instant, anger marred her features, making her beauty seem only an illusion. Marjory tightened her hand on Cameron's. Aida's gaze shifted, her narrowed eyes meeting Marjory's.
The smile remained in place, but there was nothing resembling cordiality in her gaze. If a look could be a weapon, Marjory knew she would have been mortally injured.
"Look at me." Cameron whispered, his lips still caressing her skin.
With an icy smile in Aida's direction, she tipped her head in acknowledgment of the other woman, and then, turned her attention back to the warmth of Cameron's touch.
Cameron squeezed her hand and released it. "That's my girl. Just ignore her. Tomorrow she'll be gone." He poured her some more wine, holding out the goblet when it was full. Marjory took it, her gaze straying back to the table in the corner. She'd be more than glad to see the backside of Aida Macvail.
Cameron rubbed his temples,wondering if this party was ever going to end. He'd eaten until he thought he might explode. He looked around the room. No one seemed even remotely interested in winding things down.
Marjory was sitting back with her eyes closed, looking as tired as he felt. Fingal was still eating as if there were no tomorrow. A ruddy-faced young man was talking with Grania. Cameron had overheard something about love potions and knew he didn't want to hear any more.
First thing in the morning, he intended to get to the bottom of Grania Macpherson's stories.
A man, seated at the table directly in front of the dais, belched loudly and leaned back, lighting some kind of pipe with a rush from the floor. Yet, another example of the sterling quality of fifteenth century hygiene. He smiled, wondering who had died and made him the king of clean.
Aimil was refilling the wine pitchers at their table. He wouldn't have put it past her to add a little something extra to his. Arsenic perhaps? Thank goodness it was a community pitcher. The woman certainly wasn't overly fond of him.
Hell, who was he kidding, she despised him. A stray thought caught in his tired mind, its exact significance alluding him. He dismissed it. The events of the past few days were catching up with him. He stifled a yawn.
"Fingal. Fingal!" Aimil's cry rang out through the great hall, the terror in it instantly stilling the festivities. "Someone help him please."
20
At the sound of Aimil's voice, Cameron jerked from his thoughts, quickly turning toward Fingal. The man was twitching convulsively, clutching at his throat, eyes wide. Aimil was grabbing at his shoulder, trying ineffectually to slap him on the back.
Cameron reacted from instinct, his mind focusing on the problem at hand. He rose quickly to stand behind Fingal, grasping him around the chest. Aimil yelled something about stopping him, but Cameron's focus was trained completely on the choking man.
Crossing his hands, one over the other, he made a fist and felt for the diaphragm just below Fingal's ribs. With a quick motion, he pulled upward and inward, hoping to force the man to dislodge whatever was stuck in his throat. Nothing happened.
He repeated the process twice more. In the background he could hear Aimil still screaming, although her wails were slowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he realized that someone was restraining her. He turned his mind back to his patient, shutting out all outside interference.
Decisions had to be made quickly if the man's life was to be saved. Obviously, the Heimlich maneuver wasn't working. The obstruction, whatever it was, was firmly lodged in place. He knew he had minutes to correct the situation or, at best, Fingal would suffer brain damage and, at worst, he would die.
Not exactly the best place for surgical intervention, but there really wasn't any choice. Cameron didn't take the time to question where this new knowledge was coming from. There would be time for that later. Right now he needed to act, and act quickly.
"I need help. We've got to get him up on the table." With a swipe of his arm, he cleared a space, shoving plates, platters and cups aside. Marjory sprang into action and began to clear even more space. The young man who'd been talking to Grania helped him lift Fingal onto the table.
"Roll him onto his back." Cameron's tone didn't allow for argument and the other man obeyed swiftly, turning Fingal over. He was unconscious, his face beginning to turn blue. Cameron drew in a breath. There wasn't much time. He had to establish an airway.
He glanced around the room looking for something he could use as a trach tube, dismissing the feathers on the bird, a quill might work, but it could also be too small. A bagpipe bellowed as it dropped to the floor. Cameron glanced at the fallen instrument. Its owner was frozen in place, staring at the table.
It wasn't often that a fifteenth century musician got to observe a twenty-first century surgeon.Surgeon. The word reverberated in his head, memories pressing hard and fast at the door to his conscious mind. He forced himself to mentally bar the door. There would be time for remembering later.
The pipe from the bagpipe was a little too large, but it might work. He felt for a pulse and couldn't find one. His time for decision making was over. "Bring me the bagpipe." No onemoved. "I said, bring me the bagpipe.Now." Marjory jumped, hurrying to fulfill his request.
